Warning: irreverent humor ahead.
Despite the stifling air within the carriage, Hermione tried to draw in a deep breath, hoping to dispel the stench that emanated from those with whom she travelled. The ladies may have been beautiful in their frippery, but their hygiene left much to be desired.
The two ladies—both named Margaret—stared at Hermione as if she were the very devil himself. She had attempted to return the rude gesture early in the journey from London to Kent, but the ladies would quickly turn their attention elsewhere before they were caught. Still, she could feel their heated regard, and it made an already uncomfortable position even more so. It might have been bearable had she been allowed to ride with Fred, but the Queen had been taken with him when his ability to make her laugh produced a rare smile. So he travelled in comfort in the ornate carriage with the Queen, Lady Tyrrwhit and Lady Carey.
Meanwhile, Hermione had been stuck with the maids of honour from Hell. She had the childish urge to stamp her foot and cry. Her arse hurt from the three-hour journey, her feet were cramped from the poorly-made shoes, she had two harridans glaring at her and saying rude things under their breath, and she was pretty sure her corset was cutting off her circulation.
Unable to tolerate the disgusting odour any longer, Hermione untied the stays on the leather flap covering the window, inhaling deeply as the fresh air washed over her. Both ladies were outraged at her behaviour, if their harsh whispers to each other were anything to go by. Hermione honestly didn't care. She was about to tell the gossiping biddies that they stank of horse droppings, when the castle came into view, and she was immediately taken with the sight.
The castle itself seemed less imposing than when she had visited it with her parents the summer she was twelve. Then, she remembered that William Waldorf Astor invested time, money and imagination in restoring the castle in 1903. He also added the 'Tudor Village' and created the lush gardens and maze, and the lake that spanned the length of the grounds. As it stood now, in 1590, the massive estate that sprawled over six hundred acres looked quite stark and drab, with nothing on the exterior to recommend it. It was even devoid of the overgrown ivy and moss that usually covered the entrance. But, it had not been Anne Boleyn's favourite residence for no reason. Inside, Hermione knew of the Tudor-style rooms in the walled bailey, and the multiple chambers in the castle proper. There was only one way in: via a sturdy wooden drawbridge, as the castle was surrounded by a deep moat on all sides.
They came to a halt in front of the drawbridge, and the door was opened by a footman. He helped the two Margarets down the rickety coach steps and arched a brow when Hermione gripped his hand tighter than was probably customary. As it was, she nearly lost her balance, having developed a severe cramp in the sole of her foot, but the man grasped her arm and kept her upright. The ladies in front of her sniggered and gave her a smug look.
"She is as clumsy as an unbroken horse," Margaret number one tittered loud enough that Hermione could hear her.
"Mayhap an unbroken horse would be offended at the comparison," the other Margaret retorted, sending both into a veritable tizzy of laughter.
Hermione pursed her lips, gathered the voluminous mounds of fabric that comprised her gown, and marched past them, muttering a Trip Jinx in her wake. As she made her way along the bridge, she smiled to herself at the distinct sounds of shrieking women stumbling over themselves. She entered the castle, still awkwardly carrying her gown, and heard a deep-throated chuckle.
"My lady," Dee said with a slight bow of his head. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure of seeing Lady Russell and Lady Radcliffe in such a state of discomposure."
"I'm sure I do not know to what you are referring," Hermione said cautiously. Had he witnessed her lips moving as she cast the jinx? She and Fred had agreed to keep their wands hidden for the duration of their stay, so she knew that Dee had not glimpsed the stick she kept very close to her right thigh underneath her petticoats.
Dr. Dee touched the side of his nose and gave her a knowing wink. "Of course not." He nodded towards a darkened corridor. "I think you may find something of interest in the third chamber on your left, my lady." He inclined his head once more and departed in the opposite direction.
Dear Merlin, the man was as cryptic as Dumbledore. Tired of carrying the heavy weight of fabric, Hermione let her skirts fall to sweep along the floor as she walked. At the third door, which was open slightly, she peered inside.
Her breath caught in her chest as she beheld Fred, his back to her, completely devoid of clothing save for an odd cap on his head. Slowly, she exhaled, careful not to make a sound. The firelight emanating from the hearth cast Fred's body in a golden light. His arse was firm and pale, the right globe sporting a dimple that begged to be kissed. Dark ginger hair curled on the nape of his neck, longer than it had been in previous years. Long legs, with muscular thighs and nicely-shaped calves that ended in perfect ankles nearly made her swoon.
Hermione closed her eyes to regain her composure, only to reopen them and see that he had turned around. She stifled a squeak and drank in the masculine body on display. Even from this distance, she could tell that the hair on his chest was sparse, but a furrowed line made its way down his stomach and grew lush surrounding his quiescent cock. Oh, heavens! Was drool starting to accumulate in her slack mouth? She could feel the heat of a blush flooding her cheeks as she averted her eyes, trying to focus on anything besides the most potent proof that Weasley men were blessed in that department.
"See something you like?"
The squeak she had been trying to keep silent slipped from her mouth as she started, and her eyes shot back to Fred to see that he was gazing at her without the slightest embarrassment. "You're an exhibitionist!" she said, rather flummoxed.
Fred casually strolled to the door and opened it wide, making no attempt to hide his… assets. "And you're a voyeur. Works out perfectly, don't you think?" He gave her a smirk.
She swallowed nervously and kept her gaze strictly trained on his face. "Why are you naked to begin with? Apart from the daft headgear, of course."
He smile and turned away, leaving the door open. He walked back to the trunk and the pile of clothing placed on top. "I am to be Queen Elizabeth's jester for the time that she's here." He picked up the bi-coloured hose and wrinkled his nose. "Though I question her fashion sense."
Keeping her gaze somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling, Hermione edged her way into the room and closed the door, lest anyone passing by be tempted to have a peek. "I believe that's what jesters wore during this era," she said to the wooden crossbeam.
She heard footsteps and felt gentle fingers on her chin. Fred chuckled and tilted her head down so she couldn't help but look at him. "I helped you lace up your corset. The least you could do is help me with these atrocious tights."
Hermione tried to inhale, but the whalebone restricted how far her ribs could move. Bloody corset! It pushed what breasts she did have practically into her throat, and every time she became flustered they... well, there was no other word for it; they iheaved/i, bobbing up and down for anyone to admire. Just as Fred was doing now. His gaze darted to her bosom, and the light in his eyes caused a slow burn to ignite in her belly. His fingers left her chin and drifted to the exposed skin, softly tracing the faint blue lines.
"Corsets seem to suit you, Hermione," he whispered, leaning close. "All your charms on display, but keeping you tightly bound, until someone peels away the layers to find the treasures hidden beneath. You should wear them more often."
She wet her lips, unable to control her breathing and feeling suddenly shy. "There are no treasures here," she said self-deprecatingly.
Fred took aside his cap, closed the distance and laid his cheek on hers. "Of all the treasures in the world, one's own self is the last to be revealed." He pulled back enough to ghost his lips over her mouth.
Her lips parted, and impulsively Hermione surged into the chaste kiss, demanding more from Fred. He gladly obliged and delved his tongue inside, swallowing her gasp. She wound her arms around his shoulders and clung to him as he deepened the contact. One of his hands caressed her neck and drifted down her back to cup her arse and press her against him. There was no doubt he was aroused, and every minute thrust sent a stab of pleasure to her centre, even through the copious amounts of material.
His mouth left hers and kissed along her jaw, making his way down her neck, her groans filling the air. "Tell me you want this," Fred whispered in between kisses. "That you want me, for real."
Hermione stiffened at his words. For real? Did Fred want them to be truly together as they were pretending to be? Was she ready for that? To be in a relationship? Never mind that they were in the latter half of the sixteenth century, could she continue once they returned? If they returned? And if that's what he meant? The only other committed relationship she'd had was with the younger brother of the wizard who was now kissing her. She ought to have felt odd about that, but she didn't. All she wanted was for the exquisite sensations coursing through her body to continue, but she must have lingered too long on her answer, for Fred stopped and pulled slowly away.
He grinned, but it was more like a grimace, as if smiling actually hurt him. "Ah, right. What was I thinking? You've got your life back home, and I've got… well," he pointed to the jagged scar on his face, "my beauty mark. Needless to say, let's just forget this happened, yeah?"
He turned away quickly and began pulling on the multi-coloured hose. Hermione watched with an ache in her chest. She hadn't meant not to give him an answer, she'd just over-analysed it, trying too hard to decide what her heart wanted. And that's when she realised something: she had always over-analysed things, thinking and rethinking to the point where it didn't matter anymore, or worse, until she'd found so many flaws that she gave up pursuing what had originally piqued her interest. She didn't want that to happen here, not with Fred. He wasn't a 'thing' to be studied at leisure, or tossed to the side when she'd tired of him. Would she tire of someone as flamboyant as Fred Weasley? She highly doubted it.
Now fully dressed in his garish red, black and white jester's costume, Fred turned and gave her a mock bow. "Am I passing fair, my lady?"
Hermione bent and picked up the cap, bells jingling on each of the overlong tips. She placed it on his head and gave him a soft look. "More than passing fair, good sir." Cupping his face between her hands, she drew him close and pressed gentle kisses along his scar, ending in a heated exchange with his lips.
When they broke apart for air, Fred eyes held a passionate gleam as he leaned his forehead against hers. "Would it be cliché of me to quote Shakespeare at this point?" he asked with a mischievous smile.
She tugged on one of the bells and returned his smile. "Highly cliché. That shouldn't stop you, however."
He stood up straight, looking down at her and caressing her cheeks with his slender thumbs. "'When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself and curse my fate...'" His brow crinkled. "Oh, sod it, I forgot the rest."
Hermione laughed and hugged him close. "If we're lucky, we'll get to meet the man himself. Then he can teach you the rest."
"Isn't there a play of his with a character named 'Hermione'?"
"Yes, A Winter's Tale, but it won't be written for some years." She stepped away and gave him a once over. He really was remarkably handsome, and oddly enough the jester garb seemed to suit him. "I will be the envy of many ladies at court, I must say."
Fred took her hand, bowed over it, and kissed the back. The warmth of his lips raised an answering warmth somewhere below her ribs. "Ah, but you are the only one I shall be obsessively wooing."
"Wooing?" she asked with an arched brow.
"Stalking, really," he amended.
She couldn't help but answer his mischievous grin with one of her own. "Ah. At least you're honest."
He pulled her towards the door. "That I am."
At that evening's feast, Hermione sat on a backless seat at the Queen's left hand as her 'special guest'. What that really translated to was that Elizabeth wanted to keep a sharp eye on Hermione; her strident comments suggested she was convinced there was some nefarious plan afoot, and the best way to thwart it was to keep the suspected enemy close at hand.
The guest of honour, Christopher 'Kit' Marlowe, was also seated to the Queen's left, though Hermione was trying her best to ignore him. She was struck by how much Marlowe and Shakespeare resembled each other, though she suspected it might a bone of contention between them. Marlowe was, so he said, celebrating the opening of his new play The Jew of Malta, and interspersed his self-congratulatory statements with suggestive quotations from it. His worst so far had been to ogle her tightly-confined bosom and leer, "Ah, infinite riches in a little room..."
Fred flitted about the room, flirting with all the women and making the men laugh. Hermione had to admit the wizard was a prince among men when it came to bringing out the humour in any situation. She smiled to herself.
"What makes you smile, Lady Granger?" a cold voice broke in.
Hermione froze, instantly wary. She swallowed the small bite of venison and wiped her mouth with the elegant serviette before answering. "My fiancé, Your Majesty."
Elizabeth followed Hermione's gaze, landing on Fred. "He is a man of most infinite jest. I greatly like him."
A sick feeling began to rise in Hermione's stomach. "Yes, he is most affable in nature." She tried to keep her voice even. "We were promised to each other at an early age."
"Is that so?" Elizabeth watched Fred juggle three apples, delighting his audience. "Yet he is loquacious with my ladies, do you not think?"
Hermione bit her lip to keep from lashing out. "He has always had a way with words, Your Majesty. Should he not practise his trade to his fullest extent?"
Elizabeth slowly turned to stare at Hermione, her eyes narrowing. "We shall see how 'gifted' he is, then. Fool! Come forth!"
The apples Fred was juggling fell to the floor as he ran to stand before the Queen. "Your Majesty calls, I answer," he said with a dramatic bow.
The Queen gave him an indulgent and benevolent smile. "Thrill us with your wit, Master Frederick."
Fred glanced at Hermione. She wondered if she was quite as pale as she felt. He returned his attention to Elizabeth. "What would Your Majesty wish to hear?"
Several shouts came from amongst the crowd, suggesting various topics ranging from innocent to pornographic. Elizabeth waved at Christopher Marlowe. "Pose a request for us, Marlowe."
The thin man with untamed hair stood and bowed from the waist. "A ribald sonnet, Your Majesty. In honour of Lady Granger." Marlowe gave Hermione a devilish smile, clearly pleased with his petty revenge for her coldness, and sat.
Everyone looked expectantly at Fred, whose attention was focused on Hermione. He gave her his trademark mischievous grin and began.
"I saw the morning dew betwixt thine thighs,
As I removed my source of Grecian power..."
A shocked gasp rose from the crowd; a few ladies tittered.
"As if King Midas dared to touch the skies,
Upon thy body fell a golden shower."
Hermione's jaw dropped and she could feel herself flushing as red as Fred's hair. Queen Elizabeth hid her amused smirk behind her hand.
Unrepentant, Fred continued.
"Thy body's temples, two church bells had rung,
Upon thy chest, a row of pearls bestowed.
The sun had set, ithy/i set, with weary hung.
I thought, 'How black a night!' and blew a load."
"Slowly, oh so slowly, I'm going to kill him," Hermione muttered as she buried her face in her hands, unable to face the crowd's half-appalled, half-amused laughter.
Fred dropped to one knee, as if proposing.
"I say, 'What light through yonder beaver breaks?
It is the yeast'! And now my belly's yellow,
My pole gives cause to storms and earthy quakes.
But 'tis not massive, I am no Othello."
Roaring laughter rang throughout the hall, and Hermione, to her horror, found that all she could think was that Fred had disparaged himself—his 'pole' was definitely massive. She glanced through her fingers to see Fred wink at her. He rose and made his way over to stand in front of Marlowe with a calculating look on his face.
"And when that final moment came to pass,
Like Christ, I came, riding upon an ass."
There was thunderous applause as Fred took a bow. When it ceased, he addressed Marlowe directly. "You write these dramas. You accumulate your wealth. You hold nature as to a mirror of yourself."
Marlowe glanced around nervously.
"Just because you have small talent does not mean I lack it too. Just because you want to rut with your mother doesn't mean Danish princes do. And by the by, poetic talent is really easy to fake when thy sentences doth no fucking sense make."
Tense silence filled the room for a moment, and then it erupted into a standing ovation. Marlowe, Hermione noticed, was not impressed. The Queen, however, was.
"Master Frederick, your fiancée's claim that you are a virtuoso at your profession rings true. However, I do caution you to guard your tongue in present company," Elizabeth admonished with a stern glare.
Fred had the good sense to look abashed. He nodded and turned his attention to Hermione who found that she couldn't look away from the heat in his eyes. Fred had spun a bawdy rhyme and verbally lashed out at Shakespeare's rival, essentially calling the man a hack. Incredible as she would have thought it only a few days ago, she would say that she was half in love with Fred Weasley already.
She just hoped the sentiment was returned.
Fred winked at her and she watched as he turned and made his way through the crowd, receiving congratulations and, she noted, not a few inviting female glances. Suddenly, her eye was caught by a movement at the side of the room and she saw Marlowe speaking with a hooded figure, a malicious scowl creeping across his mouth. When Marlowe excused himself a short time later, only to quickly leave with the same hooded figure, no one remarked how oddly the poet behaved.
But Hermione did, and she safely tucked away the knowledge to examine at a later time.
