Maybe it was the fact that she was back at Hogwarts, because she dreamt that Harry and Ron were close by. It was so nice to see them again, and they seemed so real—the sun reflecting in Harry's glasses, and the smell of Ron's hair, a mix of freshly cut grass and something homey she couldn't quite put her finger on—and she was certain that this was really happening. But when she wanted them to meet Henry, Ron said something about "fraternizing with the enemy," and they both walked away. When she tried to follow, she realized that she couldn't move—she was stuck, without being able to move her arms or her legs or even her head, and—
"Wake up!" a sharp voice said, shaking her shoulder. But it was rather the foul smell that released her from the sleep paralysis – a case of really bad breath, it seemed.
Hermione opened her eyes. A pale woman, hair and forehead covered by a wimple, looked back at her. It took a few seconds for her to remember who it was.
"Madame Prince," Hermione said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep, I—"
"Never mind." The matron stood up straight. "I have spent a few hours analysing his blood, and I think I have found a counter-spell."
"What? That's amazing!" Hermione said, using her hands to force herself into a sitting position. "What is it?"
"Nothing too complicated, as the spell was performed by what must be an amateur. T'is simply a matter of quid pro quo." She moved closer to Henry, raising her wand hand. "The elixir should have worn off by now, so we shall see instantly whether I am correct." With a swift wand movement, she countered Hermione's sleeping spell.
Henry didn't move, didn't even open his eyes, but the stiffening of his shoulders and his furrowed forehead told them both that he was awake.
Madame Prince did not waste any time asking him how he felt. "Diēs motus," she said. Day motion. Of course. The opposite of night wasn't light—it was day.
But he didn't show any sign of improvement.
"Henry?" Hermione whispered. "Are you feeling better?" He didn't answer. He still looked tense, still had his eyes closed.
It hadn't worked. They were back on square one, helpless and without any idea on how to—
"Aye," Henry whispered. "I think I am." He took a deep breath, and slowly opened his eyes. They darted around the room, scanning his surroundings, before they landed on Hermione. "T'is as if a weight has been lifted off my chest. I … I can breathe again." They looked at each other for several seconds without saying anything. His speckled, dark blue eyes and brown eyelashes looked a lot like Ron's had in her dream, she realized. But Ron had light blue eyes, and eyelashes that were almost see-through. The mix-up made her queasy, for some reason.
Henry's face was almost completely blank, except for his lips opening and closing once, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite think of what. Perhaps he was scared that the jinx would return and burden him once more.
"Would you say you have returned to your former self?" Madame Prince asked, examining him.
"Aye," he said, turning to look at the matron. He was still pale, which made the freckles on his face more visible. "I think so. There is no darkness, nor euphoria. I feel in control of mine own emotions, as much as you ever can be, of course." He took another deep breath. "You forever have my gratitude, madame."
"Your gratitude interest me not, but the truth would."
Hermione felt cold. The truth? Had Madame Prince figured out Henry wasn't just any muggle, that he was in fact the king? Not good, not good at all.
"Imply you that we've lied?" Henry said.
"Lied, or been in the dark on more occasions than one." She turned to look at Hermione. "Said you not this man was a muggle?"
Hermione snorted. "Yes, of course he is."
Madame Prince's eyes narrowed. "His blood suggests otherwise. There are traces of magic far stronger than any spell could leave."
Henry grew even paler, and his voice broke. "Say you … someone has performed even darker magic on me? What sort? And to what aim?" The large man seemed to shrink, as he folded his arms around him.
Hermione shook her head, and got up. "I haven't done anything, I swear."
Madame Prince huffed. "Listened you not? No spell could have done this. No magic conjured by any wand, or any elixir. T'is in his blood, naturally, since birth."
"I … I don't understand," Hermione said. "What are you saying?"
"This man is no muggle."
… … …
Henry looked up to face the mad woman in front of him. Had she a moment ago claimed that he was a conjurer?
"Absolute fibble-fable," he said. "I am nothing of the sort, a wise man, or whatever you call it."
"A wizard," the maiden whispered.
"Well, I wouldn't say that his magical abilities are strong enough for him to be a wizard," Madame Prince said. "Squib, is more accurate."
"Squib? But he doesn't have magical parents," Hermione protested.
"Of what speak you? A squib has not to have a wizard or witch for a parent. Anyone on the magical spectrum that's not powerful enough to get into a magical education, but for instance able to see magical creatures, would be a squib."
Hermione shook her head. He had seen the patronus. She hadn't even realized that he shouldn't have been able to. And that had been one of the most important pieces of evidence in Harry's trial last year—that Mrs Figg, a squib, could see dementors, but Harry's cousin Dudley, a muggle, couldn't.
Muggle-born squibs, too weak to be accepted to Hogwarts, but magical non-the-less? The thought was outrageous. How many were there in her own time? Hundreds, maybe thousands, looking at the number of muggle-born witches and wizards. Thousands of people who'd see dementors and patronuses and house-elves, without any explanation for what they were. It would be enough to drive people insane. Could the wizarding community in the future really do something like that?
Given the political climate, with the likes of Umbridge and you-know-who, the answer was clear—yes. Too many wizards and witches would go to extreme lengths to keep the wizarding community "pure".
Madame Prince continued. "I would say that you possess somewhat stronger potency than the average squib. You wouldn't have gotten an acceptance letter from Hogwarts, though, for you would have had a hard time learning anything but the most basic spells. We have certain standards to uphold here, and have to draw the line somewhere."
"No." Henry shook his head. "Absolutely not. I'm no squid, or whatever you called it, nor wizard. You must have erred when you examined my blood." He reached out his arm so fast that the bones cracked. "Do it again, and see that you were mistaken. I'm human, untouched by such unholy powers."
Her voice was icy. "We're all human, and I never err. I know what I saw, and there is no point in denying it. You possess magic, and I can prove it." She nodded towards Hermione. "Give him your wand."
"It's not my wand, exactly," she said.
The matron shook her head. "It matters not. Hand him it."
The maiden did as she'd been told, but Henry hesitated. He had no wish touching that object. He remembered the last time he'd touched one—it had made his hand prickle, and started act of its own accord, sending out red sparks. With a sharp pang in his stomach, he remembered the many other men who'd held that same wand, with no reaction at all.
"No. I shan't touch that foul object. I am done with magic," he proclaimed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have important matters to which I must return, and—"
"You are not to leave this ward until I have permitted it," Madame Prince said, "and I will not let you leave until we have established the truth." She took the wand from Hermione's hand and pressed it into his palm, forcefully closing his fingers around it.
That same prickling sensation started to grow in his hand, in his arm. The fear made him let go of the stick, but not before they all had seen the red sparks that had left its tip.
Hermione gasped. "Merlin," she whispered. "It … it can't be …"
"T'is not verily unusual for people who have grown up in the muggle world to never learn that they possess some magical qualities," Madame Prince said. "Mostly though, there are magical ancestors who have since been forgotten. Have you any relatives who dealt with potions, or had healing hands, perchance?" she asked him.
He felt clammy, as he remembered his great-grandmother, Countess Rivers, who supposedly had used witchcraft to procure the marriage between her daughter, Elizabeth Woodville, and his grandfather, Edward IV. Then there was Elizabeth herself, his grandmother on his mother's side. She'd died when he was barely a year old, so he had no memories of her, but she had been accused of witchcraft some years before her death. He'd always thought of it as malicious talk and a way for her brother-in-law to discredit Elizabeth's and Edward's children's right to the throne—in the end, both his grandmother and great-grandmother had been acquitted, and Henry had always severely punished anyone who'd made such ill accusations.
But what if there was some truth to those accusations? What if his grandmother and great-grandmother had been witches? What if they had used magic to make their way into the royal families? He had no proof that they hadn't … and his other grandmother, Lady Beaufort, had never liked them—there had even been rumours that she was the one who sent Elizabeth away from court to live her last years in an abbey.
Had … had his own mother also been one? No, he decided. If his mother had been a witch, she would have found a way to save Arthur, and to survive her last childbirth, rather than leaving Henry to fend for himself.
"No," he said. "No relatives with … that."
"Well, muggle-born squibs aren't unheard of, as I said before. Some never even notice, whereas others might experience oddities. Did you have any inexplicable accidents in your childhood? Bouncing after a high fall, forcing your hair to grow back overnight after a bad haircut, making tyrants swell up and fly away, that sort of thing?"
He shook his head, but couldn't help to think of the unfathomably shattered glass window on the night of his mother's passing. Everyone had thought had he had thrown something through it, but he hadn't.
"Many low-level magical humans never show any signs, until they have the guiding help of a wand in their hand. If that's the case, your untrained powers pose no threat, and as you have now grown too old to learn even the simplest spells, I suggest you simply forget about it. Now, I ask you to leave. I have other places where I must be." She made a stiff hand movement towards the door.
He got up without really seeing where he placed his feet, and it was Hermione who guided him through the stone corridors.
… … …
"This is where I usually go when I have to think," Hermione said. She'd taken him to the library. Not that Henry seemed to notice. He was too lost in thought.
She led the way into one of the far-off corners, where rarely anyone but those with an interest in dental magic went.
"Are you alright?" she asked. "It must be a lot to process." She knew it was for her. Henry VIII. A squib. Henry VIII. Magic in his blood. It was ironic, if nothing else.
He looked at his own hands, clasped together in his lap. "I know what you saw in there, but I'm not … I can't be!"
She put her hand over his. "Maybe … and please don't take this the wrong way … maybe there are some truths in the accusations against your grandmother and her mother." Professor Binns had mentioned it in passing, as he'd lectured them about the witchcraft laws.
He looked up at her, as quickly as if he'd been shot. She half expected him to send her back to the prison cell for saying that. Instead, his gaze flickered. "Maybe. But what does that mean? What does that make … me?"
She sighed, and she couldn't really believe what she was about to say. "I guess … that you're a squib, like she said."
"What is that, exactly?"
"Someone with enough magical abilities to see a patronus, for instance, but not to perform actual magic. Many of them feel ostracized by the magic community and go to live with muggles, at least where I'm from."
"So I'm not … like you?"
"Well, you did produce sparks—no muggle could do that."
He shook his head. "But I didn't mean to do that. It couldn't have been me—it must have been traces of your magic."
"That's not how it works. The wand only channels the magic as long as someone is holding it."
"No, no, no. I told you—there's no magic in me. And if it is, I want it gone."
"It's alright," she said in a low tone of voice. "Things doesn't have to change, you probably couldn't learn any spells even if you wanted to. You said so yourself, that it's never taken control over you. So you're fine. You'll be fine."
He inhaled sharply. "What if … what if that's not exactly true?" he asked.
Knitting her eyebrows, she said, "What do you mean?"
"There was an incident," he whispered. "I couldn't explain it at the time, but there was glass everywhere, and the window had shattered. From within. I was the only one there. They all thought I'd thrown a rock through it."
Hermione took a deep breath. If travelling through time and meeting Henry VIII was weird, this was definitely weirder.
"When was this?" she asked.
"When my mother had died," he mumbled, not meeting her eyes.
"Oh, Henry, I'm so sorry," she said and squeezed his hand.
"T'is alright. T'was a long time ago." He straightened his back and pressed his lips together.
"Have … have there been other incidents?"
He was quite for a few seconds. "When Arthur passed, his favourite toy—a wooden horse he called Llamrei, which he'd been embracing his last few hours—was ordered to be burned to lessen the risk of spreading the decease. But even though I saw the flames consume it, that night I found it by my bed."
He paused again, before continuing. "And when Hal died, the physician started bleeding nose blood seconds after delivering the news to me. I didn't touch him, though I wanted to beat him half to death for not saving him."
"Hal?" Hermione asked.
"My son." His voice broke, and his hand was tense under hers. "Henry, really. He was almost two months old, born on New Year's Day, last year."
She didn't know what to say, so she just leaned towards him and embraced him in a hug. At first, he was just sitting there, but after a few seconds, he raised his arms around her back and pressed his forehead against her shoulder. Soon, his breath became ragged, and she could feel warm tears dripping down her collar bone.
"He had m-my red hair," he mumbled against her shoulder. The air streamed tickled. "So much hair for a baby. And the s-same joyful, lop-sided smile as Arthur. He had only recently learnt how to smile. And he was s-so full of life, kicking and trying to roll over and get his head up."
"He sounds lovely," Hermione whispered, stroking his back.
He nodded, rubbing his forehead against her neck. "He w-was. He w-was perfect. I used to sing to him. He w-would always stop crying when I sang to him."
"I'm sure he knew you loved him."
Henry started sobbing even worse than before.
"C-could I h-have saved h-him, h-had I known?" he asked, between the irregular breaths. "C-could magic have s-saved him?"
"No," Hermione answered, even though she couldn't be sure. But a "maybe" wouldn't help him, a "maybe" wouldn't give him peace. "But you need to be able to control your magic," she said. "Before you hurt someone."
"C-can't I simply get rid of it?"
"You saw what happened when you tried to repress things, what Malfoy's spell did to you. Repressing magic is even worse. It could destroy not only you, but others as well. It's better to learn to control it. To not let it build up."
"H-how?"
"This is good," she said. "Crying's good. You have to let the feelings out, before they turn to dark magic."
"A king cannot m-mourn forever. He cannot appear weak." He pulled away, as if remembering just that.
"Crying isn't a weakness. Feelings aren't a weakness. Not being in control of your abilities, that is a weakness."
"How is crying being in c-control?"
"I told you. If you let it out, it can't take control of you. You need to allow yourself to feel and let those feelings take their time, rather than locking them up and causing them to explode. Don't you feel better now than before? Relieved?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "But it yet hurts."
"And it will hurt for a long time. But the grief won't overpower you."
He nodded again. "So I don't have to learn how to use a wand?"
"Not if you don't want to," she said.
"I don't."
"Okay." She took a deep breath. "And you're sure that you're alright? Nothing that lingers from Malfoy's spell?"
He smiled weakly. "No. I don't think so. The … the dark thoughts are yet there, but I can counter them with happy ones. The memories of my son's life are stronger than those of his death. I know that it was that woman who broke the curse, but I yet have to thank you, for without your help I'd yet be lost in the dark."
"Well … of course. I couldn't just leave you like that."
"You could have, and many others would have." His voice was rough from the crying. "I know I have already apologized for mine actions, but I must do so again, this time of mine own accord and not under the influence of any magic, good or bad." He leaned forward, putting his hand over hers this time, and said, "I am so, so very sorry, my dearest Hermi… forgive me, I overstep my boundaries. I am so sorry, Madame Granger. If I could undo the harm I have caused you, I would."
She looked down at their hands. "You can call me Hermione, that's fine. And I'll accept your apology."
Looking up, she realized that his face was kind of close to hers. His eyes were still shiny and his face a bit red and puffy from the crying. One of his eyelashes had come off, and was stuck on his cheek. Without thinking about it, she raised her hand to remove it, but once her fingers touched his skin, they froze. He was breathing very slowly, and looking straight into her eyes. Her hand opened up, and gently pressed against his face. He didn't do anything, as if he was waiting for her to decide what to do next. She herself wasn't sure what that move would be.
She knew what she wanted wasn't logical, so for once in her life she ignored logic and all the million reasons why she shouldn't, and leaned closer.
Their lips touched. His tasted of the salty tears, and it wasn't until she softly pursed her lips against his that he seemed to come to life. He kissed her back, gently and carefully, as if he was afraid he'd scare her off. His hand moved into her hair, and hers to the curve of his neck. Their lips fit together so well, seemed to know what to do without even thinking. She didn't want to stop, didn't want it to end, but way too soon it was he who pulled away. He didn't let go of her, he just inched back far enough for their lips to part.
"This isn't the place," he whispered. "Or the time. But I yet rejoice." He leaned his forehead against hers, smiling. She was too. It had been a dumb thing to do, she was sure, but she hadn't been happier in ages.
"I won't speak of feelings, for I know that you think it too soon," he said in a low tone of voice. "But know that I care about you, deeply. And I will make sure that you have whatever you need to return home. I know now that that is what you truly desire."
That dampened the joy just a bit. "But I've told you—I can't go home."
He smiled weakly again. "Look at me. If I'm cured, anything's possible."
"That's nothing in comparison, I …" She moved away, hesitating, but then she realized that there really wasn't anything holding her back. Henry already knew she was a witch, he had magic in his blood, for crying out loud, she'd just kissed the married king of England without giving a damn about the consequences, and he was apologizing for his actions, promising to help her without anything in return.
"I'm from the future, Henry."
... ... ...
AN: Hope you enjoyed the fiftieth chapter!
