Hermione was a bit winded after rushing through almost the entire seventh floor corridor and then down the stairs to the sixth floor of the Astronomy Tower, but there was no time for her to catch her breath. As soon as they were all there, the door to Professor Pyrites' office opened of its own accord, just as the bells in the clock tower started ringing. Gilbert let Hermione, Agnes, Helen and Hohenheim through with a hand gesture, before he followed.
Hermione was glad that she hadn't been late to her first alchemy class, she was. Normally, she would have been early, ready at least ten minutes before, the first one of all. But this morning it had been very hard to leave the room of requirement.
She'd slept next to Henry again (only next to, though), and had woken up in his arms. Yes, she knew that it had to stop or the future would change, but right now he needed her – at night, he tossed and turned and cried in his sleep, and she had to wake him up several times to stop the nightmares. But as soon as he woke up and recognized her, he smiled and they embraced and if he seemed extra vulnerable (which was every time), maybe they kissed (okay … always), and for a while, everything seemed almost perfect.
This morning, he'd seemed super extra vulnerable, and it had been impossible to leave him. She simply couldn't, her body wouldn't let her. It was only when it was ten minutes left that he finally told her to go.
"Are you sure?" she had asked. "Maybe I should …"
"Aye, go. I shall be 'okay', as you would say," he had smirked.
It had been strange to hear him say a modern word like that. He could have been anyone looking like that, she had realized. Without his renaissance clothes or haircut, he could have been from the 20th century. That had made her want to leave even less. She had wanted to stay there, in that bubble, outside of time, where she could imagine that everything was alright.
But it was impossible to escape from reality, and here she was, her robe buttoned the wrong way and her hair even messier than usual. Autumn rains were tapping on the windows of the office, and the room was dim even though the sun had risen a few hours ago. A fire was burning in the fireplace, casting shadows on the dark wooden walls. Five chairs with armrests were placed in front of a desk and a blackboard, on the walls hung portraits of people Hermione had never seen before, and in a corner of the room stood a clavichord playing on its own. She fixed her buttons, tried to smooth out her hair and hoped that no one would notice.
Her hopes were not fulfilled. There was a young man standing by the teacher's desk, eyeing her. For a second, Hermione thought it was another student, but she soon realized that he wasn't wearing a uniform, but fur, silk and gold.
"Welcome to alchemy class," Professor Argo Pyrites said. He looked like a classical painting of an androgynous angel, with a sharp jawline and cheekbones for days, soft cheeks, plump lips and long golden hair that hung loose in sharp contrast to his elegant clothes.
When she looked a bit closer, she saw some signs of maturity on his face, but he couldn't be more than 25, at most. Hermione wondered whether he'd got his job here because of his talent, or because he, like Lockhart, had a way of using his looks and his charms.
She wasn't the only one staring – Agnes Sampson and Helen Napier were doing the same thing, and even Gilbert seemed a bit taken aback. Only Hohenheim seemed to be unfazed, and was the first of them to sit down.
Pyrites turned to the board behind him and with a gloved hand wrote الخيمياء from right to left. Arabic, if Hermione wasn't mistaken. She raised her hand, but was ignored by the professor.
"Al-kimiya," he said. "The fusing of metals, or the process of the transmutation by which to reunite with the divine." He scribbled some almost illegible notes on the board. "The word itself is a mutation, al being the Arabic word for 'the', and khemia Greek for 'to fuse a metal'. The subject, too, encompasses several philosophical traditions, spanning three millennia and as many continents." He turned around and gazed at them with intensity in his eyes. Hermione raised her hand again, eager to expand on the subject. Once again, she was ignored. "T'is merely natural that takes long to master its magic, so you who have come here for an easy way to fame and fortune – leave anon."
Helen twisted in her chair, and Gilbert's jaw was unusually tight, but everyone stayed seated.
He nodded. "I trust that you have all read my book before you came here?"
Hermione had checked Alchemy, Ancient Art & Science out of the library the second she had first thought of the philosopher's stone. To her surprise, though, everyone echoed, "Aye, professor". She wasn't used to being with others as determined as she was.
"Very well. Mistress Sampson, please share your thoughts on whether the three strands of alchemy share a common origin, or to what extent they influenced each other."
"Well, from what I ken," Agnes said, "the start of Western alchemy can be traced back to Ancient Egypt, and Greek alchemy may have been introduced to Ancient India during the invasions of Alexander the Great. And it was only after Rome's fall that the continued development of alchemy moved to the Islamic World, so I would say the common origin would be Egyptian."
Hermione opened her mouth to point out Agnes' mistake, but was beaten to it by Hohenheim.
"The Alexander theory is largely disputed," he said. "And the third strand is Chinese alchemy, not Islamic. It is vastly different from the Western and Indian ones, with its focus on medicine and immortality, rather than the transmutation of base metals into noble such."
"Are they necessarily unconnected, though?" Gilbert asked. "Can't it be seen as a universal remedy to cure all ills, poverty included?"
"Poverty is not a disease," Hohenheim said.
"Doesn't that depend on how you see it?" Gilbert said. "Money is only a social construct, after all, and poverty could then be seen as a societal disease. In that sense, gold will cure you."
"If true disease put us to the test, all our splendour, title, ring, and name will be as much help as a horse's tail," he retorted.
Hermione felt queasy, but why?
As Gilbert and Hohenheim continued their discussion, it dawned on her – she wanted to join in on the discussion, but wasn't sure on what to say. Truthfully, her mind was only half here, and the other half was still with Henry in the room of requirement. Which seemed to mean that she wasn't the smartest student in the room, for once.
"Back to the topic," Professor Pyrites interrupted. "You must control your minds if you are to ever produce the philosopher's stone. From what I can see, you wish to fly before you've even learned to open your eyes. We shall have to start from the very beginning." He turned to scribble on the board again. "'The three ancient strands of alchemy – Western, Indian and Chinese'."
The rest of the class professor Pyrites focused on the origins of alchemy, and then gave them the task of writing an essay on the topic for homework.
Agnes and Helen went up to Pyrites' desk the second the class was over, giggling and smiling and asking questions they very well knew the answers to. Hermione, on the other hand, quickly assembled her things – she had other priorities. It was obvious that she needed to study even harder if she wanted to keep up with Gilbert and Hohenheim.
"Would you maybe like to study together?" Gilbert asked as she placed her quill in her bag, scratching his long neck. "We could read each other's essays and give notes."
Hermione thought about it for a second. On the one hand, if Gilbert actually had a crush on her, it was stupid to encourage that, but on the other hand, this was not the time to turn down a helping hand.
"Sure," she said. "Let's meet in the library this afternoon, shall we?"
She instantly regretted her decision as he started blushing.
"Splendidious!" he said. "Phillipus, would you like to join us?"
"I study better on mine own," Hohenheim answered, before leaving the classroom.
Gilbert turned to Hermione, making a face. "Are you certain that he hates not me specifically?"
Glad for the change of subject, she said, "Pretty certain. Like, 75 percent or so."
Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Ha, ha," he said sarcastically.
*…*…*
Henry had forgotten how much he enjoyed food. Or, perchance not forgotten as much as not being able to actually comprehend how good food could taste when one hadn't eaten for over a week.
Once Hermione claimed he could start eating solid foods again, the dishes on the table had changed into Henry's favourite ones – spit-roasted meat, grilled beaver's tail, whole-roasted peacock and all the ale he could drink.
And he tried to eat in moderation, he really did try, but it was impossible. The hunger never ceased. So he ate and drank and ate and drank, and with each bite and sip he felt better, until his stomach turned and he had to rush to a conveniently placed basket into which he could throw up. But he was yet hungry, so he drank some more ale to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth, and went for the marzipan this time.
Soon, the room was spinning, but the ghosts no longer scared him, and after shouting for the spy to show up in the empty frame for at least half an hour with no result, he fell on to the bed and passed out.
*…*…*
Henry had been asleep when Hermione went to check on him, snoring loudly, so she didn't feel too bad about spending the afternoon studying in the library. At least that's what she tried to tell herself, even though she just wanted to crawl down beneath the duvet with him. He was getting rest and recovering, so she could focus on her own issues instead, and that was a good thing, despite what her silly love-struck brain tried to tell her.
Gilbert was already in the library, having set up a study corner in the far end, with all the books they could need, and supplies of bread and fruit. Hohenheim was seated not too far away, and Hermione made a face at Gilbert, raising her eyebrows into a question.
Gilbert shrugged.
"I always sit here," Hohenheim said, not taking his eyes from his lecture notes. "I was not to let your presence change that."
Hermione and Gilbert looked at each other, barely able to supress their smiles.
"Alright," Gilbert said after a while. "Let us get to it. I wouldn't want Professor Pyrites to throw me out of class after simply one lesson."
"Right." Hermione took out her books and notes from her bag, starting to underline the things she thought would support her argument in her essay.
"He's something, right?" Gilbert asked after a while.
"Who?" Hermione asked. The she mimed, Hohenheim?
"Nay. Professor Pyrites. I mean, certainly, I've heard rumours about him, but I …" He trailed off.
"What sort of rumours?" Hermione asked. She didn't care about pure gossip, of course, but sometimes rumours carried grains of truth.
Gilbert shrugged. "That he's part Veela. That the reason he's wearing those silk gloves is to cover up ugly scars after a case of dragon pox. That after his Hogwarts years, he went to study with Flamel in France – in the fifteenth century." He shrugged. "That he's lying about having the philosopher's stone and is actually a vampire."
"The vampire part is absolute rubbish," Hohenheim said, apparently very tuned into their conversation.
"So he's actually part Veela?" Gilbert asked. "I mean, it would explain why he's so …" He made a gesture towards his own face.
"Perchance. I thought it irrelevant, and never asked."
"But you asked whether he was a vampire?"
"Nay, certainly not. But he loves garlic, and professor Undercliffe has a strong aversion for humanoid beings, so I doubt he would hire one."
"What about his studies with Flamel during the last century?" Hermione asked. "Has he actually produced the stone and the elixir?"
Gilbert interjected, "Of course he has the elixir of life. He told us himself that he'd teach us to produce the philosopher's stone."
Hohenheim shrugged. "Whether he has it or not, I cannot say. But I can say that he has been the head of the Slytherin house for twenty years."
Gilbert looked at the both of them. "So, clearly – elixir."
Hermione turned quiet. For a moment, she thought of raiding professor Pyrites' office for some elixir, but she knew that she'd need to be able to produce it herself, in order for her to have enough to get her to the twentieth century.
"Do you think he'll teach us how to produce that, too?" she asked.
"That is the end goal, is it not, after getting the stone?" Hohenheim said. "But it takes dedication – I doubt we shall be ready after merely two years of studies."
"Of course."
"What's with your fixation on medicine and longevity anyway?" Gilbert asked, looking at Hermione.
Hermione looked down at the table. "Oh, er … I'm terribly afraid of dying. And who doesn't want to live forever, right?"
"Only if your loved ones could stay with you," Gilbert said. "I couldn't fathom living for centuries without my family."
"Really?" Hohenheim said. "That would be one of the perks, in my world."
Gilbert frowned. "Really? How sad. Aren't you close with your family?"
Hohenheim shook his head and returned to his books. "Never mind."
Hermione was only half-heartedly paying attention to their discussion – she was too focused on what Gilbert had said. That he couldn't fathom living for centuries without his family. She winced. No, neither could she. But most of her loved ones were on the other side of those centuries. Would that mean that she'd have to live for hundreds of years loving and losing new people again and again … or that she'd live all alone, without forming any attachments until she was back with Harry and Ron and her family, several hundred years older than them? She hadn't thought of that before. Not that it changed her mind. But she realized how much she'd have to suffer to get there. All the people that would die on the way.
Henry. Ambrose. Master Aubrey. Crookshanks. Oh, god. Could animals even live off the elixir? (Yes, she was aware that Crookshanks was missing at the moment, but she was convinced that he could take care of himself. That was the least of her problems at the moment.) But what would that matter if she couldn't keep him as the years went by?
It was as if Crookshank's death was the first thing that actually appeared real to Hermione. Everything else had been a feverish dream, but that was the inescapable reality.
Oh, god.
Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.
"Hermione, fare you well?" Gilbert asked, interrupting her train of thoughts. "You breathe most frantically."
"I'm sorry …" Hermione said, standing up. She could feel herself shaking. "I … I'm not feeling – I have to go." She hurried out of the library, hyperventilating.
She fumbled with the handle to the girls' lavatory, but couldn't get it to open.
"Hermione!" Gilbert called, coming after her. "What is happening?" He looked at her trying to pull the door open. Lowering his voice, he said, "Push, don't pull."
The tears started falling at those words. "I've always pulled this door, always!" she exclaimed, even though it wouldn't make any sense to him.
"Now, now," he said, putting his arms around her. "What is happening?" he repeated. Standing so close together, she became extremely aware of how much the shape of his eyes looked like Ron's. She stared at the floor instead.
"I … I … I can't talk about it, okay?" She pulled away from his embrace and wiped the tears from her eyes.
"Is it to do with the medicine books and your eagerness to live forever?"
"No," she said, slightly annoyed at his obsession with her. "It's nothing," she said, trying to convince both him and herself. "I'm sorry, I just … I just need a minute."
"Alright. Simply know that I'm here if you wish to talk. As head boy and as your friend." He reached out to grab her shoulder.
That sounded vaguely familiar. Hadn't Charles said something similar, before he tried to stick his tongue down her throat?
Screw staying neutral.
"Right. Purely out of the good of your heart? No hidden agenda?" she couldn't help but comment sardonically.
"I … aye?"
She stared at him. "So you're not doing it to get in my good graces and my undergarments?"
He blushed, all over his face and in blotches on his neck. "Nay. I apologize if I have given you that impression, but I see not you that way … at all."
The anger melted away as soon as it had appeared, and Hermione was at a loss for words. Feeling really dumb, she said, "Oh." Then she took a deep breath. "My apologies. It was only something Hogatha said. Not that it's her fault, it's purely mine, but …" She paused. "Look, I'm going through a lot, and I didn't mean to take it out on you."
He smiled a little. "You're not the first maiden to mistake my friendliness for something more. Maybe I need to be a bit ruder. Like Hohenheim."
"Oh, Merlin, please, don't."
He laughed. "Mine offer yet stands," he then said. "If you wish to talk …"
"Thanks. But it's … it's complicated."
"Trust me, I'm used to complicated. I can handle it. I might even appreciate a distraction from mine own silly problems."
She looked at him. She wanted so badly to tell him, but telling a Weasley felt even riskier than anyone else – one wrong word, and there'd be no Ron to return to. And she needed to return to Ron, just as much as she needed Crookshanks to come with her. Just as much as she couldn't leave Henry.
"I appreciate it, but I don't want to drag you into it. But, really, thanks, and my apologies again."
He pressed her hand. "Alright."
Hermione hesitated for a moment, but decided it couldn't hurt. "Do you want to tell me about your problems? Now you got me curious."
He chuckled. "Oh, simply a bit overwhelmed by taking on another class, is all."
"Well, you can borrow my notes whenever you want, and we'll have study meetings every day after your Quidditch practice and head boy duties."
Smiling, he said, "Thanks." Then he added jokingly, "Honestly, it's the least you can do, when it was you who dragged me into this, really."
"Oh, I dragged you into it?" Hermione laughed. "I remember you saying it was your 'duty'."
"Ugh, you're right. I sound so self-conceited, don't I? I have to become more like Hohenheim."
*…*…*
"Good e'en, 'Miney," Henry mumbled when Hermione returned. He raised his jug of ale in a salute.
"Hi, Henry." She smiled a crooked smile and came over to sit next to him. She looked at his mouth, like she wanted to kiss him, and he really like her kissing him, so he closed his eyes …
… only to feel her gently wipe away the remnants of dried puke on his cheek with a piece of wet cloth.
"I thought you were done with the liquid diet?" she said, eyeing the ale.
"Aye, but it was not done with me," he said. "I ate too much, even though you told me not to. M'apologies."
She sighed. "How are you feeling?"
"M'good, how are you?"
"I'm worried. You shouldn't be drinking in this state."
"Wherefore not?"
She looked at him. "Do you really not know why?"
"What harm's ever a little ale done?"
Sighing again, she said, "It's not good for your body after everything you've gone through. And probably not your mind, either."
She hesitated.
"We never really talked about what happened to you. How you ended up in that cell and the other you on the throne, or what they did to you down there." She sniffed. "All those wounds, all those bruises … and you cry and call out in your sleep."
Something turned in his stomach. "That's … that's behind me," he said. "I wish not to discuss it further."
"You must, Henry. Or it'll gnaw on your mind for ever."
He looked away, feeling something coming up his chest, into his throat. But it wasn't bile this time, it was a crying spell. He pushed it down.
"Emotions are good," she reminded him, but it was her against everyone else in the world. Showing emotions were a weakness, and that was a fact.
She put her arms around him, and said, with a voice that broke a little, "Please," and he broke too, because he was weak.
"I … I d-don't know." He took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. "We were at the feast which Mary had p-prepared, when the imposter turned up. He convinced everyone somehow that he was really the k-king, and that I was the deceiver." He trailed off.
"It was Malfoy," she said. "The imposter. He's still alive."
Somehow, the news didn't surprise him, they simple made him more tired. He hadn't it in him anymore to fight back. There was nothing he could do about it now.
"It's okay," she said, and gently kissed his cheek again, stroking the other side of his face with her hand. "What happened then?"
"Next thing I remember, I'm in the d-dungeon, and the guards … well, they … they …" He started crying again and couldn't finish the sentence.
"Oh, Henry." She hugged him harder, and kissed him on the lips, despite the fact that he hadn't rinsed his mouth properly.
They sat like that for a few minutes, before he managed to continue.
"They only f-followed orders. 'M-my' orders. They d-did it because they were loyal to me … to their t-tyrant king."
Hermione was quiet for a long while, and her embrace turned rigid.
"I'm sorry," she finally whispered, her voice flat. She turned quiet again.
He looked at her, but she avoided his gaze. What had happened? What had he said? Only a minute before, she'd been understanding, and now …
He had a horrid realization, which sobered him up.
She agreed with them.
She thought him a tyrant.
Now it was his voice that sounded flat. "You think I deserved it, do you not? Well, prithee, let hear."
Tears filled up her eyes. "No, of course not, but –" She stopped mid-sentence. "No, I can't."
"You've never held back on your thoughts before. What's stopping you now? You think me a tyrant, too, don't you? Say it. Tell me what I need to do." He started sobbing. "Tell me, prithee, for I don't know. I don't know what to do know. I don't … I can't …"
She said, her voice yet flat, "You have to get b-better. And you have to get b-back on the throne."
"I c-can't." His voice was rough. "I can't fight him. I can't … I can't rule the people of this country after knowing what they think of me. What God must think of me. What'll happen to my soul after I die. I … I can't."
"I'll help you. And … and don't think about your subjects." Her voice was strained, and he could not believe what he was hearing.
"But you despise mine actions as much as them. You've told me so yourself. And I despise myself, too. So tell me what to do, p-please. Tell me how to repent."
When he said that, she started sobbing, her arms yet around him.
"No, I can't. I … I love you, but don't ask me to …" She shook her head. "You can't change. You mustn't … you have to …" She turned silent again.
He frowned. "What try you to say?" He racked his brains, trying to understand, trying to see through the drunken fog. "What do you mean? I have to be a tyrant?" Then it was as if he heard what she'd said once again. "Did you a moment ago say you love me?"
She nodded, tears streaming down her face.
"You love me?"
"Yes, I love you, stupid," she cried.
He broke down crying. "Oh, God. I love you, too. I love you, I love you, I love you." He hugged her, but she was yet rigid.
"It doesn't change anything," she wept.
"What say you? It changes everything, doesn't it?"
She shook her head. "No. Because you still have to …"
"I have to what? Become a tyrant? Why? If you love me, why would you ever want that?"
Her cheeks were wet with tears. "Or the future … it'll …"
His stomach turned again. "I have to become a tyrant, or the future will change, is that it? In the same way that I shall have to annul the marriage with Catherine, and marry the Boleyn and Seymore maidens."
She refused to look at him, and merely nodded.
"Well, that's your future, not mine. Why can't I change?"
"You said it," she whispered. "That's my future. If my future changes, then … then I might no longer exist."
Something cold gripped his heart. "Alright," he swiftly agreed. "So I won't change. I'll marry those maidens and I'll do all I have to … we'll simply … add you to it, rather than change anything, aye?"
He knew he'd said the wrong thing, because she pulled away and started crying so much that people in the corridor outside must hear it.
With a heavy heart, he said, "You can't be with a tyrant, right?"
She shook her head.
"But you're here with me now, despite … despite the war and the people I've imprisoned, and …" He trailed off, realizing that if it wasn't something he'd already done, it was something that he'd do. "What'll be different?"
She shook her head again. "I c-can't, I can't …"
Feeling nauseous, he said, "Hermione, what will I do?"
She continued shaking her head and wouldn't answer.
He tried to trace back their conversations – at the start, she had been the one comforting him. When had it changed?
When they'd talked about him being beaten almost to death, and they both knew that he had brought it on himself, in a way. But it couldn't be him they were talking about, and Hermione wasn't a part of his future, she'd made that very clear. But then … what? Or, maybe more precisely, to whom?
His voice was heavy. "I'll do something unforgivable, won't I? Something neither God nor you can condone."
She wouldn't answer, and that's how he knew it was true.
And there was nothing he could do about it, for if he didn't, Hermione would cease to exist.
