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Ch. 2: A "Titanic" Mistake
Harry looked around again. He was in a small white room, with two bunk beds, one on each of the side walls. A small, round window was set in the back wall. It was rimmed with gold, and the view was of a blue sky above a blue ocean. He was on a ship. He threw back the covers on his legs and gasped when he saw his legs. Instead of wearing the red silk boxers and Weasley sweater he had gone to bed in, he was suddenly wearing long, blue and white striped pajamas that didn't really seem to fit him. He climbed down off the top bunk he had awoken in and searched for his clothes. A trunk labeled "HP" sat against the back wall of the room, and he opened it to find not his normal wizarding robes or even Muggle clothes, but period pieces from the 1910's.
"What is going on?" he asked, searching through the clothes for anything normal. Finally deciding that those clothes were better than pajamas all day, he changed quickly into a pair of dark brown trousers (a bit too short for him, hanging just above his ankles), a white shirt, a pair of khaki suspenders, and a gray "Oliver Twist"-type hat he happened upon on the top of the clothes. He slipped on some triangle-patterned socks and then slipped his feet inside the worn leather boots beside his trunk that he could only assume would be his. He tied them quickly, then stood and glanced around at the other three people in his room. Two were men, one blonde, and one brown-haired. The occupant below his bed was a woman, with long, strawberry blonde hair. None of them were his friends.
He hurried out into the hallway. It was lined with carpet, and had very pretty electric fixtures lighting it. He found his way to a stairwell and began to climb. How he was going to find Ron and Hermione, if they were even there with him, was beyond him.
Hermione stretched and yawned. She had slept. She didn't even think she could have, but here she was, in the comfortable bed she had fallen asleep in. But . . . wait. What was that smell? That wasn't the way the Leaky Cauldron smelled. It was like . . . perfume. Slowly, cautiously, she opened her eyes and let out a scream.
She was in a room furnished for two, with an old-fashioned basin and wash table and an antique chest-of-drawers. There was an ornate mirror over the sink, one of the vintage, gilded kinds. There was also a white wardrobe standing across from her bed. The bed itself was covered with a white lacy quilt and white cotton sheets. A door was ajar on the wall opposite her, and it held a porcelain bathtub. Ornate light fixtures illuminated the room.
Slowly, cautiously, Hermione pushed the covers off of her legs. She was wearing a white flannel nightgown, adorned with ruffles on the collar and at her wrists. A pair of brown house shoes sat beside her bed.
"I think I know where I am," she said to herself, getting out of bed and slipping on the house shoes. She went to the wardrobe and opened the doors, just to test her theory. The clothes that greeted her confirmed her suspicions.
"Edwardian," she said, sifting through the many dresses hanging in the wardrobe. Deciding she may as well dress and go look for the boys (if they were there), she took out a yellow, calf-length tea dress, proper undergarments, white stockings, and black mary-janes and proceeded to put them on. She struggled with the buttons on her dress, until she realized what she was missing.
A white piece of . . . something lay in one of the drawers in which she had found her knickers. It was a corset, that was made to be laced in front. She quickly put it on, pulling the strings as tight as they would go. She then put on the dress as quickly as was possible with the many tiny back buttons, and went out of her door onto a promenade deck.
People looked at her strangely, and Hermione realized that she hadn't done her hair. But she didn't really care. She set out quickly, searching for Ron and Harry, wondering where (or when) on Earth they could be.
"Mr. Weasley, please, you have missed your breakfast." Ron's eyes opened with a jolt. That wasn't Hermione's voice, and it definitely wasn't male. A small blonde was standing beside his bed, her back turned to him, wearing a black dress with a white, frilly apron over it. I'm dreaming, he told himself. Yes, that's it. He rubbed his eyes, then opened them slowly again. Nothing had changed.
The girl turned to look at him and smiled. "At last, you wake up, sir," she said. "I have taken the liberty of lying out your clothes for today, sir." She bobbed a slight curtsy, then went back to filling the basin with water. Ron nearly fainted at what he saw around him.
A large, lavishly furnished suite sat around him. He lay in a bed with a thick, warm comforter on top and large, fluffy pillows beneath his head. He was wearing a long, white flannel nightshirt and, apparently, a flannel nightcap. There were two doors, one ajar and leading to a bathtub and washbasin, where the maid stood, filling it with steaming water. The other was open into a spacious sitting room. Another door, fitted with a sizable glass, paned window led onto a promenade deck.
Absolutely bewildered, Ron allowed the maid to pull him out of bed. He slid his feet into house shoes and walked into the bathroom. He washed quickly with the warm water and soap, then took the razor the maid held out to him, looking at it curiously.
"What's the matter, sir?" asked the maid.
"Nothing," answered Ron after a moment, handing back the razor. "I don't think I'll shave with that today. Got any Gillettes?" The maid laughed.
"Sir, always pulling practical jokes. This is a Gillette. You use this every morning." Ron gaped at her.
"Who am I?" he asked rather stupidly.
"You are Mister Ronald Weasley, heir to the Weasley oil fortune, sir," she answered, as if he had asked this question often to instill a feeling of respect.
"And you are?" he asked again, more stupidly than before.
"Ruth Baker, sir, your humble servant," she answered, bowing her head.
Ron's head was spinning. He decided one last question, risking being looked upon as a raving lunatic. "Where am I?"
Ruth didn't look as used to that question as she had to the others. Ron's face was puzzled and anxious. Perhaps her employer wasn't as sane as most thought, mused Ruth. She decided to answer just the same.
"Aboard the R.M.S. Titanic, sir," she answered. "The grandest ship in the world. Now, would you like me to send for Charles to help you dress?"
Ron's eyes glazed over. The Titanic. He was an heir to an oil fortune. This had to be a dream. The maid waited, and Ron, still thoroughly confused, said, "N- . . . no. No, thank you. I . . . I'm quite all right."
Ruth looked at him curiously, bobbed another short curtsy and exited. "As you wish, sir."
Ron found the clothes quickly. A nice pair of black slacks, a white shirt, and a pair of black suspenders lay neatly over the back of a chair in the sitting room. He put them on, followed by a pair of shiny black shoes and a black overcoat. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, combed his hair flat and said, "This is so weird."
He couldn't believe what was going on. Best to go find Hermione and Harry, then, he thought, if they're even here.
Hermione's shoes clicked on the hardwood deck as she raced to find her friends. The people on the decks still stared as she ran past, but she didn't care. She searched as she ran, not even thinking about what good random searching would be. As she rounded a corner on the Promenade deck, she ran headlong into another warm body.
She fell backwards, catching herself on her hands and sitting down hard on the floor.
"Ooo," she moaned, rubbing her backside. A large, welcoming hand extended down to help her.
"Please, miss," said a voice from above her, "Let me help you."
Hermione grasped the hand and was pulled to her feet. She brushed herself off and looked for the first time into the face of the person she'd run into.
He had a round face, with laughing blue eyes and chocolate brown hair, and looked to be about twenty. He was smiling broadly . . . a roguish kind of smile. He was wearing the clothing of a high society male, including a top hat and blue coat. He simply looked at Hermione for a moment before asking, "I'm sorry, miss, I didn't catch your name."
Hermione blinked. She wished she had done her hair. "I don't believe I said it," she said a bit coyly. Don't flirt, she told herself. "I'm Hermione. Granger." She extended a hand, palm down. It was his choice to either shake it or kiss it.
He took gentle hold of her fingertips and touched her knuckles to his lips. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger. I am Timothy Wortham."
"Nice to meet you, as well, Mr. Wortham."
"Please, call me Timothy."
Hermione smiled. "Nice to meet you, Timothy. You can call me Hermione, if you want."
Timothy smiled again. It was such an adorable smile. It reminded her a bit of Tom Cruise, only with straighter teeth. "All right, Hermione," he said. "Might I ask why exactly a pretty young lady like you is dashing about on the deck, running into people for?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. He was teasing her!
"I . . . I was looking for my friends," she said, shifting a little nervously.
"Ah," he said, "Is it so imperative that you find them?"
"Yes!" she said sharply. He was a bit taken aback, and looked surprised at her outburst, so she recovered by saying, "It's just that . . . something has come up and I must speak to them."
He offered his elbow to her, and she slipped her fingers into the crook. "You must let me help you find them, then," he said, "What are their names?"
Hermione weighed the possibilities. Did they have the same names? Were they even here? Were these all agents of Voldemort? What was going on? She decided that, since she had no way of knowing, she had to risk it. "One is Mr. Harry Potter, a rather short man - er - boy, with jet black hair, emerald green eyes, and a-" should she say it? "-lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead." Timothy nodded along with her description as they walked around the deck, slowly, arm in arm. "The other is Mr. Ronald Weasley- . . ."
Timothy dropped her arm immediately and turned to face her. "THE Ronald Weasley? The son of oil tycoon Arthur Weasley? The redheaded chap that's always charming the ladies?" he asked. Hermione was shocked. That sounded like Ron, except for the whole oil tycoon part.
"Yes," she said, a little hesitantly. What if it wasn't Ron?
"I can take you to him, then." Timothy led Hermione into a doorway and down a flight of stairs. She knew immediately where she was.
"This is the Grand Staircase," she said, mostly to herself as they descended the stairs.
"Of course," said Timothy. He led her through another door lined with doors labeled as B-deck cabins. He stopped in front of B-14 and rapped politely.
Ron froze with his hand on the doorknob. Dear Lord, someone had just knocked. He crossed his fingers mentally and turned the knob to open it.
A brown-haired man and a bushy-haired brunette stood in front of him. Ron did a double take to the brunette, recognizing the bushy hair and bright eyes.
"Hermione?" he gasped.
"Ron?" asked the brunette, equally surprised.
"I see the young lady was telling the truth, then," said the man beside her.
"Yes . . ." breathed Ron, still staring at Hermione. He then turned his attention to the man. "And you are?"
"Timothy Wortham, sir," he said, tipping his hat and extending a hand. Ron shook it warmly, and Timothy said, "Miss Hermione told me that she has some urgent business to discuss with you."
"Yes . . . o-o-of course," stammered Ron. He stepped back a little to let in Hermione.
As she walked inside, Timothy said, "I hope this first meeting isn't our last, Miss Hermione." Hermione turned to him and smiled.
"As do I."
Ron shut the door and turned to Hermione. "What the hell is going on here?" he asked.
"Shh, Ron," hissed Hermione, "These walls aren't soundproof, you know!"
"Do you know what's going on, Hermione?" he demanded again.
Hermione sighed. "No," she said, sitting down in a chair and fiddling with the lace on the hem of her dress. "I just woke up, and I was here."
"Same as me," said Ron, sitting as well.
They thought for a moment, then each said at once, "Is Harry here?"
Harry climbed staircase after staircase, looking for a way to the boat deck, which he knew had to be there somewhere. Finally, he came to what seemed to be the main stairwell, which led upwards to a hall he had not yet been down.
He emerged into the open air and looked around him. There were men and boys everywhere, dressed in the same style as him. Ladies in long, wide cotton skirts and cotton blouses were everywhere, walking about in the fresh morning air, enjoying the view of whatever body of water they were on. On a deck higher above him, men in slacks and coats walked arm in arm with ladies in long, straight skirts, some wearing hats of ludicrous size. Harry adjusted his hat and began to walk around, hoping that one of the ladies in the large skirts would be Hermione, and that a fiery red head would be visible underneath a cap like his.
As he neared the back of the deck, near a curve in the railing that marked the end of the ship, he noticed a life preserver with words printed on it. He took a step closer, and his scar seared with pain for the second time that morning. He clapped a hand to his forehead and squinted, making out the black writing on the white life preserver.
White Star Line, it read, R.M.S. Titanic.
"Bloody hell," said Harry aloud. "What do I do now?"
Ch. 2: A "Titanic" Mistake
Harry looked around again. He was in a small white room, with two bunk beds, one on each of the side walls. A small, round window was set in the back wall. It was rimmed with gold, and the view was of a blue sky above a blue ocean. He was on a ship. He threw back the covers on his legs and gasped when he saw his legs. Instead of wearing the red silk boxers and Weasley sweater he had gone to bed in, he was suddenly wearing long, blue and white striped pajamas that didn't really seem to fit him. He climbed down off the top bunk he had awoken in and searched for his clothes. A trunk labeled "HP" sat against the back wall of the room, and he opened it to find not his normal wizarding robes or even Muggle clothes, but period pieces from the 1910's.
"What is going on?" he asked, searching through the clothes for anything normal. Finally deciding that those clothes were better than pajamas all day, he changed quickly into a pair of dark brown trousers (a bit too short for him, hanging just above his ankles), a white shirt, a pair of khaki suspenders, and a gray "Oliver Twist"-type hat he happened upon on the top of the clothes. He slipped on some triangle-patterned socks and then slipped his feet inside the worn leather boots beside his trunk that he could only assume would be his. He tied them quickly, then stood and glanced around at the other three people in his room. Two were men, one blonde, and one brown-haired. The occupant below his bed was a woman, with long, strawberry blonde hair. None of them were his friends.
He hurried out into the hallway. It was lined with carpet, and had very pretty electric fixtures lighting it. He found his way to a stairwell and began to climb. How he was going to find Ron and Hermione, if they were even there with him, was beyond him.
Hermione stretched and yawned. She had slept. She didn't even think she could have, but here she was, in the comfortable bed she had fallen asleep in. But . . . wait. What was that smell? That wasn't the way the Leaky Cauldron smelled. It was like . . . perfume. Slowly, cautiously, she opened her eyes and let out a scream.
She was in a room furnished for two, with an old-fashioned basin and wash table and an antique chest-of-drawers. There was an ornate mirror over the sink, one of the vintage, gilded kinds. There was also a white wardrobe standing across from her bed. The bed itself was covered with a white lacy quilt and white cotton sheets. A door was ajar on the wall opposite her, and it held a porcelain bathtub. Ornate light fixtures illuminated the room.
Slowly, cautiously, Hermione pushed the covers off of her legs. She was wearing a white flannel nightgown, adorned with ruffles on the collar and at her wrists. A pair of brown house shoes sat beside her bed.
"I think I know where I am," she said to herself, getting out of bed and slipping on the house shoes. She went to the wardrobe and opened the doors, just to test her theory. The clothes that greeted her confirmed her suspicions.
"Edwardian," she said, sifting through the many dresses hanging in the wardrobe. Deciding she may as well dress and go look for the boys (if they were there), she took out a yellow, calf-length tea dress, proper undergarments, white stockings, and black mary-janes and proceeded to put them on. She struggled with the buttons on her dress, until she realized what she was missing.
A white piece of . . . something lay in one of the drawers in which she had found her knickers. It was a corset, that was made to be laced in front. She quickly put it on, pulling the strings as tight as they would go. She then put on the dress as quickly as was possible with the many tiny back buttons, and went out of her door onto a promenade deck.
People looked at her strangely, and Hermione realized that she hadn't done her hair. But she didn't really care. She set out quickly, searching for Ron and Harry, wondering where (or when) on Earth they could be.
"Mr. Weasley, please, you have missed your breakfast." Ron's eyes opened with a jolt. That wasn't Hermione's voice, and it definitely wasn't male. A small blonde was standing beside his bed, her back turned to him, wearing a black dress with a white, frilly apron over it. I'm dreaming, he told himself. Yes, that's it. He rubbed his eyes, then opened them slowly again. Nothing had changed.
The girl turned to look at him and smiled. "At last, you wake up, sir," she said. "I have taken the liberty of lying out your clothes for today, sir." She bobbed a slight curtsy, then went back to filling the basin with water. Ron nearly fainted at what he saw around him.
A large, lavishly furnished suite sat around him. He lay in a bed with a thick, warm comforter on top and large, fluffy pillows beneath his head. He was wearing a long, white flannel nightshirt and, apparently, a flannel nightcap. There were two doors, one ajar and leading to a bathtub and washbasin, where the maid stood, filling it with steaming water. The other was open into a spacious sitting room. Another door, fitted with a sizable glass, paned window led onto a promenade deck.
Absolutely bewildered, Ron allowed the maid to pull him out of bed. He slid his feet into house shoes and walked into the bathroom. He washed quickly with the warm water and soap, then took the razor the maid held out to him, looking at it curiously.
"What's the matter, sir?" asked the maid.
"Nothing," answered Ron after a moment, handing back the razor. "I don't think I'll shave with that today. Got any Gillettes?" The maid laughed.
"Sir, always pulling practical jokes. This is a Gillette. You use this every morning." Ron gaped at her.
"Who am I?" he asked rather stupidly.
"You are Mister Ronald Weasley, heir to the Weasley oil fortune, sir," she answered, as if he had asked this question often to instill a feeling of respect.
"And you are?" he asked again, more stupidly than before.
"Ruth Baker, sir, your humble servant," she answered, bowing her head.
Ron's head was spinning. He decided one last question, risking being looked upon as a raving lunatic. "Where am I?"
Ruth didn't look as used to that question as she had to the others. Ron's face was puzzled and anxious. Perhaps her employer wasn't as sane as most thought, mused Ruth. She decided to answer just the same.
"Aboard the R.M.S. Titanic, sir," she answered. "The grandest ship in the world. Now, would you like me to send for Charles to help you dress?"
Ron's eyes glazed over. The Titanic. He was an heir to an oil fortune. This had to be a dream. The maid waited, and Ron, still thoroughly confused, said, "N- . . . no. No, thank you. I . . . I'm quite all right."
Ruth looked at him curiously, bobbed another short curtsy and exited. "As you wish, sir."
Ron found the clothes quickly. A nice pair of black slacks, a white shirt, and a pair of black suspenders lay neatly over the back of a chair in the sitting room. He put them on, followed by a pair of shiny black shoes and a black overcoat. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, combed his hair flat and said, "This is so weird."
He couldn't believe what was going on. Best to go find Hermione and Harry, then, he thought, if they're even here.
Hermione's shoes clicked on the hardwood deck as she raced to find her friends. The people on the decks still stared as she ran past, but she didn't care. She searched as she ran, not even thinking about what good random searching would be. As she rounded a corner on the Promenade deck, she ran headlong into another warm body.
She fell backwards, catching herself on her hands and sitting down hard on the floor.
"Ooo," she moaned, rubbing her backside. A large, welcoming hand extended down to help her.
"Please, miss," said a voice from above her, "Let me help you."
Hermione grasped the hand and was pulled to her feet. She brushed herself off and looked for the first time into the face of the person she'd run into.
He had a round face, with laughing blue eyes and chocolate brown hair, and looked to be about twenty. He was smiling broadly . . . a roguish kind of smile. He was wearing the clothing of a high society male, including a top hat and blue coat. He simply looked at Hermione for a moment before asking, "I'm sorry, miss, I didn't catch your name."
Hermione blinked. She wished she had done her hair. "I don't believe I said it," she said a bit coyly. Don't flirt, she told herself. "I'm Hermione. Granger." She extended a hand, palm down. It was his choice to either shake it or kiss it.
He took gentle hold of her fingertips and touched her knuckles to his lips. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger. I am Timothy Wortham."
"Nice to meet you, as well, Mr. Wortham."
"Please, call me Timothy."
Hermione smiled. "Nice to meet you, Timothy. You can call me Hermione, if you want."
Timothy smiled again. It was such an adorable smile. It reminded her a bit of Tom Cruise, only with straighter teeth. "All right, Hermione," he said. "Might I ask why exactly a pretty young lady like you is dashing about on the deck, running into people for?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. He was teasing her!
"I . . . I was looking for my friends," she said, shifting a little nervously.
"Ah," he said, "Is it so imperative that you find them?"
"Yes!" she said sharply. He was a bit taken aback, and looked surprised at her outburst, so she recovered by saying, "It's just that . . . something has come up and I must speak to them."
He offered his elbow to her, and she slipped her fingers into the crook. "You must let me help you find them, then," he said, "What are their names?"
Hermione weighed the possibilities. Did they have the same names? Were they even here? Were these all agents of Voldemort? What was going on? She decided that, since she had no way of knowing, she had to risk it. "One is Mr. Harry Potter, a rather short man - er - boy, with jet black hair, emerald green eyes, and a-" should she say it? "-lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead." Timothy nodded along with her description as they walked around the deck, slowly, arm in arm. "The other is Mr. Ronald Weasley- . . ."
Timothy dropped her arm immediately and turned to face her. "THE Ronald Weasley? The son of oil tycoon Arthur Weasley? The redheaded chap that's always charming the ladies?" he asked. Hermione was shocked. That sounded like Ron, except for the whole oil tycoon part.
"Yes," she said, a little hesitantly. What if it wasn't Ron?
"I can take you to him, then." Timothy led Hermione into a doorway and down a flight of stairs. She knew immediately where she was.
"This is the Grand Staircase," she said, mostly to herself as they descended the stairs.
"Of course," said Timothy. He led her through another door lined with doors labeled as B-deck cabins. He stopped in front of B-14 and rapped politely.
Ron froze with his hand on the doorknob. Dear Lord, someone had just knocked. He crossed his fingers mentally and turned the knob to open it.
A brown-haired man and a bushy-haired brunette stood in front of him. Ron did a double take to the brunette, recognizing the bushy hair and bright eyes.
"Hermione?" he gasped.
"Ron?" asked the brunette, equally surprised.
"I see the young lady was telling the truth, then," said the man beside her.
"Yes . . ." breathed Ron, still staring at Hermione. He then turned his attention to the man. "And you are?"
"Timothy Wortham, sir," he said, tipping his hat and extending a hand. Ron shook it warmly, and Timothy said, "Miss Hermione told me that she has some urgent business to discuss with you."
"Yes . . . o-o-of course," stammered Ron. He stepped back a little to let in Hermione.
As she walked inside, Timothy said, "I hope this first meeting isn't our last, Miss Hermione." Hermione turned to him and smiled.
"As do I."
Ron shut the door and turned to Hermione. "What the hell is going on here?" he asked.
"Shh, Ron," hissed Hermione, "These walls aren't soundproof, you know!"
"Do you know what's going on, Hermione?" he demanded again.
Hermione sighed. "No," she said, sitting down in a chair and fiddling with the lace on the hem of her dress. "I just woke up, and I was here."
"Same as me," said Ron, sitting as well.
They thought for a moment, then each said at once, "Is Harry here?"
Harry climbed staircase after staircase, looking for a way to the boat deck, which he knew had to be there somewhere. Finally, he came to what seemed to be the main stairwell, which led upwards to a hall he had not yet been down.
He emerged into the open air and looked around him. There were men and boys everywhere, dressed in the same style as him. Ladies in long, wide cotton skirts and cotton blouses were everywhere, walking about in the fresh morning air, enjoying the view of whatever body of water they were on. On a deck higher above him, men in slacks and coats walked arm in arm with ladies in long, straight skirts, some wearing hats of ludicrous size. Harry adjusted his hat and began to walk around, hoping that one of the ladies in the large skirts would be Hermione, and that a fiery red head would be visible underneath a cap like his.
As he neared the back of the deck, near a curve in the railing that marked the end of the ship, he noticed a life preserver with words printed on it. He took a step closer, and his scar seared with pain for the second time that morning. He clapped a hand to his forehead and squinted, making out the black writing on the white life preserver.
White Star Line, it read, R.M.S. Titanic.
"Bloody hell," said Harry aloud. "What do I do now?"