Just Another Casanova

Chapter 10

Alessandro backed up until his back was touching the stove. Shaking his head he fought an anger he thought had dissipated a long time ago. No way could this beautiful girl in front of him be a murderer. Yet, as he brought his eyes back up and took in her red eyes, tear stained cheeks, shaking hands, and apprehensive face, he knew what she had said was true.

She didn't dare come any closer, but she reached out towards him, though she knew she was too far away. "I'm so sorry," she stuttered.

He waved his hand. He just wanted her to leave. But his anger built up inside him and he blurted, "Why? Why did you kill the man you claim you loved? Per favore, tell me."

Her jaw was trembling. "I don't know," she sputtered. Hermione tried to hold back the tears, but they just kept coming. She had thought the pain was gone; but she hadn't gotten over Marcello, she'd just pushed him into the crevices of her mind.

He bit back the urge to chuck the mug full of warm chocolate against the wall. He finally pushed himself away from the support of the counter and swiped angrily at his eyes, knowing he had cried enough over the loss of his brother years ago.

"Did he do it? Did he do what you did accuse him of?"

Hermione had been dreading this question. If she said 'yes,' her actions that night might be justified. But the guilt in her heart reminded her of the painful truth.

"No," she whispered almost inaudibly. She quickly explained, "I didn't find out until later that one of Voldemort's death eaters was using polyjuice just for a bit of fun. They wanted me to see. They knew Marcello was a huge asset and they wanted him dead, but the bastards were too afraid to do it themselves. They wanted me to kill him and it worked. I was a stupid pawn of theirs; I walked right into their trap."

Alessandro's silence was worse than him yelling at her. She chewed her bottom lip waiting for a response.

Slowly, he asked, "The Order...they don't know you killed him, do they?"

Closing her eyes, she shook her head. "They thought it was a death eater, just another casualty of war. You're the first person I've told."

"And why tell me?"

A clock chimed from the barely assembled living room, but neither occupant dared to move.

"Because you deserve to know. You deserve to know how your brother died. And you deserve to hate the person who did it." Hermione braced herself for a tirade, a profession of hatred, a cold stare; but it never came.

"I forgave the person that killed my brother a long time ago." His eyes snapped up to meet hers. "Just because they have a head"--she knew he meant face--"doesn't mean I hate them all over again."

"How can you forgive a murderer?"

Alessandro made the first move. He stepped closer, knowing she didn't have any space to step back. Hermione drew in a breath, but he stepped one step closer.

"I'm assuming the 'Jane' my brother wrote to me about was you?" Hermione nodded at the nickname he'd given her. "I know he loved you." He paused a moment and changed directions. "My brother fought for something he believed in, and that meant almost as much to him as you did. He died doing something he loved. You were tricked, Hermione."

"Yes, but I took him from this world! He didn't die for the Order or defending the wizarding world, he died at the hands of the one person he trusted the most!"

He reached out and put a hand on each of her frail shoulders; afraid she'd fall over at any moment. She gasped at his closeness, but didn't pull away.

"We both lost the person we loved the most that day. He's gone and we can't bring him back, no matter how much we want to. Marcello lived his reason and I know that his last year of his life was the most happy because of you. You made his life worth something, Hermione. For that, grazie. And whether you took him from this world or any death eater did, he's gone...for always. He doesn't hate you and I don't hate you. In fact, what I see is you are the only one who hates you.

"Come," he insisted, pulling her away from her safe haven in the corner. "We've both spent plenty tears on Marcello. I take you to dinner and we can share stories about the boy we both loved, eh?"

Weakly, she nodded. "I still don't understand how you don't hate a monster like me."

His fingers playfully grazed her chin. "No one can hate a monster so beautiful. Besides, it's something Marcello would have done. He taught me also."

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"Did he ever tell you about Mama and Papi and Callia?"

"I couldn't get him to shut up about home," Hermione answered, taking another swig of her beer--she'd never been crazy about wine. A waitress skirted around their table and nearby a man choked on his fish and chips as he yelled at the big screen.

Alessandro had surprised her by bringing her to a muggle sports bar. He'd commented how in Italy the divide between the magical and non-magical wasn't so great. Hermione knew how true this was; Marcello had been a huge fan of football and would drag Hermione to bars to watch on Saturday nights. She laughed as she recalled how he would get all into it, yelling at the refs as if they could hear him, much as the man next to them was now.

"It was obvious how much he missed Italy, how much he missed his family," she added.

"Family is very important to us. It would've taken something truly remarkable to take him away." Alessandro's probing eyes searched the dark, crowded room.

"The Order meant a lot to him."

Her companion chuckled. They'd been here for hours, slowly milking their drinks and swapping stories of a young, restless man they both adored. He could see it hurt her at first; it was obvious she'd been pushing Marcello into the recesses of her mind. However, the more they talked, the more she seemed to ease up. She was laughing now, finally, but he could tell she still didn't believe he had forgiven her. This young women before him was so full of guilt she needed someone to yell at her, to tell her it was her fault.

"Don't be naïve, Miss Granger. It wasn't the Order that stole him from home; as much as he loved being courageous, it would've taken something much more to take him away."

A small smile flittered across her lips. She bowed her head and they sat in silence for a few moments.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"You're a good person, no matter what your conscience is speaking to you."

She avoided his eyes.

"You can't keep torturing yourself. I forgive you, Miss Granger--I did many years ago. You loved my brother, that I know and that he knew. You made a mistake, but who knows; if you didn't kill him, someone else might have."

"Or he might still be alive!" Her words were whispered with such intensity Alessandro wanted to shrink in his chair. Gently, he reached forward and cupped her frail shoulder in his large, tan hand.

"When are you going to let go, Hermione?"

A single tear ran slowly and gracefully down her cheek. "When he comes back." She paused and took a deep breath. "I killed an innocent man; I belong in Azkaban."

He chucked a few pounds on the table and pulled her to her feet. Carefully, he led her outside--nearly shoving her out the door--and down the street. There was a park nearby, though the only asset that gave it its name was the sweeping willow tree and the three green benches along the sidewalk. He didn't say anything until they were seated on one of the benches.

Alessandro reached up his thumb and wiped away another tear that had just escaped her watering, glistening eyes.

"You didn't take one life during the war, despite the fact that no person would have blamed you for doing so. That has to be worth something."

She met his eyes. "But I took a hero."

He shrugged. "He's dead, Hermione. He's not coming back. You need to forgive you and move past Marcello."

She took a few short, hollow breaths and closed her eyes. "But it's so hard."

Reaching out, he lifted up her chin--much like the other two men in her life had started doing lately--and waited until she was looking him dead in the eye. "I will be with you every foot of the way, I promise."

She nodded. She believed him.