Kingdom.5

Lavender was furious. Hermione knew she was angry because she said so. Several times. Actually, it was the only thing Lavender said to her upon her return. Things like how could she and did she even know what a scandal she'd caused and had she any idea how long Lavender had been planning for this day?

Hermione did feel guilty. In this world, a woman's role was to marry well. She knew Lavender was attacking her and not Riddle because she had no other choice, for what could a woman do against a man's transgressions in this society? It rankled her, and she bore Lavender's ire with more patience than she otherwise would have.

"Your Highness, nothing happened. Prince Thomas merely ran into me, and he saved me from a wild moose."

This was the story Godric had convinced himself of; he'd taken one look at the fallen woods and, shaking his head, had wondered aloud at the state of the moose herds. Neither Riddle nor Hermione had corrected him. She'd had little chance to see the man, anyway, as he'd been immediately ushered into Salazar's care. Hermione, for her part, had been directed back to her rooms the instant they'd returned to the castle.

Lavender laughed. It was a shrill, harsh sound, and at her sides, Ginny and Parvati winced. Ginny flashed Hermione a sympathetic look as Lavender threw a stringful of pearls to the ground.

"He merely ran into you twenty kilometers from the castle grounds? Hermione, whatever you might think, I am not an idiot."

Hermione swallowed. "I - I know that, Lav-" Parvati's face went pale, and Hermione quickly amended, "Your Highness. But I swear to you I had no idea Prince Thomas was following me. I got lost in the woods due to my own foolishness. Nothing else happened."

Lavender laughed again, but the sound lacked her prior venom. "It doesn't matter if nothing happened," she spat. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, pale eyes lingering on her golden circlet garnished with delicate seed pearls, and her face crumpled. "You were alone with my fiancé for the whole day. What matters is that people think something happened, and they know I am helpless."

Ginny made a sympathetic sound. "King Godric will see to it that any rumours are stifled. He won't allow people to speak ill of his only daughter."

"Perhaps," Lavender said. She pulled her crown from her hair, setting it down with a heavy clatter on her vanity. "But King Salazar will do nothing; what does he care if his heir is rumoured to be lying with a lady in waiting? All the better to have his royal bloodline carried further."

"Your Highness," Parvati gasped, scandalised. She shot Hermione a pleading look.

"You're right," Hermione said, and Parvati groaned. Lavender gave Hermione a startled look. She knew she was supposed to comfort Lavender, but shielding Lavender from the cruelties of this world wouldn't save her. Not when she was due to marry Tom Riddle in a matter of hours.

"Not about the, er, carrying on of the royal bloodline," she said quickly when it appeared that Lavender was ready to fling her crown in her face. "But about the people - they will talk, and I am truly sorry for that. You are strong, Lavender, and you're right; you're not stupid or anything close to it. I admire you; I do not think I would be able to bear the weight of the crown."

Lavender sniffed, but she looked considerably more mollified. "You would," she said stiffly, like saying the words was an effort. "Be able to bear the weight of the crown, I mean. You're brave, Hermione, and good. You would make a good ruler."

Hermione felt a rush of affection for the woman; Lavender, at least, had confidence in her. She only wished she felt the same way; she hadn't felt brave or good next to Riddle. She'd felt terrified and greedy.

"Not," Lavender added with a prim sniff, "that you'll be ruling my kingdom anytime soon."

Hermione bit back a laugh. "Obviously," she said, and the two women exchanged a smile and, for a moment, Hermione could imagine that they were two schoolgirls bickering over who deserved more time in the shared dormitory bathroom.

She picked up the crown and set it carefully on her friend's golden head. She could only hope that she was not dooming her, condemning her to a life spent under Tom Riddle's hold. Lavender looked at her reflection again, a pale, shapely hand reaching up to touch the circlet.

They get to work, powdering and polishing until Lavender looked every inch a queen. When the doors sprang open for her, the woman sailed through without a backwards glance. Her floor-length white gown, trimmed with gold and scarlet, swept the stone floor. Behind her, her three loyal ladies in waiting trailed, each with the head turned dutifully towards their future queen.

They knew that it was this dinner more than anything that would set the scene for Lavender's future reign; would she be the queen to pity and laugh at, the fool to sit while her husband went off without restraint? Or would she be the queen to admire, to fear, even?

For Lavender's sake, Hermione hoped it would be the latter. This world had more than its fair share of cruelties. As they entered the entrance hall, which had been converted to a grand dining area, as it was the only area large enough to accomodate two courts, she heard the warm rumble of conversation quiet.

She saw Lavender falter but, to her credit, her shoulders were straight again in an instant, and she marched forward. Hermione followed her lead, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone. She could hear them whispering, their hungry eyes darting between she and Lavender. Were they hoping Lavender had banished Hermione from the court?

Although she tried to resist the urge, her eyes went sliding towards the half of the room decked in emerald and silver. Riddle was staring at her. When their eyes met, he smiled, tipping his silver goblet towards her. He looked so at ease, so assured in his position of power.

Soon, his eyes promised. Soon, your secrets will be mine.

She shivered, wrenching her eyes away. Ginny had to snatch an arm in front of her to stop her from tripping over Lavender's long train. When had they stopped? Merlin, she had to be better at avoiding Riddle's gaze.

She followed Parvati's lead and settled herself into her seat, which was thankfully several people removed from Salazar Slytherin and his brethren. An array of gilded utensils were arranged neatly on the thick, cream-coloured tablecloth. She hesitated; her parents were dentists and, although they'd always been comfortable, her childhood had not prepared her for any meal with more than three courses. And, judging from the anticipatory gleam in Ron's eye, this meal was due to have far, far more than three.

She swallowed. Ginny caught her eye and lifted the smallest knife, the one at the very end, meaningfully. Her friend began to butter a roll, still steaming from the oven, and she copied her actions. Ginny shot her a curious look, likely wondering why Hermione had suddenly lost all knowledge of, well, pretty much everything that ran this world. Hermione looked away hurriedly.

She had just stuffed the greater portion of the roll in her mouth to avoid conversation with a leering nobleman seated across from her when Godric stood. The hall immediately quieted - or, at least, the Gryffindor side did. The Slytherin side looked to Salazar for guidance, and the clear split summoned another flurry of unease in Hermione's stomach. The two kingdoms were so clearly separate; monster or no, this marriage was the only thing saving them from war. She looked again at Lavender, who, at least outwardly, looked fully recovered. She smiled prettily, her eyes bright, and waved an elegant hand dripping with jewels. Only Hermione saw the way the corners of her painted lips tightened whenever anyone dared hint at Riddle's - at their - forest escapade.

She felt guilt tighten her throat; she'd done this to Lavender. Inadvertently, of course, and certainly not willingingly, but she was the reason why these people felt it was fine to question Lavender's control. For, if she already could not capture her fiancé's interest, Lavender must surely be another powerless pawn. And powerless pawns were not to be feared. And if being feared meant survival in this deadly game of intrigue and politics, then Lavender was in danger.

Hermione's mouth tightened. She wanted to do something, anything, to rectify her mistakes, but she was too unfamiliar with this world's customs. What if she only made the matter worse? She'd never been one to rush impulsively into situations - she'd had Harry and Ron for that - and so she sat, glaring at any noble who probed too far. No wonder Malfoy had turned out to be such a git, if he'd grown up drinking this poisoned honey.

The hairs at the back of her nape lifted, and she knew without looking that Riddle was looking at her. Although her cheeks burned, she determinedly stared down at the second course, a carrot ginger soup swirled with cream. Dimly, she was aware of Godric's low, rumbling voice. How long had he been talking of union? Was it rude to not look at him?

Parvati was elbowing her with increasing urgency under the table, providing the answer to that question. Hurriedly, she looked up, her eye catching on the man dressed in black, so different from the shades of emerald worn by the rest of his court. Riddle smiled again. Was it just her imagination, or was there something different about his gaze? His eyes were too knowing, too smug, and there was more than a hint of satisfaction in the dangerous slant of his mouth. And if Riddle was happy, then that could only mean she'd lost some battle, somewhere, without even realising it. For if Riddle had won, Hermione must have lost.

She shivered. The room, for all its fireplaces and torches, was suddenly quite cold. Salazar stood, resting a hand on Godric's shoulder. The Gryffindor monarch stiffened, his smile slipping, and his hand was soon on Salazar's shoulder. The room was thick with tension as the two kings stared at each other, one light, one dark, both with white-knuckled hands curled around the other.

Hermione saw hands go to hilts; no one dared draw a weapon, but it was a comfort to know it was still there. Her own hands went to the heavy silk of her skirt and, of course, came up fruitless. Ladies did not carry swords.

Then, Godric smiled, and the tension was lifted. He turned, lifting his wine goblet, and bellowed, "To the greatest alliance to have ever been formed!"

The hall filled with cheers, and the sound of it rattled the cups. The rest of the dinner continued without further mishap. If the nobles were a tad too bright-eyed with wine or if their voices shook with spent adrenaline, no one commented. Course after course was served on the golden plates and, by the end, even Hermione felt sleepy and stupid from the sheer quantity of food. She'd limited herself to one goblet of wine, as there had been no other drink alternative other than ale, and two bites from each course, but there had been so many courses that even this had amounted to an obscene quantity of food.

She wondered if the less well off had ever experienced a feast such as this. From what she remembered from muggle history class, medieval times had hardly been egalitarian. Peasants toiled day and night in the fields, paying taxes to their local noble family. These nobles, in turn, paid off the those above them, and so on, and so on. It seemed a system rife with corruption and greed, and the very thought made Hermione's stomach go sour.

A serving woman slid Hermione's soup from her plate and replaced it with a small, roasted hen bordered with three golden potatoes. Hermione looked behind her, a 'thank you' ready on her lips, but the woman avoided her gaze. She watched the servant leave, her unease growing. She was as guilty as the rest of this court; she doubted she could even recognise this woman if asked to point her out in a crowd. She'd ignored her, just as the rest of the nobility did.

This thought, however, gave Hermione an idea; if she could just shed her finery for a simpler dress, perhaps she could investigate the libraries without people wondering why one of Princess Lavender's ladies in waiting was not at Lavender's side. As a plan slowly sharpened into focus, Hermione allowed herself one small, grim smile.

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Later that evening, long after the last of the drunken revelers had retired to their own beds or sought comfort in someone else's, Hermione slipped out of her room. She'd secured the location of the servants' quarters from a very bemused Harry at dinner, and now, as she crept through the darkened halls, she felt each breath was a challenge. She'd been through worse; she'd survived a war, for Merlin's sake, so surely she could manage a simple theft. Still, her unfamiliar surroundings and the knowledge that the guards' punishment, should they find her, would likely be harsh, made her heart quicken. She was an unescorted woman wandering the halls alone at night and, Lavender's protection or no, she was utterly vulnerable.

By some miracle, she located the servants' quarters without mishap. There was a moment where, as she was descending the stairs to the kitchens, she heard a clatter of metal. She'd had to duck behind a tapestry thick with dust. Despite the obvious shape she must have made behind the fabric, the footsteps had not slowed; the two late night revelers were too...preoccupied to pay much attention to their surroundings.

Once she'd entered the quarters, she slipped into the first darkened room. It was a small, windowless room, damp with cold, and she could vaguely make out the blurred outlines of three beds crammed against the back wall. It was a far cry from even her own modest room two floors above, and the thought summoned another wave of guilt.

Still, she didn't have time to linger; keeping a careful eye on the three snoring forms, she knelt, crawling towards the closest wooden trunk. The lid lifted with a weary protest, and she froze. The woman stirred, groaned, and rolled over. She made no sign of waking, however, so Hermione reached a hand and snatched the first soft bundle she could find. She couldn't risk examining the cloth; besides, the room was too dark to see much, anyway. She'd have to hope that the dress was suitable.

Hermione left the servants' quarters in a state of half-disbelief at her luck. Excluding her near run-in with the lovers, she'd gone entirely unnoticed. Godric, it seemed, had much to improve on in terms of castle security. The thought wasn't a comfort; as she climbed the stone stairs leading back to her room, she thought again of the queer, shapeless beasts from earlier that day. Were they creatures native to this world? She'd thought she'd seen some movement her first day here, but she'd dismissed it as the product of hysteria. Whatever they were, they were certainly not good omens.

She looked over her shoulder again, half-expecting to see a mouth bristling with teeth bearing down on her. There was nothing - only the light of the full moon through the window, watery and silent in its sea of black. She shivered, clutching the stolen dress, which smelled of lye and, faintly, horse manure, close to her chest. Her steps quickened. Without Riddle, she was helpless to defend herself against another attack - magical or otherwise.

She was rounding the last corner when she collided into the man himself. His hands curled around her covered shoulders, the stolen dress forming a buffer between their two bodies. He looked down at her, his face wreathed in shadow. He smelled of pine and firewood. She wrenched away in an instant, ducking into a clumsy curtsy.

"Your Majesty," she stammered, keeping her voice low. If anyone saw them now, they would assume the worst - especially after their forest escapade. Merlin, she couldn't do that to Lavender. Not again. "My apologies."

A pause. Then -

"Forgiven," he said, and again his voice had the same, odd edge to it - humour, she realised with a frown. He'd sounded the same earlier that day, but she hadn't had the time to identify it due to the knights' arrival. Her frown deepened; again, this felt off-character.

"Only-" he continued, and his tone had shifted again, turning darker, more intent. Greedy. He stepped forward, and the light from the torch now cast his fine features in sharp relief. "What are you doing out so late at night?" He lifted the dress from her shocked arms, sneering at the smell, and let the fabric pool at their feet. "And with this disgusting dress?"

She fumbled for an excuse. "I - it's to prepare Lady Lavender for the wedding night, Your Majesty," she said. She'd used the same excuse earlier in the library. To her surprise, he frowned, looking momentarily pained, but the expression was gone almost instantly.

How curious. She doubted he was so repulsed by the mention of the wedding night - no, this was something more. Riddle clearly had no desire to continue with this game of avoidance, however, for his bare hand latched tightly around her wrist, and she sucked in a breath at the contact.

Again, that same, hatefully wonderful feeling. It was like living in a small, windowless, dark room for her whole life, only to have those walls obliterated and the space flooded with light and space and freedom.

"Merlin," she heard him breathe.

She knew the feeling; she was almost dizzy with euphoria, and it was an effort not to cast a volley of spells right then and there, if only to prove that she could and that magic was real. But that would be foolish, as she could only imagine what a passerby would say - and do - if they saw her casting magic. What Riddle would do, if -

She froze, horror squeezing her throat shut. Merlin, he'd said. Not God, or mercy, or any variation of that -

Merlin.

And what had he said earlier that day? Well, fuck. It had sounded odd even then, out of place - because it had been. It was a modern phrase or, if not modern, certainly not medieval. Something had changed; she wasn't sure how, or when, but this Riddle was somehow more dangerous because he knew. He knew who, or at least what, she was, which meant he knew what he was capable of.

Riddle must have seen her growing horror, for his eyes gleamed in anticipation, and was it her imagination or was there now a splinter of red in their dark depths? He leaned close, a strand of dark hair falling across his regal brow, and bared his teeth. His hand was painfully tight around her wrist as he murmured, lips close to her ear, "Stupefy."

There was a low, shuddering groan, like rusty gears being forced into action after decades of disuse, and she spotted a queer shimmer in the stone wall and, frighteningly, a glimpse of a skeletal hand -

And then she was lost.

Author note: thanks so much for reading and reviewing! all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter :)