"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 372: Douglas Bears No Grudges—Really
The clamor of the airport faded into the distance.
Isabella moved with the easy confidence of a top-tier Auror, her skills on full display. She didn't use any flashy magic—just a series of subtle, practiced gestures that guided Douglas and Lupin smoothly around the crowds. Her steps were light and precise, as if she could read the ebb and flow of people before it happened, always steering them into the clearest path at just the right moment.
She tossed her ponytail back, her voice low but cutting through the noise with effortless authority. "This way, gentlemen."
Lupin noticed that as Isabella pushed their luggage cart, her fingers brushed lightly over the handles of their two trunks. For a split second, he felt a faint, almost imperceptible pulse of magic—gone before he could blink. Suddenly, the once-heavy trunks felt nearly weightless, and Douglas glided them along with ease. It was an exquisitely subtle Levitation Charm, just enough to lighten the load without drawing a single Muggle's glance.
The technique was so reminiscent of Douglas's own style that Lupin shot him a curious look.
Isabella caught his eye, her expression practically demanding praise. "Not bad, right? Much better than your silly finger-snapping. I streamlined it."
Douglas grinned. "Meticulous as ever. You've outdone yourself. So, what's our route this time?"
Lupin just nodded, not surprised in the least. He was starting to realize how alike these two were.
Isabella wasn't just decisive—her Muggle-world disguise skills were impeccable. She wore tailored Muggle trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a light jacket, looking every bit the sharp, modern businesswoman. Her ponytail was flawless, her hazel eyes sharp and alert—yet, when she met someone's gaze, she could instantly shift to a warm, harmless smile.
That seamless ability to move between the Muggle and magical worlds gave Lupin a whole new appreciation for Italian Aurors. Honestly, he couldn't think of anyone quite like her back at the British Ministry.
He found himself wondering how wizards here navigated daily life.
Isabella didn't answer aloud. Instead, she raised a hand and hailed a real Muggle taxi.
Inside, she chatted easily with the driver in rapid-fire Italian, her tone casual, as if discussing nothing more serious than the weather or traffic.
Lupin leaned over to Douglas, whispering, "So… where are we headed?"
Douglas watched the Roman streets slip by, his voice relaxed. "Capitoline Hill. That's where the Italian magical headquarters is."
The taxi wound through Rome's ancient lanes, finally stopping in an unremarkable little alley at the foot of Capitoline Hill. Here, the air was thick with history—the scent of old stone and ivy, the cobblestones worn smooth by centuries, the buildings pressed close together, their walls crawling with vines.
Isabella paid the fare, then led them into a nondescript antique shop.
The place was small and dim, the air heavy with dust and the musty tang of old wood. Shelves overflowed with a jumble of relics: broken statues, faded paintings, rusted armor, porcelain caked with grime—a chaos of forgotten treasures.
Douglas looked around with genuine interest, his gaze lingering on the "random" arrangement of antiques as if searching for hidden meaning. He picked up a tiny Roman-era clay pot, weighed it thoughtfully, then set it back down.
Casually, he asked, "So… how's my Apparition permit coming along?"
Lupin blinked, completely lost.
But it wasn't Isabella who answered. Instead, an old man in the corner—looking for all the world like a Muggle, polishing a knickknack—spoke up without turning around.
"Heh… The Vatican still won't sign off, not after last time. Sure, you were right, but it was a cardinal, after all…"
Douglas grimaced. "So this time, I—"
Isabella cut in, exasperated. "This time, you're following our arrangements. We didn't tell them exactly when you'd arrive. Poor Lorenzo's worn his tongue out arguing with them about your case. Let's talk inside."
Douglas shrugged, offering no explanation to the clearly curious Lupin.
Not that Lupin minded being ignored—he was far more interested in what, exactly, Douglas had done to get on the bad side of a cardinal. Everyone knew Rome's magical community was… unique. Here, magic and religion lived in a tense, complicated dance—sometimes adversaries, sometimes partners, always teetering on the edge. Even Dumbledore preferred to steer clear; a single misstep could topple the fragile balance.
Isabella stopped in front of a tapestry map of Rome, its colors faded, its lines blurred by time. At first glance, it looked utterly ordinary. But every move she made was deliberate, almost ritualistic.
She extended a finger and touched an inconspicuous spot on the map—a tiny mark representing a corner of Capitoline Hill. Her lips moved, whispering an ancient phrase in Latin.
As the last syllable left her mouth, a faint golden shimmer rippled across the tapestry's surface. The edges blurred, as though tugged by invisible hands. Then, at its center, the fabric undulated like water, revealing a swirling, black spiral passageway. Soft magical light glimmered along the edges, stark against the shop's gloom.
Isabella gestured grandly. "After you! Goodbye, Mr. Bianchi!"
Only then did Lupin realize the old man's surname.
Douglas clapped Lupin on the shoulder, encouraging him forward. "Come on, Remus. Just relax—it's a working holiday."
Old Bianchi finally looked up. "Goodbye, little Rossi. Next time, bring something nice for an old man. And you, little Doug—don't go making trouble like last time."
Douglas rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, Mr. Bianchi."
He'd never enjoyed chatting with the retired Italian Auror. If it hadn't been for that old man, he never would have gotten dragged into that mess last time.
He, Douglas Holmes, didn't hold grudges… Nope. Not at all!
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