Romancing the Sorcerer's Stone

Chapter 17: Golden Snitches

June 2003 — London, England

The owl pecks at the window just as they're sitting down to eat. Harry jumps up, eagerly anticipating the contents of the missive. And, yes, their international floo request has been approved and Malfoy has arranged their rooms. Everything is in order. Just in time, too, since they'll be leaving the following morning.

Harry hums to himself all the way to the dinner table. He notices Ginny's frown as he sinks back into his chair, and pauses. Surely he's told her? Better to be sure, though.

"We're leaving for Florence in the morning," he says as he reaches for the peas. "We'll be flooing out at nine."

—

June 2003 — Florence, Italy

It had been Malfoy's idea, born of a lot of very intense pacing and plotting that first night, to disguise themselves as journalists. Harry had vetoed the ridiculous fake mustaches, but the cover story had been a stroke of genius. Not that he's ever going to tell Malfoy that.

They'd gotten nearly everything they needed from eager security guards and museum employees. They'd all seemed perfectly willing to discuss security and restoration methods with anyone who offered the chance to have their name in print.

Not that they'd actually be writing the article, he thought, but that doesn't matter, really. Just the possibility of seeing their name in the papers had got people talking. It's not long before they've worked out a plan of attack.

—

Two grown men huddled under the invisibility cloak would have been a hilarious sight — except they're invisible. Conveniently, Harry thinks. Well, there is an inconvenient amount of hunching over and bumping hands and elbows jabbing ribs, but at least no one can see them.

Not that anyone is there to see them, seeing as it's the middle of the night, long after the museum had closed for the day. They'd hidden, curled into a cramped nook behind what he thought was a rather hideous statue of a horse made of junk, carefully draped in the invisibility cloak as the last patrons had been herded out, as the employees had turned off the lights and locked the doors, as the security guard had shuffled past on his rounds.

Now, secure in their invisibility, they maneuver themselves to their feet and rub the cramps from their muscles.

It wouldn't do to be discovered on camera, Harry thinks, stifling a chuckle as he thinks of the fright they would give the security guards, a disembodied hand or foot floating in an empty room.

"Ready?" he whispers, and Malfoy nods, casting another disillusionment over them. Together, they make their way to the main gallery, where the painting they need hangs. Only, it isn't there. All of the planning and scheming, and it isn't even there.

They stare, flabbergasted, at the blank frame, and the tiny sign that reads "This painting is currently being restored by Baldicotts to return it to its former glory. We apologize for any inconvenience."

"Well, fuck me," Malfoy says, after a moment. "Come on."

"Er, where—"

Malfoy sighs, grabs Harry's arm, and apparates them.

They land back in their hotel room, and Harry throws the cloak off. "Malfoy! What the fuck was that all about?"

Malfoy doesn't answer, just turns toward the bathroom. As he walks through the door he says, over his shoulder, "Because that painting is being restored by Pansy bloody Parkinson, and we can hardly visit her in the middle of the night."

Harry gapes at the door. Parkinson is restoring the painting?

—

Parkinson is restoring the painting.