A/N Story written for Mcal, who not only gave me the prompt that inspired it, but also did a wonderful beta job!

I am Italian, all the jokes about my Country are made knowingly and in good fun.

No Italians were hurt during the drafting of this story

I don't own the characters, and I bet they're pretty thankful for it

San Donato Milanese, Italy

h. 11.00 PM

Hermione had had quite enough of her lovable co-worker, especially after the abysmal day they just had.

First, no one at the Ministry Travel Office could find their application for an international Portkey. She suspected Malfoy was the real culprit behind that, even though he insisted he had filled in all the right request forms. He always got bored with what he called "Secretary stuff" and carried out those tasks half-heartedly, which ultimately resulted in them having issues while they were abroad.

Not even being able to leave the UK though, was a first, even for him. There was a reason why Hermione was the one that always organised their business trips, after all. Unfortunately, she had had to visit her parents in Australia because her father had a minor surgery, and couldn't take charge of arranging that particular trip.

It took her hours to sort out the bureaucracy and get their Portkey approved, especially since they were going to Italy. The Italian Ministry was nothing but a mess, and their modules took hours to fill in. They seemed to have an obsession for time-consuming, unnecessary and silly questions. Not to mention the fact that they never bothered to put a bloody translation charm on the papers.

One would say that was enough for one day, but no. Not at all. Luck would have it that the Italian Ministry workers would be on strike once they arrived at the Portkey Landing Area right outside Milan.

No one had been there to pick them up, brief them, and take them to their Hotel.

They had to take a Muggle Taxi, and Malfoy had spent the whole ride complaining about the traffic, the pollution, the not-so-gentle driving style of their taxi driver, the fact that the Ministry had them pay their transfers and trips in advance, Hermione's hair blocking his view of the landscape.

By the time the driver dropped them out of the most derelict building she'd ever seen (and that included the Shrieking Shack), she wanted to strangle him.

"Where on Earth are we Malfoy?" she asked, silently praying the driver had left them at the wrong address.

She caught him looking at the building, his nose wrinkled in obvious disgust.

"Well?" she insisted. She couldn't believe he had made a mess, again. Well, actually, she could believe it very well, but for Merlin's bloody hat, he'd better bloody fix it or she would make sure this would be his last business trip. Ever.

Malfoy soon regained his composure and took a parchment out of his robe's inner pocket. He took his sweet time checking the address, muttering something that suspiciously sounded like "going to kill him".

Hermione's patience had ended almost ten hours ago, back at the British Ministry to be exact.

"Our Hotel, it seems"

The building was so decrepit that Hermione had a hard time imagining a time when it had been in good conditions. The façade was so scraped it was difficult to guess the original colour of the walls, that were covered in graffiti and unidentified stains.

Women in various states of undress patrolled the side streets. It didn't take a genius to guess their occupation.

In the most recess corners, Hermione spotted shady individuals that probably sold illegal substances.

She turned towards Malfoy "And do you call that a hotel? Looks more like a brothel to me. We're not even in Milan! How did you even find this place?"

"I didn't find it, Granger"

"Wha—Malfoy I swear if you delegated again to your minions, this time I'm going to bloody hex you!"

He looked affronted by the suggestion, but Hermione knew for sure it was all an act.

"Well?" she pressed.

"Okay, you win Granger!" he hissed. "Happy now? Ten bloody points to Gryffindor!"

"No, Malfoy. I am not happy!" she screamed back.

She had been extremely patient and accommodating, but the brothel was the last straw, and she was sick of his attitude.

"I would be happy if we had travelled seamlessly from the UK to Milan. I would be happy if the hotel wasn't a cesspool. I would be happy if you hadn't spent the whole time complaining, as if all of this weren't your bloody fault!" Her tone was shrill, and a part of her knew she must've looked ridiculous, with her hair bouncing up and down and her fists clenched, but she couldn't help it.

She had been putting up with him too long, and now she needed to let it all out.

"And, I would be happy if you showed some respect to your bloody partner, since I am the only one willing to work with you, and to put up with your antics!"

Malfoy was furious too, she could tell by the vein pulsating on his temple. She expected him to burst and start drowning her in insults, but unexpectedly, he simply leaned over and hissed. "We're attracting unwanted attention, you annoying witch. Just get in already!"

Hermione looked around. To be fair, there were a couple too many individuals staring at them, so she nodded and followed him inside.

Before crossing the threshold, she looked up to give one last check at the building. Predictably, the neon sign above the doorway was broken. The only letters of the once ALBERGO PARADISO that had survived the neglect wer O. What a lovely contradiction, from "Hotel Heaven" to "I burn". The universe had a great sense of irony, that was granted.

Hermione sighed and hoped the surprises were over for the day

.…..

Once inside the building, Hermione noticed with great displeasure that the situation was no better and that sometimes one can indeed judge a book by its cover.

The Hall was bare, with the exception for two couches, both of which had seen far better days. She didn't know what the stains on the fabric were, but of one thing she was sure: she had no intention of finding out.

The linoleum floors were sticky and cracked. Neon lights were flickering above their heads, giving the place an even chillier look. Hermione was reminded of a horror film she once saw with her father, but pushed the thought aside. No need to get herself into a state.

A pervasive mix of acrid smells filled the air. Sweat, smoke and cheap deodorant hit her like a brick on the head, and her guess was they were all coming from the man sitting behind the check-in desk.

He was wearing a white vest, and Hermione could see what she hoped were tomato blotches on the front. A big golden chain with an even bigger cross adorned his neck, crowned by an embarrassing amount of chest hair.

While walking towards the desk, Hermione had to control her gag reflex. She threw a glance at Malfoy, and he too looked on the verge of throwing up. In a very chivalrous gesture, he signalled her to stay behind and let him deal with the fishy porter. If she had had more energy left, she would've purposely disregarded his gesture, just to spite him, but this once she was so tired and overwhelmed by their situation, that she just let him deal with the man.

"Buonasera, we booked for una notte", he said very slowly, showing one finger and a printed copy of their reservation.

The man seized the paper, then rummaged into a drawer and retrieved the keys.

He dangled them in front of Malfoy, "Prima i soldi", he said also showing a banknote.

"Excuse me? Money at checkout! Domani!" said Malfoy, trying to snatch the keys from the man's fat fingers.

The brute all but snarled, and yanked the keys away from Malfoy's grasp. "No. Pay now, then sleep. No money, no bed".

Malfoy turned around "Granger, I don't have any Mug—Italian money on me". Hermione appreciated that he caught himself before saying Muggle in front of…a Muggle, but she highly doubted the man understood what they said anyway.

"You didn't bring any?" she replied rolling her eyes. She retrieved some Euros in her jacket's inner pocket and put them on the counter.

"Obviously not"

The man took the money and gave Malfoy the keys. Hermione looked at the number printed on the key tag. "Tell him he only gave you one key, for Room 304"

It was too late. The man had already disappeared in a back room, shutting the door behind him.

"Clearly, I haven't booked it myself, Granger. The papers only mention one bloody room, probably a double. I swear I will never ask Theo for help again. He's an accountant to the core, always trying to make me spend less"

"Theo as in Theodore Nott? Malfoy, did you really ask your best friend to book you a room?"

"Yes, I did. So?"

Hermione decided there was no use in arguing. "Never mind, just let's go. Third floor"

Malfoy grabbed his suitcase, and Hermione heard him grumble. "I bet this shithole doesn't even have a lift, and we can't even use magic now".

It sort of served him well for not even checking Theo's work. It would've been funny, if only she didn't have to suffer because of it too.

…

"What exactly is that?"

Hermione was standing on the threshold of the Hotel room, her baggage forgotten at her feet, too horrified to move.

Malfoy peered from behind her shoulder "Looks like a bed to me, Granger"

"Oh, thank you." She turned around to swat him on the shoulder "Of course it's a bloody bed, don't be stupid".

He shrugged his shoulders. Unapologetically. Hermione hated when he looked so devil-may-care. In her humble opinion, no one had the right to do it so…so naturally.

"Well, stupid answer to an even-more-stupid question"

"Oh sod off Malfoy!"

She entered the room, and turned around to face him. "Now you're going back downstairs, and you're getting another room, because it will be a cold day in Hell when we share a bloody bed!"

She slammed the door on his nose and sat on the floor, ignoring his incessant pounding.

"Granger! Open the door this instant! You can't lock me out!"

"Go away!"

He knocked a few more times, all the while swearing like a sailor, but when he realised she wasn't going to open the door, he left.

She spared no looks at her surroundings. She didn't want to know how filthy everything was, she could guess it from the tangy smell of grimy and unwashed linen.

Once she was sure that Malfoy wasn't standing behind the door, Hermione started crying.

She cried for all the times Malfoy had let her down, for all the effort on her part that went unnoticed. She cried for her own mistakes, her inability to read him. He was like a book written in an archaic language. A language she couldn't translate. She could only guess, but she was never sure why he behaved the way he did. Sometimes she had the impression he only put up a front, and that his replies were carefully studied to mirror what he thought people expected him to say. So she cried, until her eyes hurt. Until she had no tears left.