Henry kissed her hand and led her to the set table. He pulled out her chair, and a servant poured her some wine.
"You look lovelier than ever, madam," he said and sat down opposite her. "The fresh country air has planted roses on your cheeks."
She forced a smile to her lips. This dinner seemed less appropriate every second, but there in the carriage, lured in by sleep and the warmth of his skin, she hadn't been able to say no.
"You didn't catch a cold, did you? Would you want a bigger fire, perhaps?" He was already gesturing for a servant before she had the chance to answer.
"No thanks, I'm fine," she lied.
"Well, I do think you will enjoy dinner. I asked the chef to prepare a feast worthy kings and queens. Shall we begin?"
Hermione nodded. The table was filled with different courses, mini pies, puddings, sauces, meat and a whole lot of things she didn't recognise. It reminded her of the Great Hall at Hogwarts.
"Try this," Henry said and signed for a servant to put a mini pie on her plate. She took a bite, which tasted a bit like chicken, but not quite.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Greenfinch pastry," he answered, and she felt her stomach turn. "And you must try the venison," he continued without noticing her discomfort. "My men shot it at afternoon."
For some reason, all she could think of was Bambi's mom, and then, how no one would get that reference for another five hundred years.
"Are you not hungry?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Not really, no. Sorry."
He smiled. "You have not to be nervous. I know what shall wake your appetite," he said. "Here, try this. T'is an Aztec specialty from the far side of the world." He offered her a cup filled with some brown goo. "It is called 'jocolatte'."
She raised her eyebrows. "Chocolate?" It looked nothing like the milk based drink she used to have every Christmas morning. She tried a sip, and nearly choked. She reached for the nearest glass, which was filled with spiced wine. It was like pumpkin juice in comparison.
"T'is quite bitter, I know," Henry said. "But one gets used to its taste."
"What's in there?" Hermione gasped.
"Vanilla, cinnamon, chilli and cocoa beans."
"No sugar?" she said and took some bread to get rid of the taste. "That explains it."
"Sugar?" He looked puzzled, then smiled. "You are right. That would probably make a good contrast to its bitterness."
"And skip the chilli."
"I don't know," he said and leaned back in his chair. "I like things to have a bit of a sting to them. People, too." He looked at her and smiled. When she didn't smile back, his expression faded. "What's the matter, Herm?"
The nickname made her insides twinge. It was too intimate. "You know what."
"I thought all such worriments had disappeared after the time we spent together today."
"That was a mistake," she said. "All of this is a mistake."
With a wave of his hand, he made the servants leave. "This is no mistake, my dear Hermione."
She stared at the fork in her hand. "Please don't call me that." It only made the decision so much harder.
He leaned forward and placed his hands on hers. "You are dear to me. Do you wish me to lie?"
She pulled away her arms and looked into his blue eyes. "And how many maidens have you held dear before me? More importantly, how many will there be when I'm gone?"
"Pray, stop this nonsensical talk of leaving. You say it time and time again, and yet here you are."
"Don't change the subject."
He sighed. "I thought I loved Catherine at one point, I did. But after meeting you, I know I was deceived. Yet, I have been true to my wife. There has never been another until now."
"What about Lady Anne Hastings?"
His face grew stern. "Simply a mischievous rumour."
"I don't care. I don't want to get in the middle of you and the queen," she said. "Actually, I don't want to get in the middle of any of this."
"This being what, exactly?" he asked.
"Well, court-life, I guess," she said, sparing him the details. The lunatic, crazy, would-get-her-hanged details.
"So you wouldn't stay here even if I asked you to?" His voice was hoarse.
"Royal courtesan was never a career I had planned for myself."
"What had you planned for yourself?"
His question made her realise what she would give up if she had to stay here, whether that was with Henry or not. A woman couldn't have a career. She barely could have a job, at least not one outside her own home.
"I want to make a difference," she said.
"You could make a difference here."
"How? Other than ruining a marriage?"
He got up from the chair and walked to her side. "You could be queen."
"So not only would Catherine have me at the stakes, but I'd ruin the relations between England and Spain?"
He laughed softly. "Did you not hear me? I just asked you to be my queen."
Hermione felt her heart stutter. "I ... I can't be queen. I'm, I'm ..." – from the future; a witch; four hundred and eighty nine years your junior; not Catholic; a minor; not suicidal. The list of reasons was never-ending. "... not of noble birth," she decided on.
"I care not," Henry said. "If giving you a title is what it takes to make you mine, then so be it."
"How romantic," she said dryly. "And did you forget the fact that you're already married?" As if that would stop him. Though, the historical character Henry VIII and the man who stood in front of her couldn't have been further apart at that moment. Why couldn't he have been just a normal boy, someone she'd met at home, or even better, at Hogwarts? At least someone from her own time. Not someone in the history books.
"That marriage is cursed by God," Henry said and placed his arms around her. "You are the maiden the Lord has intended for me. I thought about it earlier, on our way back. The church will see this, and allow an annulment. This is the solution, my dearest Herm.""
"I can't," she said, both to herself and to him. She couldn't. She might die. She'd for a fact change history. She wasn't sure which one was the worst.
"You can. You have all the qualities of a queen – you are intelligent, tactical, likeable, a breath of fresh air. This country will love you as much as I do."
"No," she said again and shook her head.
He rolled his eyes. "What maid in her right mind would refuse a proposal to the king?"
"Any maid in her right mind. I'm not cut out for a life in fame." Being friends with Harry Potter was bad enough, but the queen of England ... oh, sweet Merlin. "And I'm not the one for you. I'm sorry, but I'm not."
"You are yet a terrible liar. I know you care for me."
"But I don't love you," she said. "I never could. You and I ... we're not from the same world. Our time together has made this clear. All our beliefs differ, and you have done things I could never understand – sentencing innocent people to die, starting wars, s-sending young men to fight and die in your place ..."
He let his hands fall hesitantly. "You do not mean this."
She didn't have to lie. "Yes," she said. But then she looked away. The more she said tried to deny it, the more certain she was of her feelings: if she'd let herself, she could love him, even though she hadn't known him for more than a week, even though all the things she'd just said were true. But this was worse than the Montagues and the Capulets. They couldn't be together, and it was obvious she was the one who had to do the right thing.
"God, I've been foolish," he whispered. "I was to give you everything ... but you don't even want me."
She couldn't say anything. If she did, she would start to cry.
His voice hardened. "Is it Lord Brandon?" he demanded to know. "Is it that rogue who has stolen you right under mine eyes?"
She shook her head so vividly it made her dizzy. "No. No! I can't stand him. It's not anyone else."
"So t'is merely me, then. T'is merely me that you do not want. You'd prefer a commoner's life before choosing me." He turned away from her, staring at the floor.
This time, she wouldn't answer. If she did, the lie would be obvious.
"Perchance you should take leave," he said.
She nodded without answering and then walked out the door. When she closed it she could hear some muffled sound from within, but she didn't want to know what it was. She didn't want to know what she'd just thrown away. She didn't care if anyone saw her, if anyone thought her unladylike. What difference did it make now?
She ran.