"Neither of you are students here," Madam Prince pointed out as she examined Henry with scary-looking screws, pincers and leeches soaring around his entire body. He wasn't fazed by them at all—instead he was staring at the ceiling, blinking rarely. Hermione wanted to stand next to him, holding his hand, but she'd been forced to back away by the current matron of Hogwarts.

Madam Prince was a tall woman with dull skin, deep-set eyes and thin lips pressed tightly together. She was wearing a white wimple that covered not only her hair and neck, but also most of her forehead, and her wand-hand was orchestrating the tools with quick, decisive movements. She didn't look at Hermione while talking to her.

"They said, um, that I'd be welcome here … for the new year," Hermione said. "And I just didn't know where to go … I've tried every spell I could think of, but nothing works. And … there aren't any other ones here yet."

The date was August 29th, they'd been informed. Three days before students would return for a new term at Hogwarts.

"Hmpf. I have others matters to which I must attend. Linens and bandages to wash. Herbs to collect. Cabinets to fill in preparation for whatever idiotic ideas the students will invent this year. T'was a home-made spell, you said?"

"Yes. Nox Motus, apparently. It means–"

The matron stood still as her eyes darted to Hermione. "Thinkst thou I speakn't Latin?"

Hermione lowered her head and felt her cheeks turn red. "Sorry, of course you do, Madam."

"Grammatically, t'is crude and lacketh logic—'night, moved'. Perchance 'darkness over all that stirs' was the envisioned outcome." She looked at Henry. "T'would certainly seem that this was the effect, if not the intention. After all, t'is the intention, not the words themselves, that controleth the outcome."

Hermione hadn't known that. But it would explain how spells like Wingardium Leviosa, which was a mishmash of poor English and Latin, still worked.

"I shall spend the day examining the traces of magic in his blood, and contemplate possible counter-charms," the matron said, and lowered her wand. The tools flew back into their cabinets, and the leeches into a bowl. "Meanwhile, I prescribe a large dose of the Elixir to Induce Euphoria." She waved her wand again, and a bottle filled with a sunshine yellow liquid left the cabinet and flew into her hand. "Half a glass every other hour. The both of you are to remain in the Hospital Wing until I say t'is safe for the young man to leave. You have no business wandering the corridors." She poured the liquid into a cup, which she placed against Henry's lips. "Drink," she said, and he did as he'd been told.

The potion had a sweet and aromatic smell, and as soon as Henry had swallowed, a smile started to grow on his face.

"How do you feel?" Madam Prince asked.

"Jolly," Henry said with a giggle, and finished the entire cup. Laughing, he looked at the cup, turning it in his hand. "What wonder—happiness in a goblet!"

"Good," she said sternly. Turning to Hermione, she said, "I shall be in my office if you need me. Disturb me not if mustn't be."

Hermione nodded, and sat down on a chair next to Henry's bed.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, and excitedly grasped for her hands. His were warm and a little rough, and they squeezed her own tightly. "My dear, sweet Hermione! My mistress and friend! I thank you most cordially for your goodness, for I think it would be very difficult for me to find an occasion to deserve it, if I were not assisted by your great humanity and favour, which I may not always have sought to seek, but will from here on and for ever more seek to preserve by all the kindness in my power!"

Hermione smiled, a little taken aback. She'd never seen him this intense. "Wow … um, of course."

"Oh! To hear your voice, to hear those words! There is joy in mine heart and soul once more. There is a song within, wanting to be sung! I could sing! I shall!"

"Um, maybe you shouldn't—" Hermione started, but was interrupted by Henry, who'd started to sing.

"Pastime with good company I love,
and shall until I die
Grudge who will, but none deny,
so God be pleased, thus live will I."

"Henry," she tried. "Maybe this isn't the best place—"

He kept on singing, and the smile on his face grew bigger as he let the base tones in his voice be heard.

"For my pastance:
Hunt, sing, and dance,
My heart is set! All goodly sport,
for my comfort, who shall me let?"

"Henry," she urged. "Please …"

"Like you not the song? Perchance something a bit softer on the ear? A ballad?"

"No, that's not—"

"I wrote also this one with you in mind," he said cheerfully, and started singing again.

It was eerie. Not for the gloomy tune, but because she recognized the melody immediately. She listened to it in its entirety, unable to utter a single sound. Henry didn't let go of her hand or even look away for a second while he sang. His voice was warm and deep, and echoed in the almost empty room.

"Alas, my love, thou dost me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved thee well and long,
Delighting in thy company.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was mine heart of gold,
And who but my lady Greensleeves.

Thy vows thou'st broken, like mine heart,
Oh, why didst thou so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart
But mine heart remains in captivity.

I have been ready at thine hand,
To grant whatever thou wouldst crave,
I have both wagered life and land,
Thy love and good-will for to have.

If thou intendst thus to disdain,
It does the more enrapture me,
And even so, I yet remain
A lover in captivity.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was mine heart of gold,
And who but my lady Greensleeves.

My men were clothed all in green,
And they did ever wait on thee;
All this was gallant to be seen,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
but yet thou hadst it readily.
Thy music yet to play and sing;
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Well, I will pray to God on high,
that thou my constancy mayst see,
And that yet once before I die,
Thou willst vouchsafe to love me.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was mine heart of gold,
And who but my lady Greensleeves.

Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,
To God I pray to prosper thee,
For I am yet thy lover true,
Come once again and love me."

… … …

He smiled as the song ended, examining her. A vision! A dream! "You do look ever so lovely in green," he said, and tears started filling her eyes. "Tears of joy, of gratitude!" he exclaimed. "Such high praise!" He took her hand and pressed it against his lips.

She removed her hand. What a perfect example of modesty, of virtue! Discrete in manner, without looking at him, she whispered, "When … did you write this?"

"I started the very night you took your leave from our supper," he said. "Oh, mistress! That was the rain that watered the ground, and so this song grew like a flower in the spring! But I see now, I should weed it – t'is true that mine heart remains in captivity, but you have done me no wrong. I am the one who has erred. T'is verily good fortune to have your kindness bestowed upon me, good friend, and in truth, I am not worthy of your love. My kind actions will hereon and forth be because you deserve them, not because I have any hopes of you ever loving me."

She smiled delicately, as benefitted a lady, and her gaze danced in humble prudence.

"The heavenly angels could not bless me more than that smile has," he said to her. "This is a joyous occasion. Pray tell, is there another song you much prefer? I shall sing if for you!"

"No more singing. Please."

"Alright! Then we shall dance!" He started to remove the covers, but she stopped him.

"No! I mean, you should stay in bed. Rest."

"Your kindness shows itself once more! Alright, for your sake, I shall rest. Though I cannot stop the stirrings in mine heart and soul." He started singing again. "Foy porter, honneur garder et pais querir, oubeir, doubter, servir et honourer. Vous vueil jusques au morir, Dame sans per." Laughing, he said, "It seems I cannot help it! You're my muse! Mine heart sings, and so must I!"

She did not smile. She mustn't feel the happiness he felt. Perchance she was yet burdened with heavy feelings that clouded her mind. That simply wouldn't do! He had to cheer her up.

"Boop!" he said, and tweaked her nose.

The look on her face was hilarious – the round eyes! the pursed lips! the slight gasp! – and he burst out laughing.

He laughed so much that he couldn't breathe – he was wheezing for air, he was coughing. Such good fun! Such merriment! Such –

Hermione raised her wand, and blissful sleep welcomed him.

… … …

She barely felt guilty for using a sleeping charm – there was too much on her mind as it was, without Henry the bloody eighth tweaking her nose.

Greensleeves.

Was about her.

He had written it.

Almost every single person in the modern English-speaking world knew it.

It was about HER.

Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.

Okay, relax. Breathe.

Was there any part of the song that gave away that it was about her? No, not really. It could be about anyone. And in all honesty, the number of possible candidates was quite large.

She should just forget the entire thing. Henry was obviously under the influence of the potion, and not in his right mind. Plus, he'd said there were no hard feelings, and that he respected her wishes.

Right.

Only …

Seriously, though – wasn't it just typical Henry to write of love, even though it was clear the whole thing was just a stupid crush? Always with the big words and exaggerations.

Whereas she … she knew that she cared about him. But was it something more than that?

She tried comparing it to Viktor. He'd shown interest pretty much straight away, and maybe it had been exciting at first, but the novelty of it had disappeared pretty fast. In days, really, on her part. She did care for him, though. As for him, he'd been content with being her friend, and they were still writing letters to each other every now and then. But he'd never talked about his feelings for her, and she'd never truly felt anything for him.

So … this was stronger than that, at least.

And then there was McLaggen. She cringed. Sure, he was good-looking, but what an idiot. He didn't seem to be able to take a hint even if it was handed to him with a note saying "THIS IS A HINT". They'd barely even talked before he confessed that he was 'obsessed' and 'in love' with her. Ugh. That was mainly just revulsion on her part.

So definitely stronger than that.

If she compared it to her friends' love lives, there was Harry who had crushed on Cho from afar, Lavender who didn't even get Ron, and Ginny who was only dating Dean because she was trying to get over Harry. And of course Ron, who couldn't even grasp the notion of a feeling at all, but still went out with Lavender.

Hermione knew Henry better than Harry had known Cho, understood him better than Lavender did Ron, and she was more into Henry than Ginny was into Dean.

So stronger than that. But why wouldn't she say that it was a crush? All of her friends had talked about crushes for much less.

Well …

Okay, so she wouldn't call it feelings, per se. Well, friendly feelings, of course. They were friends. And annoyed feelings, as this person managed to get on her nerves quite a lot. For example, when she'd wanted to bring him to Slughorn's Christmas Party, he'd been too thick-headed to get that it was an invitation. And perhaps seeing him snog Lavender Brown made her absolutely furious. Mostly because Lavender was ridiculous. Not because Hermione wanted to or had even contemplated kissing the person in question, because seriously, even hugging him was weird. Still, she missed him. In a different way than she missed Harry. But that was because … well, it was because Ron was … and Harry wasn't – or Harry was, and Ron wasn't … Either way, it wasn't a crush. No, no, no. Definitely not. She obviously didn't have feelings for someone so … immature, and blunt, and, and … anyway. He was clearly not interested in her, so it had nothing to do with this.

This was completely different. Because Henry was … well, not mature, but more mature, and not not blunt, but not as blunt … And she liked how Henry was tall, but not, you know, weirdly tall, towering over you, and had auburn hair rather than ginger, and just a bit of freckles rather than so many that you couldn't count them no matter how long you looked … well, anyway, completely different. Mostly because he was interested in her. Well, maybe. She wasn't sure how trust-worthy he was while he was high on that elixir. So a friend who was possibly interested in her. As she'd said, completely different.

Right.

Anyway, she was content with that, right? Friends, that would help each other before parting ways? Just as she was content with being Ron's friend. Relieved, really. She liked clarity. People who kissed other girls or were married were clear. Even though sometimes they still looked at you like you were special and the smartest, most amazing person in the world.

But it didn't help that Henry looked so defenceless and calm while sleeping. Like he needed someone who looked after him. Like all the certainty and confidence was just an act.

Ugh. Her thoughts and feelings were all over the place. Maybe she was simply incapable of having normal romantic feelings for people who were good for her and reciprocated those feelings in a healthy way. She turned around, staring at the empty bed on the other side. She needed clarity, not distractions.

So. Clarity. She didn't have a crush on Henry – true or false?

She didn't have a crush on Henry.

If someone had forced her to drink Verita Serum, she was pretty certain she wouldn't be able to say that statement.

So … She liked Henry. He seemed to still like her, despite everything.

Where did that leave them?

What would happen after this? If Madam Prince found a cure, what would they do? Where would they go? Back to London? Should she help him resume the throne? Or …

The thought was ridiculous, but there it was none the less.

Running away. The two of them, together. With no regards for other people, present or future ones, just them.

It was ridiculous. You didn't run away with someone you had a crush on. Especially not if that person was the king of England and the year was 1512. How would they make money? Would the regal Henry work the land? Would she be able to follow the narrow rules set for women of this era? The answer was clear: no.

It was clear. There was no future for them. So, a small voice in her head said, why plan for one? Maybe, for once, just … go with it. See where the road would take her.

Right now, it seemed to take her to the empty bed, to sleep. And so she did.