Ch. 4: In Times of Trouble . . .
Ron paced on the private promenade deck outside his stateroom. He turned over all the facts in his mind, trying to weigh the situation. Suddenly a voice behind him made him turn.
"Ronald!" it called, "Ron Weasley!"
As he faced the direction the voice was coming from he noticed a tall, thin girl with dark brown hair walking toward him, calling his name. She approached him with a smile and stopped just in front of him.
"Well, Ron, aren't you going to say hello?" she asked.
"Erm, hello," he said, thoroughly confused. Her smile faltered.
"Don't you remember me?" she asked. He shook his head. "Dear me, it has been a long time. Your older brother Percy attended secondary school with my fiancé, Robert Cordwin. I'm Eleanor Wothersby. Please tell me you remember." Ron was about to shake his head again, but then decided to just play along.
"Oh, yes, I remember now," he said. "Little Eleanor."
She laughed. "Yes, that's me," she said. "Only not so little anymore." She wiggled a diamond ring in front of him. "Don't think you still have me in your clutches, Mr. Weasley. I'm a taken woman, now." Her tone was teasing, but it seemed that she spoke of a past affair that they seemed to have had.
"Well, good for you," he said, distantly. This girl was wasting his precious searching time, and he had little patience.
"Just because I've rejected you, Ron, doesn't mean you have to be odd and distant," she said. "Eat with us tonight."
"Is that a request or a command?" asked Ron, using a phrase of Hermione's.
"A request of course," answered Eleanor. "You wouldn't think a lady so forward, would you?" She smiled coyly. "Please, eat with us."
Ron thought about this. It was either eat with Eleanor and her fiancé, or be terribly lost and alone. He'd been lost and alone enough in his life.
"All right," he answered. Eleanor smiled and clapped her gloved hands together.
"We're at table six tonight," she said, turning and walking. "Be prompt!"
Ron could have kicked himself. What was he doing? He was supposed to be finding Hermione and Harry. They needed to get home. He turned to walk back into his stateroom when he bumped into a steward carrying a message tray. Ron had an idea.
"Sir!" he called, signaling the steward back. The man looked astonished at being called sir, but came anyway.
"Yes, sir, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yeah," said Ron, "Can you take this message to Hermione Granger of second class?"
Hermione raced along the decks, only stopping when she was on the opposite side of the ship from Harry. She still didn't know what to do. This was too much pressure for the poor Head Girl. She was worried about her parents and family at home, she was worried about Hogwarts and what may have be happening there. The thing that frustrated her the most was that she had no idea how to fix this problem. She always had all the answers. But now she had no clue.
A tap on her shoulder made her whirl around quickly. A steward stood behind her holding out a silver tray.
"Hermione Granger, miss?" he asked. She nodded and he handed her a small card. Recognizing Ron's scrawl immediately, she thanked the steward and began to read it.
After reading it, Hermione tucked the card away in a pocket of her dress and began to walk back to the first class staterooms.
Upon reaching B-17, the room indicated in the note, she rapped politely on the door. A cheery looking girl opened it.
"Oh, you must be Hermione!" she said. Hermione nodded. "Well, come in! We must find you something to wear for dinner."
Hermione suddenly found herself pulled inside and the door shut and locked behind her.
Hours passed. Hermione was still in the room with the girl (whose name turned out to be Eleanor), trying different dresses and hairstyles. They finally settled on their choices, and Eleanor dressed first with a bit of awkward help from Hermione. Then it was Hermione's turn. Eleanor held rather pleasant conversation while she dressed, although it was not quite the type that Hermione enjoyed.
"Are you being courted by Ron?" asked Eleanor, tightening the laces on Hermione's corset.
Hermione winced as the whalebone dug into her ribs. She was gripping the bedpost as tight as she could, being jolted back and forth by Eleanor tugging on the laces. She had never thought corsets would be this bad, but it was terrible. The one she wore this morning wasn't as painful as this one, but then, that had been a second-class girl's corset. She tried to forget the pain and answered, "No."
"Truly?" asked Eleanor. Hermione nodded. "He speaks of you often."
"Does he?" asked Hermione. She decided her nerves must have been deadened because she could barely feel the corset anymore. She couldn't breathe, but at least she didn't hurt.
"Yes. It nearly isn't proper, the things he says about you, without courting you. Of course, you are of separate classes, so it only makes sense that he should admire and not seek."
Hermione ignored the last comment. She couldn't believe Ron had ended up getting thrown into first class, while she was common, working second-class, which wasn't that bad, considering it was the Titanic. She decided that they must have had a history in this time as well, since obviously her Ron had only known Eleanor a day. She was incredibly curious about this, but kept her questions about it to herself. Instead, she probed further into what Ron was saying about her.
"Well, what does he say?" asked Hermione.
"Oh, it's not a lady's place to say," said Eleanor. She leaned closer in to Hermione and said, "But between friends, I can say that he has remarked on your beauty, which will be much enhanced when he sees you tonight, owing to my handiwork. He also says that you are very intelligent, but very ornery. He speaks of you fondly." Hermione's heart leapt into her throat.
She finished dressing, with help from Eleanor, then let her newfound friend fix her hair. When the whole ordeal was through, Eleanor added a touch of rouge to her cheeks, giving them a pinkish tinge, and also added a little lipstick, making her lips look full and red. Hermione looked in the mirror and gasped.
"There, love," said Eleanor, tucking a flyaway strand of hair back into place and pulling on one of her own white gloves, "No man of any station could resist you tonight. I must meet my fiancé. I'll see you in the dining room." With that she left.
Hermione gazed at her reflection for a while longer. The dress Eleanor had lent her nearly fit her perfectly, and after she had been squeezed into a corset, it fit her even better. The gown itself had a pale pink satin skirt with a white pearl and gauze overlay that reached the ground and hung loosely, so she could carry it in her hand if need be. The bodice was white, with pale pink satin overlaying in places, with strings of pearls dangling from it near the waistline. The shoulders were thin, pink straps that lay off her shoulders. Eleanor had let her borrow a string of pearls, and her hair was curled expertly, and swept up in such a way that framed her face wonderfully, with a few planned curls straggling down. A circlet of silver and pearls crowned her dark brown ringlets, and a pair of diamond teardrop earrings hung from her ears. Pink satin heels that looked as if they were made for the dress graced her feet. Wow, thought Hermione, I really was born in the wrong decade.
She pulled on the elbow-length white gloves that Eleanor had lain out for her, took one last look in the mirror, then exited her friend's suite and made her way to the dining room.
She walked down the Grand Staircase with her overlay in one hand and the other on the railing. It was all so beautiful, as if from a dream. The sight which greeted her at the foot of the staircase made her want to laugh and gasp at the same time. She settled for a small smile, which she covered demurely with the gloved hand that held the railing. Ron Weasley stood at the foot of the stairs, wearing black tails and a black bow tie. His hair was parted on the side and slicked down. The oddest things about him were that his pants, which usually hung somewhere above his ankles, reached the tops of his shiny black shoes, and his wrists didn't poke out of his sleeves.
Of course, thought Hermione, the Ron Weasley from first class would have clothes that fit. She approached him, noticing him watch her every move, but not with recognition; more with wonder.
When Hermione had reached Ron, she held her hand out to him. He grasped her fingers lightly, then raised it to his lips, kissing it gently.
"My dear lady," he said, "I don't believe we have met."
Hermione stifled a giggle. "Ron, you git, it's me," she hissed, hoping no one heard her. Ron's jaw nearly fell to the floor, and their earlier disagreement seemed to melt away.
"Hermione?" he asked, not nearly as proper as it should have been. She nodded. His jaw dropped even further. Hermione pushed it closed with her fingers.
"If anyone sees you gaping at me, we're dead," she whispered. She was about to give him etiquette instructions, but he held out his elbow to her, and she accepted it.
Harry set his chin in his hands. He was sitting hunched over in the bottom of a stairwell, thinking about how wonderful Hermione's dinner must be going. It was six o'clock, and Harry's cabin-mates had invited him to a party on E-deck somewhere that had begun nearly an hour ago. Beer and revelry aren't on the menu for me tonight, he thought, not while Ron is up there getting a shot at Hermione. Why was it Ron who had been thrust into first class? Was it because in the real world he had never had a taste of wealth? Why had they, conveniently, been thrown into each of the different classes? It was the Titanic after all, and if they didn't figure out a way to get home soon, Harry, at least, would die. Ron could always dress Hermione in a fancy dress of some sort and pass her off as a first class lady, and at least she'd survive, or he could make her seem his daughter, and he all she has in the world. But Ron wouldn't do that. If his friend was going to die, then so would he. And he wouldn't take the place of someone else. And Hermione would never leave either of them, so she probably wouldn't go. They were all three going to die, and magic wasn't going to be involved at all.
But why would they have been put in these exact positions? If someone wanted them dead, why not put them all three together? Simple. If they had been together, they could have worked out a way off the ship. They did still have enough magic together to accomplish that. Was there someone who knew that if Ron were first class, he'd give up his spot on a lifeboat for someone else, and if Hermione were in second class, she wouldn't really be able to get a spot on the lifeboats, and if Harry were third class, he would die any way, so the other two wouldn't leave him? Was there anyone that scheming and cruel?
"Yes," said Harry. Voldemort.
"Lad, have ye been listenin' to me?" came the sweet Irish brogue from in front of him. Harry's eyes snapped back into focus, and the curly- haired redhead he had met up on decks was standing with her freckled face even with his pale one. Their eyes met, and, briefly, there was an unexplainable force between them. Harry dismissed it.
"What?"
"I asked if ye'd been listenin'," she repeated.
"Oh, no, sorry."
"Ach, well's about all I said 'twas ye need to be a-partying with us, me lad," she said. Her eyes flicked up to his scar and lingered there. "Ach," she said slowly and simply, squatting down in front of him. "Where's about did ye get that?" she asked.
"Factory accident," he said quickly, flattening his bangs and jamming his cap down on his head. He knew enough about this era to know how to lie.
"I know what ye's talkin' about, lad," she said softly, in what would have been a very sweet voice if her accent hadn't been so strong. "Me da hisself was killed in an accident. Right pushed out we was. No home, no life. Ma and the li'le ones were taken ill with a fever when we was in Dublin with kin. Died not long after. I do know what ye's talkin' about." Her pale green eyes locked with his emerald ones and she said, "Which is why ye need to come with me." She grabbed his wrist, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him to an open space, full of people dancing and drinking, a band playing, and general merriment. The Irish girl pulled him through the crowds, sat him down at a table, then grabbed two beers from a passing man. Harry looked down at the beer his new friend had given him.
"Sorry," he said, "I don't drink."
The girl looked at him sideways. "And ye call yeself English?" she asked, appalled. Harry nodded. She laughed and took a swig from hers. "How old are ye?" she asked.
"Seventeen," he said. She smiled. "Same as me," she replied. "And what does ye name be? Can't walk around callin' us others 'you,' now, can we?"
Harry smiled back. She was a bit hard to understand sometimes, but very friendly. He had to give her that. "I'm Harry," he said, "Harry Potter."
"Abigail," she returned, "Abigail O'Craven. Ye can call me Abby, if ye like."
"Nice to meet you, Abby."
"Aye, Harry."
They sat and talked, and Harry was brave enough to try his beer, which wasn't bad, actually. He didn't plan on making a habit of it, but he could drink it well enough to fit in. Maybe this wasn't going to be as bad a way to die as he thought.
Hermione sat in the chair that Ron pulled out for her. They were dining at a long table, along with many other first class passengers. Hermione was pleased to see Eleanor across from her, but a strange woman she didn't know was on her left. Ron sat on her right. The woman on her left turned to her and smiled.
"Hello, there," she said in broad American, "I'm Molly Brown. Don't think I've seen you much. Been keeping to your cabin?" She held out her hand.
Hermione shook it. "Hermione Granger. No, I haven't, actually," she answered in what she hoped was an acceptable way.
"I knew our Ron wouldn't be stupid enough to keep a little apple blossom like you locked up in a stuffy stateroom," she said, chuckling. Hermione smiled. She liked this woman. She glanced over at Ron and couldn't help but notice he had a slight smile on his face. She quickly cast her eyes down to her plate.
After their food had been served, a light conversation picked up, with the women gossiping slightly to each other and the men marveling at how wonderfully rich they all were. Hermione listened with great interest. Ron kept doing stupid things under the table, like kicking her and such. She ignored this.
"I believe Miss Granger is joining us from second class this evening," said a very stuck up lady named Violet. Hermione nodded.
"Yes, I am," she said.
"How on earth did you afford that dress, then?" asked an impish little waif named Bridget.
"She borrowed it from me, Gettie, if you must know," said Eleanor. "Hermione and I are quite the same size." She smiled at Hermione, and she smiled back. There were an awful lot of demure smiles being exchanged at the table that night.
"Now that we've left the coast of Ireland, we should be steaming right ahead, now shouldn't we?" said Molly. "Can't be much left to see but ocean."
"I don't mind," said Hermione quietly. Just then, a quite lively tune began to play from the string quartet in the corner. Ron stood and held his hand out to Hermione.
"Might I have the honor of dancing with you, my dear lady?" he asked. Hermione stifled another giggle.
"Of course," she answered, taking his white gloved hand in hers and letting him lead her to an open space to dance in. They were the only two dancing and the entire room was watching. Ron positioned her correctly, with one hand resting lightly on his and the other holding up her pearl overlay. When his hand slid into the small of her back, she inhaled sharply, but remained calm. Suddenly, a thought hit her. "Ron, I don't know how to dance," she whispered. He lifted her chin to look straight into his eyes and whispered back, "Don't worry. Just keep your eyes on me and relax."
They danced slowly at first, then quickened with the music. Ron spun Hermione around the floor, and Hermione followed qutie well. When the music stopped, they stood staring into each other's eyes for a moment, then quickly separated. They were drawing unneeded attention to themselves. What would Harry say?
They sat down to compliments from the others at their table.
"I must say, Hermione," said Violet, "You did look quite at ease on the dance floor. And Ron looked quite handsome." She batted her eyelashes at him. Hermione felt she was going to be sick. Ron, however, was involved in receiving a message from an attendant that had just arrived. He unfolded it, read it, then passed it silently to Hermione.
Harry finally finished his beer. The band was preparing to play a very high-spirited song. Abby ripped a piece of the hem of her green skirt (which had two layers over a three-layer, skirt-length cotton petticoat so it stuck out a bit and billowed out when she turned) and used it to tie back her unruly, curly red hair. She then grabbed Harry by the wrists and led him to the middle of the dance floor. The band picked up and she said to Harry, "Dance with me." Harry shook his head.
"I don't know this," he said.
"That doesn't matter, lad," she said, "Ye just listen to the music and do what ye want." Harry took her hand and placed his other one on her waist. She used her other to hold up her skirt.
They took off around the floor. Harry seemed to fit right in, in his too-short trousers revealing worn, brown leather boots. His cap fit snugly on his head, making him look like a real street urchin. Abby's torn green skirt billowed out and nearly cleared a path around the dance floor, mixing with the other skirts from the other girls dancing. Her tan top was covered by a dark brown shawl tied around her shoulders, and around her waist was another brown shawl, hanging down at an angle. Her red curls bounced and her green eyes danced along with her as she and Harry traipsed around the floor, laughing merrily. Harry spun her in circles under his arm, watching her laugh. They reached a completely open spot on the floor. Hey, thought Harry, this is just like the movie. Abby hiked up her skirts and did a little dance. Harry looked at her, and in turn did his own, surprised at his ability to improvise. Then they went back together and danced together for a moment before the next couple invaded their space. The music ended a few moments later, and Abby and Harry went back to their table.
After downing a whole glass of beer each, Abby grabbed Harry's wrist, stood on her toes and whispered in his ear, "Come with me." Harry followed her through the crowds of still dancing people and up the many staircases.
Harry convinced Abby to stop a moment, then bribed an attendant into sending a message to Mr. Ronald Weasley of first class. After that, she led him back up onto the deck.
"Look at the stars," she said, turning circles across the deck. "Aren't they the prettiest sight a body's ever seen?" Harry smiled at her as she sat down on a bench, swinging her legs and looking up at the sky. He sat beside her.
"Not the prettiest," he said, looking at her. She looked down from the stars and their green eyes locked again, and there was again that unexplainable force. Suddenly, Harry took her hand and said, "I know it isn't proper, but . . ." Abby cut him off by gently placing a hand on each of his cheeks, then she leaned in and kissed him softly. They kissed sweetly for a solid minute, then broke apart. Harry looked slightly shocked.
"I'm sorry, lad," she said, "That was bad o'me, I know. But, that is what ye wanted to ask, aye?"
Harry smiled. "Aye," he whispered, "It's just that . . . it was my first time."
"That was mine, too," she said.
"Well," said Harry, "Why not give it another go?"
Abby smiled. "I wouldn't say no," she said, leaning in. Their lips met, slowly, sweetly kissing again. Harry cursed himself. Why in the hell was he falling for this girl?
Ron paced on the private promenade deck outside his stateroom. He turned over all the facts in his mind, trying to weigh the situation. Suddenly a voice behind him made him turn.
"Ronald!" it called, "Ron Weasley!"
As he faced the direction the voice was coming from he noticed a tall, thin girl with dark brown hair walking toward him, calling his name. She approached him with a smile and stopped just in front of him.
"Well, Ron, aren't you going to say hello?" she asked.
"Erm, hello," he said, thoroughly confused. Her smile faltered.
"Don't you remember me?" she asked. He shook his head. "Dear me, it has been a long time. Your older brother Percy attended secondary school with my fiancé, Robert Cordwin. I'm Eleanor Wothersby. Please tell me you remember." Ron was about to shake his head again, but then decided to just play along.
"Oh, yes, I remember now," he said. "Little Eleanor."
She laughed. "Yes, that's me," she said. "Only not so little anymore." She wiggled a diamond ring in front of him. "Don't think you still have me in your clutches, Mr. Weasley. I'm a taken woman, now." Her tone was teasing, but it seemed that she spoke of a past affair that they seemed to have had.
"Well, good for you," he said, distantly. This girl was wasting his precious searching time, and he had little patience.
"Just because I've rejected you, Ron, doesn't mean you have to be odd and distant," she said. "Eat with us tonight."
"Is that a request or a command?" asked Ron, using a phrase of Hermione's.
"A request of course," answered Eleanor. "You wouldn't think a lady so forward, would you?" She smiled coyly. "Please, eat with us."
Ron thought about this. It was either eat with Eleanor and her fiancé, or be terribly lost and alone. He'd been lost and alone enough in his life.
"All right," he answered. Eleanor smiled and clapped her gloved hands together.
"We're at table six tonight," she said, turning and walking. "Be prompt!"
Ron could have kicked himself. What was he doing? He was supposed to be finding Hermione and Harry. They needed to get home. He turned to walk back into his stateroom when he bumped into a steward carrying a message tray. Ron had an idea.
"Sir!" he called, signaling the steward back. The man looked astonished at being called sir, but came anyway.
"Yes, sir, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yeah," said Ron, "Can you take this message to Hermione Granger of second class?"
Hermione raced along the decks, only stopping when she was on the opposite side of the ship from Harry. She still didn't know what to do. This was too much pressure for the poor Head Girl. She was worried about her parents and family at home, she was worried about Hogwarts and what may have be happening there. The thing that frustrated her the most was that she had no idea how to fix this problem. She always had all the answers. But now she had no clue.
A tap on her shoulder made her whirl around quickly. A steward stood behind her holding out a silver tray.
"Hermione Granger, miss?" he asked. She nodded and he handed her a small card. Recognizing Ron's scrawl immediately, she thanked the steward and began to read it.
After reading it, Hermione tucked the card away in a pocket of her dress and began to walk back to the first class staterooms.
Upon reaching B-17, the room indicated in the note, she rapped politely on the door. A cheery looking girl opened it.
"Oh, you must be Hermione!" she said. Hermione nodded. "Well, come in! We must find you something to wear for dinner."
Hermione suddenly found herself pulled inside and the door shut and locked behind her.
Hours passed. Hermione was still in the room with the girl (whose name turned out to be Eleanor), trying different dresses and hairstyles. They finally settled on their choices, and Eleanor dressed first with a bit of awkward help from Hermione. Then it was Hermione's turn. Eleanor held rather pleasant conversation while she dressed, although it was not quite the type that Hermione enjoyed.
"Are you being courted by Ron?" asked Eleanor, tightening the laces on Hermione's corset.
Hermione winced as the whalebone dug into her ribs. She was gripping the bedpost as tight as she could, being jolted back and forth by Eleanor tugging on the laces. She had never thought corsets would be this bad, but it was terrible. The one she wore this morning wasn't as painful as this one, but then, that had been a second-class girl's corset. She tried to forget the pain and answered, "No."
"Truly?" asked Eleanor. Hermione nodded. "He speaks of you often."
"Does he?" asked Hermione. She decided her nerves must have been deadened because she could barely feel the corset anymore. She couldn't breathe, but at least she didn't hurt.
"Yes. It nearly isn't proper, the things he says about you, without courting you. Of course, you are of separate classes, so it only makes sense that he should admire and not seek."
Hermione ignored the last comment. She couldn't believe Ron had ended up getting thrown into first class, while she was common, working second-class, which wasn't that bad, considering it was the Titanic. She decided that they must have had a history in this time as well, since obviously her Ron had only known Eleanor a day. She was incredibly curious about this, but kept her questions about it to herself. Instead, she probed further into what Ron was saying about her.
"Well, what does he say?" asked Hermione.
"Oh, it's not a lady's place to say," said Eleanor. She leaned closer in to Hermione and said, "But between friends, I can say that he has remarked on your beauty, which will be much enhanced when he sees you tonight, owing to my handiwork. He also says that you are very intelligent, but very ornery. He speaks of you fondly." Hermione's heart leapt into her throat.
She finished dressing, with help from Eleanor, then let her newfound friend fix her hair. When the whole ordeal was through, Eleanor added a touch of rouge to her cheeks, giving them a pinkish tinge, and also added a little lipstick, making her lips look full and red. Hermione looked in the mirror and gasped.
"There, love," said Eleanor, tucking a flyaway strand of hair back into place and pulling on one of her own white gloves, "No man of any station could resist you tonight. I must meet my fiancé. I'll see you in the dining room." With that she left.
Hermione gazed at her reflection for a while longer. The dress Eleanor had lent her nearly fit her perfectly, and after she had been squeezed into a corset, it fit her even better. The gown itself had a pale pink satin skirt with a white pearl and gauze overlay that reached the ground and hung loosely, so she could carry it in her hand if need be. The bodice was white, with pale pink satin overlaying in places, with strings of pearls dangling from it near the waistline. The shoulders were thin, pink straps that lay off her shoulders. Eleanor had let her borrow a string of pearls, and her hair was curled expertly, and swept up in such a way that framed her face wonderfully, with a few planned curls straggling down. A circlet of silver and pearls crowned her dark brown ringlets, and a pair of diamond teardrop earrings hung from her ears. Pink satin heels that looked as if they were made for the dress graced her feet. Wow, thought Hermione, I really was born in the wrong decade.
She pulled on the elbow-length white gloves that Eleanor had lain out for her, took one last look in the mirror, then exited her friend's suite and made her way to the dining room.
She walked down the Grand Staircase with her overlay in one hand and the other on the railing. It was all so beautiful, as if from a dream. The sight which greeted her at the foot of the staircase made her want to laugh and gasp at the same time. She settled for a small smile, which she covered demurely with the gloved hand that held the railing. Ron Weasley stood at the foot of the stairs, wearing black tails and a black bow tie. His hair was parted on the side and slicked down. The oddest things about him were that his pants, which usually hung somewhere above his ankles, reached the tops of his shiny black shoes, and his wrists didn't poke out of his sleeves.
Of course, thought Hermione, the Ron Weasley from first class would have clothes that fit. She approached him, noticing him watch her every move, but not with recognition; more with wonder.
When Hermione had reached Ron, she held her hand out to him. He grasped her fingers lightly, then raised it to his lips, kissing it gently.
"My dear lady," he said, "I don't believe we have met."
Hermione stifled a giggle. "Ron, you git, it's me," she hissed, hoping no one heard her. Ron's jaw nearly fell to the floor, and their earlier disagreement seemed to melt away.
"Hermione?" he asked, not nearly as proper as it should have been. She nodded. His jaw dropped even further. Hermione pushed it closed with her fingers.
"If anyone sees you gaping at me, we're dead," she whispered. She was about to give him etiquette instructions, but he held out his elbow to her, and she accepted it.
Harry set his chin in his hands. He was sitting hunched over in the bottom of a stairwell, thinking about how wonderful Hermione's dinner must be going. It was six o'clock, and Harry's cabin-mates had invited him to a party on E-deck somewhere that had begun nearly an hour ago. Beer and revelry aren't on the menu for me tonight, he thought, not while Ron is up there getting a shot at Hermione. Why was it Ron who had been thrust into first class? Was it because in the real world he had never had a taste of wealth? Why had they, conveniently, been thrown into each of the different classes? It was the Titanic after all, and if they didn't figure out a way to get home soon, Harry, at least, would die. Ron could always dress Hermione in a fancy dress of some sort and pass her off as a first class lady, and at least she'd survive, or he could make her seem his daughter, and he all she has in the world. But Ron wouldn't do that. If his friend was going to die, then so would he. And he wouldn't take the place of someone else. And Hermione would never leave either of them, so she probably wouldn't go. They were all three going to die, and magic wasn't going to be involved at all.
But why would they have been put in these exact positions? If someone wanted them dead, why not put them all three together? Simple. If they had been together, they could have worked out a way off the ship. They did still have enough magic together to accomplish that. Was there someone who knew that if Ron were first class, he'd give up his spot on a lifeboat for someone else, and if Hermione were in second class, she wouldn't really be able to get a spot on the lifeboats, and if Harry were third class, he would die any way, so the other two wouldn't leave him? Was there anyone that scheming and cruel?
"Yes," said Harry. Voldemort.
"Lad, have ye been listenin' to me?" came the sweet Irish brogue from in front of him. Harry's eyes snapped back into focus, and the curly- haired redhead he had met up on decks was standing with her freckled face even with his pale one. Their eyes met, and, briefly, there was an unexplainable force between them. Harry dismissed it.
"What?"
"I asked if ye'd been listenin'," she repeated.
"Oh, no, sorry."
"Ach, well's about all I said 'twas ye need to be a-partying with us, me lad," she said. Her eyes flicked up to his scar and lingered there. "Ach," she said slowly and simply, squatting down in front of him. "Where's about did ye get that?" she asked.
"Factory accident," he said quickly, flattening his bangs and jamming his cap down on his head. He knew enough about this era to know how to lie.
"I know what ye's talkin' about, lad," she said softly, in what would have been a very sweet voice if her accent hadn't been so strong. "Me da hisself was killed in an accident. Right pushed out we was. No home, no life. Ma and the li'le ones were taken ill with a fever when we was in Dublin with kin. Died not long after. I do know what ye's talkin' about." Her pale green eyes locked with his emerald ones and she said, "Which is why ye need to come with me." She grabbed his wrist, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him to an open space, full of people dancing and drinking, a band playing, and general merriment. The Irish girl pulled him through the crowds, sat him down at a table, then grabbed two beers from a passing man. Harry looked down at the beer his new friend had given him.
"Sorry," he said, "I don't drink."
The girl looked at him sideways. "And ye call yeself English?" she asked, appalled. Harry nodded. She laughed and took a swig from hers. "How old are ye?" she asked.
"Seventeen," he said. She smiled. "Same as me," she replied. "And what does ye name be? Can't walk around callin' us others 'you,' now, can we?"
Harry smiled back. She was a bit hard to understand sometimes, but very friendly. He had to give her that. "I'm Harry," he said, "Harry Potter."
"Abigail," she returned, "Abigail O'Craven. Ye can call me Abby, if ye like."
"Nice to meet you, Abby."
"Aye, Harry."
They sat and talked, and Harry was brave enough to try his beer, which wasn't bad, actually. He didn't plan on making a habit of it, but he could drink it well enough to fit in. Maybe this wasn't going to be as bad a way to die as he thought.
Hermione sat in the chair that Ron pulled out for her. They were dining at a long table, along with many other first class passengers. Hermione was pleased to see Eleanor across from her, but a strange woman she didn't know was on her left. Ron sat on her right. The woman on her left turned to her and smiled.
"Hello, there," she said in broad American, "I'm Molly Brown. Don't think I've seen you much. Been keeping to your cabin?" She held out her hand.
Hermione shook it. "Hermione Granger. No, I haven't, actually," she answered in what she hoped was an acceptable way.
"I knew our Ron wouldn't be stupid enough to keep a little apple blossom like you locked up in a stuffy stateroom," she said, chuckling. Hermione smiled. She liked this woman. She glanced over at Ron and couldn't help but notice he had a slight smile on his face. She quickly cast her eyes down to her plate.
After their food had been served, a light conversation picked up, with the women gossiping slightly to each other and the men marveling at how wonderfully rich they all were. Hermione listened with great interest. Ron kept doing stupid things under the table, like kicking her and such. She ignored this.
"I believe Miss Granger is joining us from second class this evening," said a very stuck up lady named Violet. Hermione nodded.
"Yes, I am," she said.
"How on earth did you afford that dress, then?" asked an impish little waif named Bridget.
"She borrowed it from me, Gettie, if you must know," said Eleanor. "Hermione and I are quite the same size." She smiled at Hermione, and she smiled back. There were an awful lot of demure smiles being exchanged at the table that night.
"Now that we've left the coast of Ireland, we should be steaming right ahead, now shouldn't we?" said Molly. "Can't be much left to see but ocean."
"I don't mind," said Hermione quietly. Just then, a quite lively tune began to play from the string quartet in the corner. Ron stood and held his hand out to Hermione.
"Might I have the honor of dancing with you, my dear lady?" he asked. Hermione stifled another giggle.
"Of course," she answered, taking his white gloved hand in hers and letting him lead her to an open space to dance in. They were the only two dancing and the entire room was watching. Ron positioned her correctly, with one hand resting lightly on his and the other holding up her pearl overlay. When his hand slid into the small of her back, she inhaled sharply, but remained calm. Suddenly, a thought hit her. "Ron, I don't know how to dance," she whispered. He lifted her chin to look straight into his eyes and whispered back, "Don't worry. Just keep your eyes on me and relax."
They danced slowly at first, then quickened with the music. Ron spun Hermione around the floor, and Hermione followed qutie well. When the music stopped, they stood staring into each other's eyes for a moment, then quickly separated. They were drawing unneeded attention to themselves. What would Harry say?
They sat down to compliments from the others at their table.
"I must say, Hermione," said Violet, "You did look quite at ease on the dance floor. And Ron looked quite handsome." She batted her eyelashes at him. Hermione felt she was going to be sick. Ron, however, was involved in receiving a message from an attendant that had just arrived. He unfolded it, read it, then passed it silently to Hermione.
Harry finally finished his beer. The band was preparing to play a very high-spirited song. Abby ripped a piece of the hem of her green skirt (which had two layers over a three-layer, skirt-length cotton petticoat so it stuck out a bit and billowed out when she turned) and used it to tie back her unruly, curly red hair. She then grabbed Harry by the wrists and led him to the middle of the dance floor. The band picked up and she said to Harry, "Dance with me." Harry shook his head.
"I don't know this," he said.
"That doesn't matter, lad," she said, "Ye just listen to the music and do what ye want." Harry took her hand and placed his other one on her waist. She used her other to hold up her skirt.
They took off around the floor. Harry seemed to fit right in, in his too-short trousers revealing worn, brown leather boots. His cap fit snugly on his head, making him look like a real street urchin. Abby's torn green skirt billowed out and nearly cleared a path around the dance floor, mixing with the other skirts from the other girls dancing. Her tan top was covered by a dark brown shawl tied around her shoulders, and around her waist was another brown shawl, hanging down at an angle. Her red curls bounced and her green eyes danced along with her as she and Harry traipsed around the floor, laughing merrily. Harry spun her in circles under his arm, watching her laugh. They reached a completely open spot on the floor. Hey, thought Harry, this is just like the movie. Abby hiked up her skirts and did a little dance. Harry looked at her, and in turn did his own, surprised at his ability to improvise. Then they went back together and danced together for a moment before the next couple invaded their space. The music ended a few moments later, and Abby and Harry went back to their table.
After downing a whole glass of beer each, Abby grabbed Harry's wrist, stood on her toes and whispered in his ear, "Come with me." Harry followed her through the crowds of still dancing people and up the many staircases.
Harry convinced Abby to stop a moment, then bribed an attendant into sending a message to Mr. Ronald Weasley of first class. After that, she led him back up onto the deck.
"Look at the stars," she said, turning circles across the deck. "Aren't they the prettiest sight a body's ever seen?" Harry smiled at her as she sat down on a bench, swinging her legs and looking up at the sky. He sat beside her.
"Not the prettiest," he said, looking at her. She looked down from the stars and their green eyes locked again, and there was again that unexplainable force. Suddenly, Harry took her hand and said, "I know it isn't proper, but . . ." Abby cut him off by gently placing a hand on each of his cheeks, then she leaned in and kissed him softly. They kissed sweetly for a solid minute, then broke apart. Harry looked slightly shocked.
"I'm sorry, lad," she said, "That was bad o'me, I know. But, that is what ye wanted to ask, aye?"
Harry smiled. "Aye," he whispered, "It's just that . . . it was my first time."
"That was mine, too," she said.
"Well," said Harry, "Why not give it another go?"
Abby smiled. "I wouldn't say no," she said, leaning in. Their lips met, slowly, sweetly kissing again. Harry cursed himself. Why in the hell was he falling for this girl?