#Buongiorno speciale

[perfettamentechic]

Il Buongiorno del 24 dicembre, giorno della Vigilia di Natale, merita di essere speciale.

Il Buongiorno del 24 dicembre, giorno della Vigilia di Natale, merita di essere speciale. #vigiliadinatale #auguribuonavigilia #perfettamentechic

Buongiorno! È finalmente arrivata la Vigilia di Natale! Che questa giornata sia piena di gioia, amore e momenti speciali da condividere con i tuoi cari. Buone feste! 🎄✨ Autore: Lynda Di Natale Immagine: IA

[savior-of-the-ink]

Your daily reminder these two have (now) the same voice actor

[elenascrive]

E adesso giuro che per Me Voi siete veramente delle Persone Speciali, poiché chiunque mi dona un po’ del proprio prezioso tempo e soprattutto un po’ del Suo Pregiato Cuore non può che essere considerato tale. 😍❤️

@elenascrive

[myusualluck]

Venezia Per Sempre

Buongiorno...

📸 Claudia Zanini

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=pfbid02FBsDLy8zXHSY5VVRpCBaGvdcsNCJKwki8m37YB4cLWLFnyuSwxzn6NN3oFEVDj5pl&id=100070642140425

@charliechange8 TikTok

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNd1t9vbn/

[s-a-f-e-w-o-r-d--2]

Oggi è sabato un giorno un po' speciale... Per un giorno speciale ci vuole una colazione speciale... Calda... Bollente... Che ti lasci addosso per tutto il giorno il suo sapore...🔥

Buongiorno 😘

~ Virginia ~

[occhietti]

Se riesce a farti sorridere quando ti svegli,

o è una persona speciale o è un caffè.

- istintomaximo, Twitter

Buongiorno...☕🌻

[gamesetattach]

Coach Me Good, Sinner

Jannik Sinner x Reader Your boss has connections and now you're spending a company outing being charmed taught by the Jannik Sinner

The soft hum of the early morning air hung over the small Italian café, the streets just beginning to stir with the quiet rhythm of a new day. You stepped inside, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, cringing slightly at the cheerful tinkling of the bell above the door. You were not a morning person, and the fact that your boss had insisted everyone meet this early—on what was supposed to be a work retreat—felt like cruel and unusual punishment. But, as usual, you were the first one to arrive.

The smell of espresso and pastries was a small consolation as you ordered a cappuccino and picked a corner table near the window. It wasn’t until you settled into your seat that you noticed him. Sitting at the opposite end of the very narrow café was a tall man folded behind a small table with unmistakable red hair, a cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. Even in your groggy state, you recognized him: Jannik Sinner. You weren’t exactly a die-hard tennis fan, but his face had been impossible to miss in recent years, plastered across sports headlines and social media.

You glanced away quickly, not wanting to stare. He seemed relaxed, focused on whatever was on his phone. Still, you couldn’t help but steal a few more glances, and to your surprise, you caught him looking back once or twice. Each time, he returned his gaze to his phone, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips by the third instance.

“Well, this isn't awkward at all” you muttered to yourself, taking a sip of your coffee. Significant time had passed with just the two of you in the silent, cramped cafe; the rest of your team, and whatever surprise your boss had planned, was considerably late. You contemplated walking over to say hello many times, how often do you share coffee with a top-ranked tennis player––and maybe share was a strong word––but decided against it each time. He was clearly comfortable and here for a reason, and you didn’t want to be that person who disturbed his peace on a quiet day.

Slowly, your coworkers began trickling into the café, all looking as bleary-eyed as you felt. Your boss, however, was practically glowing with excitement, clapping his hands together as he announced, “Alright, everyone, order a coffee and sit down. I’ve got the surprise here for you.”

You glanced over at Jannik, who was now watching the theatrics unfold with mild amusement. Your boss continued, “As part of our team bonding, I’ve arranged something special. We’re going to spend the next two days in a tennis bootcamp, led by none other than Jannik Sinner and his coaching team!”

The room erupted into a mix of surprised gasps and enthusiastic chatter. You turned to look at Jannik, who was now standing and making his way over to your group, a polite smile on his face.

“Buongiorno, good morning,” he said, his tone polite but animated. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you. It should be fun.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly as you said, “I should’ve had you join me sooner. I had no idea we were both awkwardly waiting for the same reveal.”

He chuckled, his green eyes meeting yours briefly. “Maybe next time.”

---

The first day of the bootcamp was a mix of chaos and hilarity. Most of your coworkers were complete novices, their attempts at basic drills earning good-natured laughs from Jannik and his team. The atmosphere was light and supportive, with Jannik’s coaches offering tips while he occasionally stepped in to demonstrate techniques.

You, however, surprised yourself by picking up the basics faster than expected. A vague memory of tennis lessons from your childhood resurfaced, and while you weren’t great, you weren’t completely hopeless either. Jannik seemed to notice, and you caught him watching you a few times, a faint smile on his lips whenever you managed to execute a decent shot. You'd turn and wave off the few times he offered you approving shouts, shrugging off the flattery like it didn't affect you as much as it did.

“You’ve done this before,” he said during a water break, walking over to where you stood by the court.

“Barely,” you admitted, dabbing the bridge of your nose with a towel. “I took a few lessons as a kid, but I was never any good. My serve was always especially terrible if I remember right.”

He tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Want to work on it?”

“Sure,” you said, a little too quickly. You felt a blush creeping up your neck as he grabbed a ball and motioned for you to step onto the court.

“Alright,” he said, positioning himself behind you. “Let’s start with your grip.”

You adjusted your hold on the racket as he instructed, but when it came time to mime the serving phases, you stumbled through the motions. “This feels wrong,” you said, laughing nervously.

“Here,” he said, stepping closer. Before you could process his proximity, his hands were placed over yours, guiding you through the motion. His chest was pressed lightly against your back, and you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear as he explained the mechanics.

“Like this,” he murmured, gently moving your arm in an arc. “It’s all about the follow-through.”

Your heart was racing and your breaths shallowed, and it had nothing to do with the excercise. He repeated the movements for you a few more times in silence, his grip light but sure over your hands. When he finally stepped back, you took a second to face him, your cheeks hot. “Got it. I think.”

He smiled, his expression unreadable. “Good. Now try it.”

You managed a decent serve—not perfect, but far better than before. A miracle considering you barely followed his words while he was that close.

He clapped lightly, nodding in approval. “See? You’re a natural.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” you joked, though you couldn’t help but smile.

---

Throughout the day, your one-liners seemed to catch his attention more and more. During a drill, when your colleague managed to accidentally hit the ball over the fence after many tries of barely making it over the net, you couldn’t help but quip, “Well, at least someone’s got range.”

To your delight, you heard Jannik stifle down a laugh. He was shaking his head at you when you looked over, glancing away from the court as if to hide his smile.

Later, during a footwork exercise, you stumbled slightly and to recover, muttered, “Graceful as ever,” which earned you another soft chuckle from him.

“I think you may be tougher on yourself than I am,” he said, shaking his head. “Leave the critque to the coach.”

“You’ve got to stay humble,” you said with a grin. “Especially when you have as much potential as me.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching upward. “Oh yeah? Maybe you should try for a real tournament sometime.”

“I’ll stick to my day job, I don't want to rock the tennis world too hard.” you replied. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

---

By the end of the mini-tournament on the second day, your team was exhausted and exhilarated all at once. Jannik and his coaches had umpired the matches, offering commentary that ranged from technical advice to playful banter. While you didn’t win, you felt a sense of accomplishment for holding your own.

As the group gathered for a final, celebratory dinner, you found yourself glancing at Jannik across the room. He caught your eye and walked over, his hands in his pockets.

“Good job today,” he said, his tone warm. “You really do have potential.”

“Thanks,” you said, meeting his gaze. Emboldened by the wine you’d had earlier, you added, “So, what are the odds I could convince you to grab a coffee sometime? As a thank-you for not laughing too obviously at my rough serves.”

His smile widened, and you think you saw a flash of something like admiration in his expression. “I think I could be convinced. Are you free tomorrow?”

“It’s a date,” you said, grinning.

And as he walked away, you couldn’t help but acknowledge that this work retreat had turned into something far more memorable than you’d ever expected.

---

[seduction-fatale78]

Se riesce a farti sorridere quando ti svegli, o è una persona speciale o è un caffè.

Buongiorno anime 🖤

[mancino]

Buongiorno a

chi pensa

che ogni

giorno

sia

un dono speciale,

da accogliere

con

amore,

da vivere

con il cuore

e da respirare

con tutto il

profumo

della..

vita...

Buongiorno !! 🌹❤️

[cyberhopper]

Morning Warmth

Characters: Mario and Peach Genres/themes: Fluff, established relationship Summary: Something short and sweet I wrote in one sitting, featuring Established Relationship MarioXPeach waking up together. Very mild suggestive themes contained herein. Also available on AO3

--------

Winter had come early this year.

The onslaught of late-November cold brought a wave of peculiar cosiness. It wasn't Christmas yet - it wasn't even close enough to start thinking about buying gifts - but Peach couldn't help feeling the pull of festivity as she huddled up beside the fireplace every night, lost in her favourite romance novels.

This morning, she awoke to stark whiteness through her bedroom window. The tallest trees were caked in snow, their branches hanging heavy with it, wet and glistening, and the air was so still that she could see nothing moving. As though the world itself were holding its breath, immobilised in a slice of time.

Awareness of the snow would normally make her feel cold, even tucked up in bed as she were, but the warm bundle against her right side ensured anything but. A fond smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Sleep-slow, she reached out to brush her fingers through his ruffled brown hair. He stirred almost unnoticeably, his breath making his mustache move. She almost giggled, but suppressed it fast enough to avoid waking him.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he seemed to be waking up on his own. The tiny movement was followed moments later by a more obvious one. His legs shifted beneath the quilt, stretching to their fullest length, which didn't make a whole lot of difference, and his fingers curled restlessly against his palms. He was wearing a set of dark blue pyjamas with tiny Power Stars embroidered on the fabric. Peach had never asked when he bought them.

It was only their third week sleeping together in her bed, in her castle, but it already felt like they'd been doing it for half a lifetime.

Mario's eyes flickered open, but not all the way. She saw a sliver of bright cerulean and black before they eased open just a little more. "...Buongiorno..." he murmured, still half-asleep, voice muddy and much more accented than usual.

He didn't use his native tongue very often, but every time Peach heard it felt like a special treat. Something about the completely foreign words made something inside her warm up and vibrate with giddy enjoyment. She couldn't even explain why.

"Good morning," she murmured back, smiling and playfully touching his nose with one finger. "Did you sleep well?"

He went cross-eyed trying to keep her finger in sight, which made her giggle. Then he blinked and returned his gaze to her face. It was drowsy, and soft, and filled with timid wonder. He was still in awe that he got to wake up beside her every morning. It made Peach feel, quite frankly, a little conceited. What had she done to deserve such unending devotion and reverence? Did she even want Mario to look at her this way?

But such thoughts were hard to contemplate first thing in the morning, and were swiftly discarded in favour of more important things.

"I did," he replied softly. His accent was still thick, but he wasn't unconsciously slipping into Italian. She found herself missing it. "You look beautiful this morning."

Something about his face made affection roll over her in a crashing wave. She was helpless to its tide.

Mario yelped when she suddenly and decisively rolled him over. She pushed him onto his back and settled herself above him, being careful not to press her full weight down. The momentum of the movement carried her mouth effortlessly down to his.

He always loved it when she tried to act more assertive - perhaps finding some relief in giving up control - and he responded without hesitation. His left hand rested over her cheek, and his right curled around her shoulder. His silly pyjamas were velvet-soft, but she could feel sturdy muscles underneath them; his mustache was tickling her nose, and the warmth was turning into heat.

All things considered, it was a pretty chaste kiss, but when she pulled back moments later, his face was flushed as though she'd done something scandalous.

She couldn't help but laugh. "Are you ever going to get used to me kissing you?" she teased.

"Never," he vowed. His left hand stroked her cheek while his right slowly pushed through her bedraggled hair. She instinctively pressed closer when she felt it curl around the back of her neck - short, strong fingers that left impressions wherever they touched. He wasn't really doing anything, but having felt those fingers in far less chaste scenarios...

A prickling heat crept into her face, and she buried herself in his chest to hide it.

"Now you are the one blushing," he said, soft and gleeful in her ear.

She couldn't help but giggle into his pyjamas. "What can I say? You make it happen."

"I didn't even do anything." There was surprise in his voice beneath the amusement.

After a while, Peach resolved to pull her still reddening face out of his chest, stare him down determinedly, and then drag him in for another kiss. She had no idea what time it was, but it seemed to be early still; she felt Mario tentatively caress her side through her nightdress, and wondered if he might be persuaded to stay an extra hour.

[ancoraiomicky]

Buongiorno con il profumo di un fiore 🌷con il sapore di un bacio carezzato dall’amore che sa di risveglio speciale!

[elenascrive]

Da un incontro

anche virtuale

può nascere

un’Amicizia Speciale! 🥰

@elenascrive

[s-a-f-e-w-o-r-d--2]

Oggi è una giornata strana... Il cielo è bigio... Scansiamo un po' la noia di questa giornata di metà settimana... Facciamo un gioco speciale... Hai presente che succede ad Alice nel paese delle meraviglia quando mangia il dolcetto con scritto "Eat me"? Vediamo se funziona anche con te... Mmmm dovresti diventare grande grande... Dai prova... Mangiami... 😏😏😏

Buongiorno 😘

~ Virginia ~

[l-incantatrice]

"Tutti i giorni sono un occasione speciale.

Conserva solo ciò che deve essere conservato: ricordi, sorrisi, profumi, nostalgie, momenti... "

-Medeiros-

BUONGIORNO ♣️

[occhietti]

Detto col cuore....

anche un buongiorno diventa speciale.

web

Buongiorno...☕🤍

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Eight

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.8k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

It had been several days since she’d introduced Tom to the Baron. Perhaps a full week already passed. In truth, she stopped keeping count.

She had waited outside the Baron’s office for him, and pretended it was just to make sure he didn’t lose his way on his way back to the hotel, but selfishly she was curious to know how their meeting had gone. Did the Baron like the books? Did he like Tom? Did Tom like him? The latter was unlikely. Only special personalities ever did, and her new friend was neither bootlicker nor snob.

But Tom was frustratingly silent on their way back to the station, and no gentle prodding from her would nudge a hint of what had happened. His body was stiff and straight as if in a march, and his gaze was focused on the road ahead. He spared her only a few, rather shy glances now and then, as if he had just taken something from her. There would be no further trade, she understood that much…

She hadn’t seen him since.

The old routine of life that she fell back into suddenly no longer satisfied. She frustrated herself by thinking of him now and then, his face appearing to her for an instant, and then she would start wondering where he was, what he was doing, was he thinking of her, would he ever come back… For all she knew, he had left for England already, and then she would become spontaneously angry and afraid, and her handling of the books would roughen, and her steps would sound quite loud, and nothing would taste good to her anymore.

But all it would take to lift her spirits was the chiming of the bell — was that Tom? — before she saw it was just Sister Silvia or another flock of tourists. Oh. Buongiorno.

She was stocking the shelves at the far end of the shop one morning when the bell ran once again, and through the silence, she heard steady footsteps, firm and prim and strong. She descended and went to them, and when she saw a dark head of hair and a tight lean torso in a plain white shirt, her heart trilled. She smiled as she approached him, faster, faster, and called out a bright ‘hello’. But then the young man turned and broke the spell.

“B-buongiorno,” she mumbled, stopping to a halt. “Posso aiutarla?”

“Oui, er… Si. Cercando un libro di… Torchia?” he said in lightly accented Italian. Was he French? “Quello nella vetrina.”

“Certamente. E come si chiama, signore?”

“Clement Merle,” he said with a smooth rolling of the tongue. “Piacere, signorina.”

Whatever faint smile she had faded. She realised with horror that she would have to tell the Baron about this, and suddenly everything felt quite cold. She forced a grin and nodded, and invited Clement further inside.

II

Tom did not particularly enjoy the taste of coffee, even after having to inflict it on himself these past few weeks for the sake of fitting in. It was a muggle drink and made him somewhat restless when he drank too much of it.

But now that he had started partaking of it on an almost daily basis, he recognised in it a certain quality. It, unlike tea, did not remind him of Mrs. Cole, nor any of the other ladies at the orphanage. Combined, they must’ve drank the Empire’s supply of the stuff while he was there, and to this day he couldn’t bring himself to touch certain varieties, like the Ceylon they favoured.

But he was here now, just another dark-haired man sipping from a little cup throughout the hour while he sat outside and pretended to read a newspaper…

The whole day, he hadn’t ventured anywhere outside of the hotel. He ordered breakfast in his room and spent most of the morning reading. Later, he had lunch at the restaurant downstairs and let the hours drain away at the bar. He hadn’t brought any books with him, they were too important — especially the ones that screamed when opened.

People came and went, and between lunch and dinnertime, he was propositioned on at least four occasions. It was hard to tell with foreign women… They were either too overt, too subtle, or both. But it reminded him, in a manner that made a chill slink down his spine and rise up in his stomach, of the Baron: that same narcissism and pride. As for the attention of the women, that reminded him of England, and his extra-contractual work for Burke. Depravity, fel need, and the loneliness of witches.

Perhaps it was their wealth that he resented, or their looks that he despised, women married for their money with the grit to bear a loveless match… Tom humiliated himself for them, swallowed his own pride, and touched, when it came down to it, their most guarded parts. But no matter what deluded charms they exercised, they never entered through his blood, his eyes, his mouth, to reach him, and Tom could not imagine any of the women he had met so far as able to, through their lips or tender touch, incite his soul to plummet to the level of the body, nor bring his body to the dark heights of his soul.

And of course, how could they? Women who had never worked a day in their lives, women who slept on treasures they neither valued nor truly recognised. Selfish creatures suffering vainly in their little cages, whose ignorance and cowardice enticed him to the brink of murder. No, now that he was away from England and free from Burke and Borgin’s demands, he would not subject himself to any more of that.

“Signor Riddle?”

He nearly jumped from his seat as he heard the clerk call for him from the entrance.

“Si?” he asked, turning around. This was the same prick who recommended that horrible restaurant to him. His eyes narrowed.

“Ah, telephone for you. Cabine two.”

“Grazie,” he muttered.

Tom left the newspaper and his cold coffee behind and walked out to the little chamber on the other side of the hotel where the phone booths were.

“Ahem, yes? Tom Riddle speaking.”

“Tom? Oh, hello! I was afraid you wouldn’t be in…”

It was her.

“Yes, took a break from sight-seeing,” he answered, casually leaning against the booth. “It’s good to hear from you again. Everything alright?”

“Of course, of course it is.”

“Really? You sound a little… nervous.” It was hard to keep the smile from his voice.

“No, everything’s fine,” she said quietly. “I just called because… because…”

Tom held the phone to his ear tightly. She sounded like she was going to cry any minute.

“Because I was wondering whether you’d be able to stop by the shop anytime soon.”

“I’d be glad to,” said Tom, summoning a tone of innocent confusion. “But what’s this about?”

“The… the Baron has reconsidered your offer.”

“He’ll trade the books?”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, the connection wavering. “I just know he wants to talk to you. He’d like to make an offer.”

“Very well. When?”

“When can you come?”

“Today.”

“Oh, that’s… That would be perfect,” she said excitedly.

“Good,” Tom smiled. “You close at half past five, yes? I can come then.”

“Thank you so much, Tom. I’ll be waiting for you inside. Bring the books with you, just in case.”

“I will,” he said. “Goodbye for now.”

“Bye…”

III

He arrived there a little early and waited for a while. He hadn’t expected to see a dark little car parked beside the shop, but at least it confirmed what he already suspected. The Baron was inside.

From the outside, the place seemed closed for the day save for a faint little light coming from a corner of the room. He knocked on the door and, as he waited for somebody to answer, he looked in through the window. There was no sign of Clement anywhere, but that volume of Torchia — the bait they set for him — was gone.

It didn’t matter what happened to Clement, of course, because Tom had been at the hotel all day which all the staff there could attest to. It might have been a little callous, sacrificing him like that, but at least it took suspicion away from him. That, and the monogrammed Swiss knife he’d left under the table. Oh well. Clement had been annoying anyway.

Like a light in the darkness, she came into view.

“Tom!” he heard her say from the other side. She rushed to open the door, her smile shaky and wide. “You came…”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” he grinned cockily as he took his coat off. “So, how have you been?”

Silent as he stepped through, she locked up again behind him, then took his coat and hung it up on the rack behind the door. There was a haunted look in her eyes that wished to say so much.

“Fine, just fine. And how are you?”

“Good,” Tom nodded. He looked down at her figure — fetching as always but closed off, tight, her legs stiff and her hands ruddy as if she’d rubbed them raw in icy water.

“Enough with the pleasantries, I haven’t got all night!” came a familiar voice from the next room.

“Si, signore.”

“Venite qui!”

With an apologetic sigh, she showed him through.

“I’ve been well, by the way,” Tom said to her. “I did so much sightseeing this past week that it was nice to rest for a few days.”

“I honestly thought you’d returned to England by now.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry to do that.”

“And your employer?”

“Is far away. Just the way I like it,” he winked. He knew she felt the same.

She gave him a knowing smile, then stood aside as she invited him into the last room.

The Baron was there, seated in his bulky wheelchair by the table. He was smoking his pipe, or rather chewing on it, as he levelled a thick scowl at Tom. The dark surrounded them. The only point of light was a faint lamp glowing before the Baron.

“Mr. Riddle,” he said. His expression was unchanged as Tom stepped through as if he were talking to a projection in his mind and not a person right before him. “It seems we were destined to meet again.”

“And I thought you willingly invited me,” he smiled.

“I asked you to come here. I haven’t invited you to anything yet.”

Tom shrugged and looked around, pretending to be less familiar with this room than he really was.

“I must say, Baron, being called on such short notice, so suddenly and rushed… It seems, if I can afford to say so, quite unlike you.”

The old man took another puff and clenched his jaw in thought, the loose teeth creaking in his mouth.

“This place will be of interest to you, I can assure you,” he said.

“So, should I give you the books now, or…?”

The Baron and the girl behind him exchanged a look. She closed the door behind them, then moved to the left. Tom turned his head and followed her shadowed silhouette.

She bent and pulled the carpet neatly by the edge, skirt tightening enticingly around her thighs, then knelt. He couldn’t see just what she was doing, but he could hear the click of a metallic lock, and when she stepped over to the side he could see an entrance where that trapdoor was, a gaping doorway in the floor. The jaundiced light fell over a few wooden steps that descended into darkness.

Tom looked at her. She seemed quite… apprehensive, as if afraid, but proud as well to share a secret part of her with him. Tom considered using Legilimency on her to see if he was in any danger — they had probably killed Clement, after all — but he did not yet know what magical defences this place had, and now that he was so close to penetrating their little group it would have been foolish to gamble.

“Join me downstairs,” the Baron said, and as if summoned she hurried to his side to help roll him forward. “I have something to show you.”

She avoided Tom’s gaze as she walked past, and stopped at the trapdoor. The railings on its side hooked neatly underneath the wheelchair and, carefully held by his clerk, he descended. Tom followed close behind.

The steps went on for quite a while, and soon the light from upstairs vanished. He held on to the same railings as he went down step by step, further into darkness and unknown alike. He smelled wood and dirt, and the dry chill that came with old stonework.

After a while, he heard a shuffling and squeaking of wheels, which meant they’d reached the floor. Someone flipped a switch, and light pooled underneath. Tom squinted for a moment, then continued his descent. He could estimate they were some two stories deep.

A shadow began climbing toward him. He slowed his steps and, once she reached him, touched her arm. She stopped and only then looked into his eyes, their bodies were closer now than ever.

“Where does this lead?” he whispered.

“Just follow the Baron,” she said with a weak smile in an air of surrender. “I’ll be with you shortly. I just need to close the door behind us.”

“Nobody else is coming, the shop is locked up,” he scoffed.

“It’s the rule,” she said, shrugging her arm out of his grasp and climbing onward.

IV

The Baron was waiting at the bottom and began rolling away when Tom arrived. He took a moment to look around him, but there was nothing remarkable to see. Merely an empty corridor of smooth cement, and a few electric fixtures on the walls, small lightbulbs the size of candle flames. There wasn’t even anything on the ground, although judging by the fading on the edges Tom could guess a carpet had been there not long ago.

After a few moments of walking in silence, the Baron spoke again.

“I have something for you to evaluate tonight.”

“Something?”

“A few books,” he said. “What exactly is your profession in England?”

“I serve my employer as both sales clerk and purchasing agent.”

“For how long?”

“Seven years, sir.”

“That’s not a lot,” said the old man, “for them to trust you with an international assignment like this.”

“It seems they are satisfied with my work so far.”

The Baron hummed, and Tom could tell he was trying to seem less impressed than he was. Typical of men like that, to downplay the achievements of others. A bully’s attitude. Tom could not — and indeed refused to — say that he knew muggles well, but he knew arrogance, and pride, and stuck up aristocracy.

With a prim clipping of the heels, they were joined again by his assistant. Her hands went immediately to the handles of the wheelchair and she began to help the Baron forward.

“Where’s halfway there,” she said, a little out of breath.

“Hurry up, then, before he leaves.”

Tom cocked a brow, wondering who they were referring to.

“So, how do you feel?” she asked him in a quieter voice.

“I should be asking you that,” said Tom.

“Oh, I’m fine…”

It sounded like the sort of ‘fine’ that women often gave when they had something else to say. Her large eyes, her tight closed lips, the whole nervous energy of her that night disturbed him. He liked her better up a ladder, picking dusty volumes off high shelves, her body held up in the air just by one little foot and a few fingers. Or poured over a hot desk, her breath suspended as she wrote, ink pen poised between her fingers much like a witch’s wand. Not… this. This servitude. It made bile rise up in Tom’s throat. For a moment, he imagined their places switched, then realised it would have made no difference — he was the same with Burke as she was with the Baron. He put aside this notion before it made him angry too.

They were finally approaching something different than grey walls and naked lightbulbs. Tom could see thick red drapery and lamps, and the hint of doorways further on. A single blade of light cut across the floor, shivering with hints of a figure moving on the inside.

“Now, Mr. Riddle,” said the Baron, “we’ll see if you’re worthy of carrying those books with you, and of carrying yet more.”

Tom’s left hand secured the strap of the messenger bag around his shoulder, and his left hovered at his pocket, near his wand. That had sounded an awful lot like a threat.