There was nothing on the damp stone-floor, except some mouldy straw sparsely littered in the corners. Its musty smell mingled with those of previous residents' urine and sweat, which had forced Hermione to breathe through her mouth the first couple of hours. She could hear rats running around, and sometimes even felt them stroking her legs when she'd given in to sleep, promptly waking her up again. And if that didn't wake her, the noises from the rest of dungeons surely did – screams and cries and sounds she had never heard before. She kept close to the barred wall, where the dim torchlight from some close-by corridor made it a bit easier to distinguish the darkness from everything creeping and crawling in it. She was sitting on the floor, with just a thin chemise between her skin and the stone – they'd taken the dress from her, since, apparently, she'd "deceived his Majesty into bestowing it to her". She'd been forced to wrap the fabric around her bare feet in an attempt to keep warm, but still the cold stone drained all the heat from her body.

She wasn't sure how long they'd kept her in there, since no daylight made its way inside, but it had probably been days, since the transfiguration spell had lifted and she had her normal features back. The guards came to her infrequently, sometimes giving her burnt bread and stale water for breakfast, and at other times unidentifiable, tasteless stews. She feared they were trying to mess with her time perception, because at times she was still feeling sick from the meal before, and at others her stomach was screaming out in hunger. She'd thought they'd come to interrogate her soon after her imprisonment, but the man who'd attacked her hadn't stayed after releasing her from the petrification (she thought it was a man at least, based on his voice, but she'd never actually seen his face), and apart from the guards, no one had come to see her since.

Still, that wasn't what worried her.

They'd taken her wand.

They'd taken her wand, and they were going to kill her.

They'd taken her wand, and there was nothing she could do. She was stuck in here, with no way of getting out, with no way of communicating. She was as powerless as a Muggle.

And she would die here.

... ... ...

They'd taken her, and they were going to kill her.

Henry was sitting by his desk, trying to organise his thoughts. (The royal physician had insisted he'd lie down in bed, but Henry refused showing any signs of weakness. Being overpowered by a woman was embarrassing enough, even if she was in league with the Devil.)

They'd taken her, and she was in imprisoned in this very building. She was his to do with as he pleased. To punish, to penalise. To rid the earth of and put it all behind him.

They'd taken her, and he could go see her this very minute. To question her about her motifs. To ask it it'd all been a lie, of if there had been any truth to her last words. To ...

He shook his head. Nay. Of course there hadn't. She was a witch, and witches spoke no truth. They filled one's head with lies and spells to do their bidding.

And for that she had to die.

... ... ...

She was fairly sure what would come, if not now, then soon – a short but unfair trial "proving" that she was a witch with all sorts of torture, then the possible hanging and lastly, her burning at the stakes. If only she'd had her wand, she wouldn't have had to worry, since she'd known the flame-freezing charm since the age of twelve, but without it, the fumes would make her unconscious within minutes, and then she'd have no chance against the flames.

If only they hadn't taken Crookshanks. Then he could have alerted Alwyn. But she had heard his screams and yowls as they'd captured him, and she had no idea where he was now – or if he even was alive.

Which meant that her only hope was the unknown wizard that had attacked her, or possible Mr Aubrey since she hadn't shown up to their meeting. The odds weren't exactly in her favour.

Steps woke her up from her thoughts. Not the soft tapping of rats, nor the harsh sounds of the guards' leather boots on the stone. The steps were gentle, but definitely human. She straightened her back, scuffing back against the side wall, into the darkness where she'd be less exposed.

A shadow carrying a torch came to her cell. The bright orange light blinded Hermione, forcing her to close her eyes. She'd seen enough of the skirts and glittering jewellery to know who the figure was, though.

"Rememberst thou what I told thee, witch, the first time we saw each other?" the queen asked.

Hermione opened her eyes, slowly, trying to adjust to the light. "I am not a witch," she said with a frail voice, not having used it for days. Catherine had not come alone – a monk was with her, carrying the torch.

"The king will testify that thou art. There is no purpose for thee to deny it. But tell me, rememberst thou?"

"Answer thy queen," the monk said, his accent even heavier than Catherine's, when Hermione didn't say anything.

"I shall allow it, Fray Diego," she said in a calm tone. "I think thou rememberst, but per'aps thou do not want to. I told thee, that thou willst be forgotten, but that I shall always be 'is majesty's wife."

For some reason, Hermione could see Ron next to her, laughing and saying: "Well, I wouldn't be so sure of that." Great – the sleep deprivation had started to cause hallucinations. When she shook her head, he disappeared.

"I am not a witch," Hermione said again, the lie coming surprisingly easy to her lips – maybe because her life depended on it.

"Oh, thou art," Catherine said. "And thou willst confess. If not for the testimony, then for the evidence. And if not for that, then they shall 'ave to proceed with other ways of interrogation, of which I am certain thou wantest nothing to do. List the charges, Fray Diego."

The man cleared his throat and pulled out a scroll. "Possession of an invisible object, clearly full of dark magic. Association with a spiritus familiaris, named in the un-Christianly fashion of Crookshanks, who after thorough testing 'as shown signs of possessing magical powers itself."

"What have you done to him?" Hermione called out. "He's just an animal!"

The monk didn't listen to her, but instead kept on reading. "Conjuring a dark shadow spirit set to attack 'is majesty. Reading forbidden books, even though she is a peasant of low birth and should 'ave no knowledge of the written word, which is evidence of a pact with the devil. Foreshadowing the future. Cursing the king at the melee so that 'e fell of 'is 'orse and was severely injured. Cursing the queen to become barren. And also, possessing a magical aiding tool."

From underneath his dressing robes, he pulled out her wand. It showed no signs of magic in his muggle hands.

"What's that?" she asked, her voice thick in her throat. "A stick? Why should I want that?"

"Merely a stick, thou sayest? Is that so?" Catherine asked. "Then thou wouldst not mind if fray Diego makes certain of it?"

Hermione shook her head – as long as it was in Diego's hands, nothing could happen with it.

Catherine smiled. "Good. Proceed, fray Diego."

The queen looked at Hermione's shocked face as the monk took the wand in both hands, and broke it in two.

... ... ...

"Has the witch confessed?" Henry asked the guard in charge, as he came to his chambers to report.

"Nay, your majesty," he answered. "We have kept her awake to cause confusion, as you ordered. Also, she has been informed of the charges for which she stands accused."

"By whom?" Henry wanted to know. "The wench was to be kept in the dark about that, for at least another twenty-four hours!"

"I beg your pardon, your majesty. But it was her highness the queen, and her monk, friar Diego. We assumed they came on your orders."

"They did not," Henry said, his teeth clenched together.

"I beg your pardon, your majesty," the man repeated.

"Never mind. Perchance it has been long enough." He nodded. "Aye, continue with the next step. If she will not confess willingly, we shall have to force her."

"Aye, your majesty."

"Now, leave me. And let it be known that I wish to see the queen."

"Aye, your majesty." The man bowed and left the room.

... ... ...

"I thought you should be glad, that you did not 'ave to worry about 'er."

"You do not get to think for me!" Henry called out, which made Catherine cower backwards, against the door. "You do not get near her!"

She lowered her head. "I shall take it as a sign of your love, your majesty, that you worry about me being in 'er presence."

He stepped up to her, standing so close he could see the veins in her eyes. "Take it in any way you wish, except in that one." For a moment, he wished he could hurt her, not merely with words, but physically, too.

She looked back into his eyes, searching for something, and then crossed her heart. "She yet has you under her spell," she whispered, fumbling for the door handle. He took a hold of her arm, having to restrain himself from throwing her to the floor. The forceful movement hurt his wound, but not as much as it would have a few days ago.

"She does not," he said. "I have neither her, nor you, in my heart, so get that inside your thick head."

"Then why are you so upset?"

He backed away, letting go of her, not sure he knew the answer himself. "It is not you about whom I care," he finally decided, "but any future king of England who has to grow inside you. Going to her, you have jeopardised my future heir. I should have you thrown in a dungeon for that."

Lowering her neck again, she said, "I am yours to do with as you please, your majesty. But keep in mind, if an heir is what you wish for, an environment like that would not do well."

He shook his head, furious without exactly knowing why. "Simply go. Leave me be, and the witch as well."

As she curtsied, he took a swing at a vase standing nearby. It hurt his wound, but eased his soul. He kept swinging, throwing everything in the room to the floor, breaking pottery and china and anything getting in his way. But soon the shattering sounds lost their calming effect, and he yet felt that confused anger bottled up inside.

Why had he wanted to keep Catherine away from the witch? It truly hadn't been to protect his wife, but the lie about his heir hadn't been true either – he'd only thought of that as he'd said it.

Maybe the witch yet had him under a spell. Maybe she hadn't let him go at all. Maybe it had been a back-up plan if things were to go wrong, as they surely had. Maybe she was hoping that these feelings that yet lingered inside him would somehow save her.

Well, she was wrong. But to be certain of it, he'd have to get away from the influence of that spell once and for all. And to do that, he'd have to go to see her, to make sure that nothing of it would remain after she'd been wiped off the earth.