Lemons ahoy!
"There's something I don't like about Kit Marlowe," Hermione muttered to Fred as they walked the long corridor back to her room on the second floor.
"Other than the fact that he looks like a poncy git, has no arse to speak of, and is a mediocre dramatist, what's not to like?"
She stopped. "Why are you looking at his arse?"
Fred grinned. "Well, I am a twin, love. If I wanted to know what my arse looked like, I would just tell George to turn about before he took off to the loo."
Hermione shook her head and continued walking. "You are twisted, Fred Weasley."
"Among other things." They came to a halt in front of a large oak door. "Alas, fair maiden, I must leave thee here, for thy virtue would surely become victim to my weakness if thou were to accompany me to my chamber." He bowed low over her hand and pressed a lingering kiss on the back.
Did he really have no idea? There was no virtue to speak of. A desperate fumble with Ron after the Final Battle had disillusioned her about the idea of romance and her first time being extraordinary. She had assumed Ron would have at least talked about it with his brothers, but apparently not. Embarrassment at her clinginess afterwards had kept her lips sealed about what happened. Maybe she should've given Ron the benefit of the doubt.
But it didn't really matter anymore, did it? The feelings she'd had for Ron didn't even compare to the heat skittering across her skin from a mere kiss bestowed upon her by his older brother. The more Fred gave her in his generous and unassuming way, the more she yearned to be truly—and fully—his.
Taking a chance, she kept hold of the hand grasping hers and pulled him close, thrilled when he didn't hesitate to return her embrace. "Thank you for tonight," she murmured, softly stroking the hair on his nape.
His arms tightened around her and he buried his nose in her curls. "It's obscenely easy for me to care for you."
Her cheeks warmed at the easy affection. Pressing her lips to his ear, she whispered, "I'm glad." She then kissed him on the jaw and stepped away.
This left her aching for his arms almost immediately, especially when she caught his bereft look. In a moment, however, it was gone, as if he'd had a great deal of practise shrugging off actions that had wounded him. Before she could open her mouth and beg him to stay, regardless whether others might find it improper, he grinned and sprinted towards the staircase, disappearing below.
"Smooth, Granger. Really smooth," she muttered to herself as she entered her room and closed the door. "The man practically offers himself on a platter and you wibble over…"
What? What was she afraid of? Losing her heart to a wizard who had been nothing but gallant and protective since they had arrived in this era? Fred already held her heart in the palm of his hand… and odds were that he knew it, but was giving her time to come to grips with it or reject him outright.
A knock on her door startled her from her thoughts. Had Fred reconsidered? Hermione rushed to open the door, only to mask her disappointment upon seeing a girl—no more than sixteen, she guessed—standing there, looking lost.
The nervous girl bobbed a curtsey. "Beggin' your pardon, Miss, but I was sent by her Majesty to serve as lady's maid." She bobbed again.
Serve as a spy, more like, Hermione thought. She contemplated sending the girl back to the wretched tyrant, but she knew there was no way she could unlace the corset herself. With a nod, she admitted the girl. "What's your name?"
"Meg, Miss." Although she didn't curtsey again, somehow she made Hermione feel as if she had.
Hermione turned her back to the girl and lifted her hair out of the way. Fingers worked quickly to loosen the ties, and as the velveteen and jacquard fabric fell from her shoulders, Hermione nearly collapsed with relief.
Meg began on the gauzy sleeves that were attached to the shoulder straps of the bodice. "Not that it's my place, Miss, but your corset is laced overmuch," she observed as she carefully removed the silken cords.
"Fred," Hermione swore under her breath, vowing to have a word with him later. "Ah, I had a person of ignorance assist me this morn. I did wonder at its tightness," she said offhandedly to Meg.
Once the whale-bone contraption was eased from around her chest and waist, Hermione sucked in deep gulps of air, so rapidly that she had to bend double when she became dizzy. Dear gods, she felt as though someone had bruised her ribs with a cudgel!
Meg made quick work of the bum roll that accentuated Hermione's hips. "Your dresses should be tight enough to show you are a woman and loose enough to show that you are a lady," she said, untying the stays on the five-hooped farthingale.
Interesting. So, just show enough of the wares to whet the appetite. Good to know. "Fashions are rather different here than they are in… erm, where I'm from. I do wish to wear flattering dresses during my stay here. How do I know the best dress for me?" Hermione casually asked, now clad only in her chemise.
Meg stepped away, and looked her up and down. "If it would not be too impertinent, Miss, my sister says that a woman knows she is wearing the correct dress when her man wants to rid her of it," she said with a sly grin.
What had Fred said earlier? Corsets seem to suit you. You should wear them more often. Maybe Meg was on to something. "I'll be mindful of that next time."
"Would my lady care for a bed warmer?"
Hermione glanced at the brass pan with a long wooden handle hanging beside the hearth. Though she was slightly chilled, the uneasy thought of how convenient it would be to set fire to the bedding in such a manner persuaded her to forgo that method of keeping warm. "No, thank you, I think not." She pulled back the coverlet on the sturdy four-poster.
"Mayhap tonight your thoughts of a certain jester will be enough to warm your bed," Meg said with a knowing smirk. "Then, by tomorrow, my lady will have found a more pleasurable way of warming the sheets."
Oh, this girl knew more than she was letting on. "Tomorrow," Hermione acquiesced after a few moments.
Meg bobbed another curtsey and excused herself—to where, Hermione knew not. Probably to report to the Queen how inept Hermione was, or some such slander. It didn't matter, at least not at that precise moment. She was bone-weary from the day's travel, the increasing tension between her and Fred, and the almost constant paranoia she suffered in the Queen's presence.
She fell upon the mattress and, despite the rustling of the straw and the chill roughness of the sheets, knew no more.
Something was tickling her nose.
"Wake me up before you go go…" a voice sang in her ear.
Oh, good Lord. Terrible eighties music. What had she done to deserve this?
"Wake me up before you go go, 'cause I'm not planning on going solo…"
Hermione cracked one eye open and glared at the wizard sitting next to her on the bed. There was just enough light from the taper he held to cast his features in a most flattering way. Did the handsome prat have to be so bloody cheerful this early in the morning? On second thought, if it was still dark, could it actually be called morning?
"Rough night, love?" Fred whispered with a leer.
"How did you know that song?" she asked on a yawn.
He was grinning ear to ear. "George, Charlie and I found an old Muggle transistor radio in Dad's shed once. We messed about with it and got it to work. Well, sort of. Sometimes it played music all day and night. Sometimes it wouldn't work at all."
"Why are you so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?" she grumbled, yawning again.
"Because I've had the most amazing night!" Like an excited child, he crawled onto the bed, straddled her hips and sat on her legs.
"Get off me, you oaf!" She slapped his thigh. "I have to use the loo!"
A perverse chuckle filled the air. "You do realise you'll have to use the piss-pot underneath your bed, right?"
Hermione groaned. "No. No, no, no. I recall seeing a privy closet somewhere in the castle when I visited here several years ago."
Fred leaned over her. "If there is one, I haven't seen it. Bet it's only where the high muckity-mucks can get to it."
"Well, I can't look for it right now," she grunted. "Get off, or I'll wet the bed!"
"Oh, now there's a new kink I haven't tried."
She glared at him and gave his chest a shove. "You admitted to doing as much to the whole crowd last night."
He rolled off to flop down at her side, laughing as she scrambled from the bed. "You should've seen your face. It was as red as ickle Ronnikins during a tantrum."
"Ugh, don't remind me." She bent low and looked under the bed. No chamber pot. She peered into the wardrobe. No chamber pot.
"Looking for something, love?" Fred asked casually.
Hermione glared at the lounging figure. He was dressed in a loose white linen shirt and tan breeches that fit snugly and ended just below the knee. His lower legs were bare and black slippers adorned his feet. She tried not to look at the expanse of chest on display but was unable to ignore the curling warmth it sent to her middle… which in turn made her original need even more urgent. "Why are you even in here?" she said crossly. "Get out. I need to… to…"
"Piss?"
"Crass. I need to relieve myself."
He rose from the bed and pointed to a partition in the corner. "Over there."
Her bladder felt as if it were about to burst. "Thank you. Now get out!"
Fred stood there, arms crossed, smirking.
"Please, have pity," Hermione whined, dancing in place.
"If I hadn't had pity on you, I wouldn't have told you where it was." He gave her a low, mocking bow and disappeared through the door.
"Oh, that man!" she fumed, unable to decide whether her relief outweighed her annoyance or the other way around. She had a violent urge to throw the chamber pot, and its contents, at him the next time he darkened her doorway.
"Lady Granger?"
Startled, Hermione nearly stabbed her finger with the sewing needle she was plying diligently, if clumsily. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
Hermione and several of the Queen's maids of honour and ladies-in-waiting were seated in a haphazard circle around Elizabeth, either sewing or reading. Hermione had been given a bit of tapestry to work on before she could request a book. She had felt a moment of panic in trying to comprehend the mechanics of the delicate needlework, but she had always been a quick study, and after a few moments observation of the other ladies deftly wielding their talents, Hermione was able to muddle through.
Now, with the Queen's sharp eyes and sharper attention focused on her, Hermione's nervousness returned. "Marlowe has informed me," the Queen continued, "that Shakespeare is writing a play that will feature you in a minor role. Tell me how you, amongst all my subjects, garnered this honour?"
Hermione's mind raced. What was Elizabeth talking about? Surely she didn't expect a lady to act—after all, in the 16th century all roles, even the female roles, were played by men. "As Your Majesty says, it is a minor role," she said cautiously, feeling her way. Perhaps Shakespeare had written her in as a character? But how? They had not crossed paths yet. The only character Hermione could think of who shared her name was in A Winter's Tale, but how could that be? A Winter's Tale wasn't published until 1623, yet Shakespeare was writing it now? "I think perhaps Master Shakespeare was referring to the Hermione of Greek mythology, not myself."
The Queen narrowed her eyes. "Are you suggesting I am in the wrong?"
Damn Kit Marlowe, the scheming bastard. "Not at all. I am suggesting that your Majesty may have been ill-informed. I, personally, know of no play being written at the moment." There. Let Marlowe answer that accusation.
"Is that so? Your fiancé is part of Shakespeare's troupe, is he not? He might know of such things and choose not to share them with you."
"It is possible, Your Majesty," Hermione agreed. One had to be careful when contradicting a monarch. "However, Frederick and I speak of many things, including his work. It is doubtful he would keep something of this magnitude from me."
"Hmm. We shall see." A slight smirk curled the Queen's lip. "I wish for you to join me at Vespers this evening."
Hermione froze. While she knew the basics of Muggle religious dogma current during this era, she was not proficient in performing any of the rites associated with them. She could only nod in acquiescence and hope to find Dr. Dee as soon as possible, for a quick lesson in Anglicanism.
"Do not be late."
Hermione had the distinct feeling that the other ladies were eyeing her like hungry jackals, waiting for her to make one misstep before closing in for the kill.
Hermione was pacing up and down the second floor, in the Long Gallery, when Fred found her.
"You'll have to patch the missing pieces of that rug if you tread much more, Granger."
She whirled around and then launched herself into his arms, holding him tightly. "Oh, Merlin. I'm so scared, Fred."
He returned her embrace, pressing a soft kiss against her temple. "What's happened, love?"
Unable to contain her shivers, she buried her face in his neck. "I have to attend Vespers with the Queen, and I'm not sure I'll remember when to stand, or sit, or kneel, I don't know the actual Latin for the hymns or chants, and I can't find—"
A firm mouth pressed over hers, cutting off her rambling, and her heart began to pound so that she thought it might pop her corset strings. Just when she thought her knees might completely give way, they released her. "We'll find Dr. Dee. It's not that big of a castle," he murmured as he pulled back slightly.
Hermione knew she had a silly, dreamy look on her face, but she didn't care. "All right." She gave herself a brisk mental shake. She needed to be on full alert in a few short minutes. Biting her lip, and mindful of what Meg had said last night—and again this morning when she was stuffing Hermione's curves into a tasteful purple brocade gown—Hermione gave Fred a coy smile. "What do you think of the new dress?"
He stepped back, still holding onto her hands and gave her a long perusal from head to foot. His eyes studied her intently, smouldering. Why had she never thought Fred could be seriously interested in someone?
"Eh, it'll do," he said at last, with a shrug.
Oh yes, that's why. All that time spent primping to impress him, wasted. She had even let Meg twist and restrain her wild hair into a beautiful chignon, with a few tendrils flying loose. "... so that any man who sees them will want to reach out and brush them back into place," the girl had said with a wicked glance. Hermione gave the red-haired wizard an exasperated look and withdrew her hands. "Fine. I guess I'll go and 'show my wares' to that old lecher, Marlowe. He seems to find them interesting."
Before she could take more than a half-step Fred swiftly cornered her, pressing her back into an alcove deep in the shadows of the corridor adjacent to the gallery and hidden from prying eyes, his powerful arms blocking any escape, even as he left no space between their bodies. Her mind spun wildly, unable to form a coherent thought while his tall frame was pressed flush against hers, feeling wonderful yet frightening at the same time.
"Do you know how hard it is not to ravish you in this dress?" he breathed, the warmth raising gooseflesh on her bare arms. He caressed the slope of her neck with nimble fingers, dropping them down to dip into her ample cleavage. "So many layers. Such a temptation to unwrap, to find what lies beneath."
So, Meg was right. Hermione just needed to find the right incentive. She tilted her head, arching her neck to give him greater access. "Maybe you should give in to that temptation."
Fred paused, an uncertain look in his eyes. "I was only trying to take your mind off the dire situation, Hermione, not shag you in front of all and sundry."
Her eyes flashed, hurt aching in her chest as pleasure threatened to turn to anger. "So this is nothing but a game to you?"
He was flustered; she could see it clearly in his features. He leaned his forehead against hers. "I don't want it to be a game. I would love nothing more than to shag you senseless right here, right now." He took her hand and placed it on his sizable erection—there was no codpiece, it was all Fred. "I think this is evidence of what you do to me. If that's not enough, I suppose you could put your foot there and see what happens, though it would feel damned awkward and I can't guarantee you wouldn't get a cramp in your calf."
"You talk too much." She chuckled and tilted her face for another kiss. "Promise me this means something to you." She squeezed his rigid length for emphasis with one hand, raising the other to brush the tips of her fingers along the back of his neck.
"I swear to you on the life of my brother George that you mean... a great deal to me. That this," he pressed into her hand and groaned, "is not at all casual." He speared her with a heated look. "Give me a chance to prove myself."
She pondered his choice of words. "Why swear on your brother's life?"
"George and I are like one being. I swear on him, he swears on me. There's no escaping it. Separate us and we die. We are each body and soul, but no one knows the difference. He is my strength and weakness, as I am his. He is the better half of me and I am the better half of him." He smiled at her, reaching out to tweak one of the curls of brown hair that lay across her shoulder. "We're always contradicting ourselves. We want people to tell us apart, yet we don't want them to be able to. We want people to get to know us, but we also want them to keep their distance. We've always longed for someone to accept us." He ground his hips against hers, both of them quickly becoming breathless. "But we never actually believed there'd be anyone who would accept our twisted ways. So, when I say I swear on George's life, it's more important than swearing on my own."
Her eyes stinging, her heart aching, Hermione threaded her fingers through his hair and brought him close. "You, Fred Weasley, are quite the hidden gem."
"I just need a bit of a polish, yeah?"
Her heart in her throat, hoping she was doing the right thing, she took his left hand and pulled it behind her, placing it on the curve of her arse. "I want to see how bright you gleam," she whispered.
His response to her words was, she thought, entirely satisfying, as he dug his fingers into her arse and ground their hips together while his mouth travelled leisurely down her neck, triggering shockwaves of pleasure. He pulled her closer into his arms, caressing her mouth, her jaw, the hollow of her throat, the edge of her collarbone, tracing it all with the heat of his tongue. While he nipped a particularly sensitive spot just behind her ear she gasped, he slid his hand downwards to grab the side of her voluminous skirts and bunch them in his fist, his voice turning the red shade of pure seduction as he poured it into her ear.
"I would love to see you stripped bare, waiting for me on a bed of satin, your body open to me. How I long to touch you in all the places a lover should and hasn't," he murmured in a throaty purr. He tugged the fabric higher, trapping it between their bodies so he could move his hands freely, and she relished the feel of his searching hands on her trembling thighs. "To see all your deepest desires lying there, raw and exposed, ripe for the taking..."
Fred slid his hands down the front of her thighs, the heat of his palms shimmering through the thin cotton, caressing her as he kissed her swollen lips, loosening the ties that held her makeshift pantaloons in place. When the loose fabric fell to her knees, he cupped his palm against her heated mons and pressed the pad of one finger on her clit. His touch, so intimate and long-anticipated, sent a flood of desire coursing through her body, making her feel infinitely precious. His other hand curved around her hip to cup her arse and pull her further onto his fingers.
Fred gave a last squeeze to her bottom, then shifted his hand to just above and behind her knee, pulling her leg up until it wrapped around his hip. With his mouth hovering just over hers, he whispered, "This is for real."
He pressed his lips to hers and she responded feverishly, as if she'd been waiting a lifetime for that very moment. His lips moved against hers with hunger, yearning and tasting, shaping her pouty mouth to his, their tongues meshed in a duel that left them both breathless.
Panting, Fred skilfully unlaced the ties of his breeches, and Hermione watched intently, almost eagerly, her back against the wall, as he released himself from the imprisoning fabric. Fred then took himself in hand and traced her swollen labia with the tip of his cock, his precome slicking her already wet core.
"Yes," she hissed, sliding her feet apart, flattening her palms on the cool stone at her sides and arching her hips upwards. "Touch me."
"I'll do more than touch you, love," he assured her. He teased her with slow strokes of his cock. "Give yourself to me."
She wanted him desperately, wanted to slide herself down onto his shaft, but he held her firmly in place. She whimpered, "Just make this ache go away."
"Hermione, look at me," he commanded even as he aligned his tip at her entrance. She looked up, met questioning eyes as brown as her own. "You're sure?" he asked huskily. "Because when we get back, I won't let you go."
"I want this," she pleaded. She placed a gentle hand to his face and brushed her thumb over his scar.
He shifted his hips to press the thick head of his cock against her wet core then, bracing his feet squarely, he put his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her up, and as he did so she wrapped both legs around his waist and then her back was hard against the wall and he was pulling her hips tightly to him and thrusting home. Both of them gasped from the impact. Leaning his forehead against hers, he grunted, "Hold on."
She tightened her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, moulding herself against him as closely as possible, discovering that they fit well together.
Fred gripped her hips hard and drove into her depths once, twice, again, her back hitting the unforgiving stone wall behind her with a dull thud each time. "Muffliato," he gasped, never breaking his pace.
When she laid her cheek against his and panted, "More," in his ear, he immediately began pistoning into her faster, his bollocks slapping her arse. She bit down on his earlobe and his rhythm faltered for a moment. "Hungry?" he asked hoarsely.
"For you," she murmured, angling her hips for deeper penetration.
"Gods, how I've wanted this," he admitted, sinking his shaft deep inside her once more. "Come for me, Hermione."
His thrusting, combined with his plea, sent her over the edge and into the abyss. "Fred!" she screamed, burying her face in his neck. A moment later he joined her, shouting his completion to the rafters and flooding her with his seed.
Held securely within each other's embrace, they panted, their chests heaving in the aftermath as their breathing slowed to something resembling normality. Her multitude of skirts were still bunched between them, Fred's breeches and her pantalets in a puddle at their feet.
"I can't feel my legs," she whispered finally, unwilling to move.
"Neither can I," he said, his voice shaky. "Which is a problem, since I'm the one holding us up." He supported her gently as she lowered her legs and leaned against him, the wall supporting both of them. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but before he could speak they heard the sound of laughing children, and what sounded like running.
"Bloody hell," Fred muttered, standing up in alarm and straightening her skirts to resemble something less rumpled. "Don't need any sprogs seeing you in this state." He quickly pulled up his breeches and laced them.
Hermione patted her hair, noticing that a thick strand of twisted hair had come loose from its chignon. "I need to fix this, or have Meg fix it, before I see the Queen. I can't go to Vespers looking like this."
The children's voices grew closer, the footsteps louder. In fact, it sounded as if they were running right past Fred and Hermione at that very moment, though there was no one to be seen in the corridor other than themselves. There were several moments of silence, and then the air became thick and chill. Hermione gasped as she watched children of various ages storming past them, flashing in and out of visibility, all dressed in what looked like Victorian clothing.
"What are they?" Hermione whispered, trembling. "They're not ghosts, are they? Nearly Headless Nick never looked anything like that. I mean, he was only half there, but he was always only half there."
"Well, fuck me," Fred muttered, his mouth twisted in half-amusement, half-shock. "George and I hadn't accounted for this." He watched as three more children skipped by, flickering as though lit by strobe lights. "Echoes," he said, as if that explained everything.
"Echoes?"
"Yeah. The timelines are crossing, echoing across the centuries." He frowned heavily. "Must be because of us."
"Us?" Hermione squeaked. This did not sound good. "Why us?"
"Spectral entities need a tremendous amount of energy to manifest. Based on what we just saw, I'd say we just gave them at least a day's worth with our phenomenal shag."
"Ugh, crude."
"Don't you think it's nice to have it independently confirmed that yes, it was as good as you thought it was?" Fred grinned unrepentantly. "I could've said a bit of slap and tickle, or the old in out, or the good old-fashioned ploughing the trough."
"Thank you for sparing my sensibilities," she said dryly. One more child ran by them… and disappeared into the wall at the end of the corridor, raising the hairs on Hermione's neck. "Please tell me you saw that."
"Gives new meaning to 'beating your head against a wall'." He took her hand and held it firmly. "You okay?"
She swallowed several times before she could speak. "I think so. But we need to find Dr. Dee."
He kissed her forehead. "Consider it done."
After much searching, they found Dee in a suite which, Hermione recalled from her family's tour years ago and centuries ahead, had formerly been Anne of Cleves' rooms on the left side of the first floor. He was quite helpful, providing Hermione with a small book of Anglican liturgy as well as advice on how to deal with the Queen's temperament.
"Say what you mean to say, as plainly as possible," he advised. "All men flatter the Queen in hope of advancement. Pay her the compliment of truth."
In Hermione's mind, that was easier said than done, especially when the truth was very likely to get one killed. As long as she and Fred had their wands hidden against their outer thighs with a Concealment Charm, they could still perform low-level spells without touching or waving them, though not wordlessly. If by some fluke she were imprisoned, she might be divested of her wand, and therefore of any means of escape. She could only hope that Fred's time-travel spell would end before something like that happened.
Just as the sun started to set on the horizon, Hermione entered the Morning Room on the ground floor—where all services were held, regardless of the time of day—and curtsied low before the Queen. "I am here at your command, Your Majesty."
Queen Elizabeth arched a thin reddish brow and pursed her lips. "Rise, Lady Granger."
Hermione rose and followed the Queen inside, guards coming to a halt on either side of the doorway. A smallish altar lay towards the back of room, closed off by a gilt, heavy metal gate that latched in front. Upon the altar were several candles to each side and a large golden, bejewelled cross situated in the middle. Kneeling benches were placed off to the side.
"Tell me, Lady Granger. Do you practise?" Elizabeth asked, nodded in the altar's direction.
Hermione gave a faint smile. Dee's words about telling the Queen the truth spun through her mind at a feverish rate. "No, Your Majesty. Our province was quite liberal. Though I've studied several religions, I'm afraid to say that I've retained little of the actual custom of Vespers."
Elizabeth gave Hermione a calculating look that slowly morphed into a genuine smile. "In my sister's day, you would have been dragged out into the streets and burned on the spot for speaking such treason."
Releasing a breath she hadn't realised she was holding, Hermione laughed nervously. "Then I am exceedingly happy your Majesty is in power and good health."
"I'm sure you are," Elizabeth said wryly. She indicated Hermione was to move the skirts of the royal gown in order for the Queen to kneel. "She was not well in her last days. Do you know she had over two hundred and eighty heretics burnt at the stake during her reign?"
Abruptly, Hermione felt the air thicken and the temperature drop considerably. "Yes, Your Majesty," she said absentmindedly, looking around for the cause of the drastic change in atmosphere.
Several taps sounded upon the woodwork, and Elizabeth glanced at the altar. "Cease, you old fool."
"Your Majesty?" Hermione asked in puzzlement. Was the woman talking to herself?
"It is only one of the many spirits that haunt this place, Lady Granger," the Queen said dismissively. "There was a priest who became trapped in his own priest-hole during the early part of my reign, just behind the altar." She nodded towards the gated altar while uncurling the beaded chain attached to her prayer book from her waist. "Rather than call out for help, he suffocated to death. Do not trouble yourself over it. He is harmless."
Bastard heretic!
The hairs on Hermione's arms stood straight up, and she glanced around furtively, trying to identify the source of the voices. Elizabeth acted as if she hadn't heard the insulting epithet and continued her preparations for Vespers. Hermione was at a loss as to what to do.
Godless whore!
Breathy whispers hissed around the room, menacing and malevolent.
Taking her prayer book in hand, Elizabeth settled on the kneeler and began reading aloud, her voice so soft and quiet that Hermione could barely hear her. Warily, Hermione sank to her knees behind the Queen and followed suit, closing her eyes.
You profane the altar of Christ with your wickedness!
Hermione's eyes sprang open and she turned to Elizabeth, but the Queen was deep in prayer, oblivious to her environment. Surely she must have heard the threatening voice?
The Queen did not acknowledge the hateful voice and instead continued on with the opening prayer. "Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen. Alleluia."
"Amen," Hermione repeated belatedly after the Queen ended her soft chant.
Elizabeth, eyes still closed, began singing a hymn Hermione did not know. Even as she wondered if the Queen would notice her silence, she noticed the gate guarding the altar start to slowly swing open.
"Your Majesty?" Hermione whispered anxiously.
No response, except for louder singing.
The golden cross that sat upon the altar began to rise, moved by an unseen force, then shot abruptly towards the kneeling women.
"Your Majesty!" Hermione cried and shoved Elizabeth off the kneeler and out of harm's way. The heavy cross smacked Hermione on the side of the head, a blow hard enough that everything went black for a moment.
When Hermione next opened her eyes, she was lying on the floor next to the Queen. She raised a hand to her head, trying to stem the flow of blood from the gash at her temple, when the guards rushed in and, without preamble, seized her and hauled her to her feet. As they wrenched her upright she saw the Queen lying on the floor, unresponsive to the attempts to rouse her.
"No!" Hermione panted, frightened beyond belief.
One guard knelt down to examine the Queen and, after looking towards the doorway for a moment, shook his head. He turned and glared at Hermione. "Take her to the Library and bolt the door." He rose and sneered at her. "It is a pity there are no holding cells in this castle—you will just have to bide your time in a room with no windows."
"The cross!" Hermione shrieked, struggling with the burly men. "It was going to hit her! I shoved her away and I was struck instead!"
"Lady Granger, you are under arrest for the murder of our most favoured sovereign, Queen Elizabeth."
"No!" she screamed. "It was an accident!"
"You will be confined to the Library until the date of your execution."
"Wait, what about a trial? I deserve a trial!"
"There will be no trial," said a sinister voice from the doorway.
Hermione turned and frowned, trying to place the man that looked so familiar. Next to him, two soldiers held a bound and gagged Fred, struggling to free himself. "Fred?" she whispered, tears flooding her eyes.
He tried to speak, but the strip of cloth stuffed in his mouth prevented him. His eyes, however, spoke volumes—regret being the prevalent emotion, but a glimmer of warmth and, dare she say it, love?
"The murder of her most royal highness, Queen Elizabeth, is punishable by death," the man said coldly. "You have one day to make your peace with God. May God have mercy on your souls."
He waved his hand, and the guards dragged Hermione and Fred down the corridor to the Library. Once there, the soldiers shoved them inside and slammed the door. Hermione heard the sound of a heavy bolt sliding home.
Putting aside the problem of escape for the moment, she ran to Fred and loosened his bindings. "Are you all right?" She touched the rapidly swelling bruise on his cheek.
He pulled the gag from his mouth and threw it to the floor. "Bastard's missing the tip of his index finger, just so you know." He bared his teeth and then snapped them shut. "Wasn't a tasty morsel, but I felt vindicated."
"Silly prat," Hermione said with a shake of her head, which she immediately regretted due to the ache blooming at her temple.
Cool fingers relieved some of the pain. "What happened, love?"
She winced when he pressed a bit too hard. "I think the present time here is trying to merge with the past and future, and it's creating some sort of overlap. Elizabeth was talking about her sister Mary—something about burning heretics. That's when I heard this voice. It was vile, Fred, like the voices I heard when I wore Voldemort's locket."
He withdrew his wand and murmured an Episkey, healing her gash. "But you saw no one? Was this like in the corridor, with the ickle ghosties?"
"Yes! Except this was more like Peeves—a spirit able to cause damage, like a poltergeist." She glanced around the room and cursed the lack of windows. "I can't believe I killed Queen Elizabeth!" she choked out, then she turned her eyes to him in dawning horror. "Fred, what if we can't get back? What if this changed our future? What if I... destroyed that too?" She began to sob.
"Shhh," Fred cooed, gathering her into his arms. "This is just a bubble in time, self-contained. Once the spell ends, any havoc we created will disappear, and the natural course of history will reassert itself."
"Oh, thank Merlin." She sniffed and laid her head on his shoulder. "But Fred... what if we die here?"
Fred's silence did not bode well. "I don't know," he said finally. "It's never happened before."
Well, she had taken greater risks when she set out with Harry to destroy the Horcruxes all those years ago. Still, it rankled, not knowing the possible outcomes of a situation. "If we ever get back home, I'm going to hex your arse off, Fred Weasley."
He gathered her closer, rubbed her back soothingly, and kissed the top of her head. "Not my arse, love. You know how perfectly shaped it is. One dent and it loses its face value."
She groaned and buried her face in his chest. "Only you, Fred. Only you."
He tilted her head up and gave her a heated stare. "Yes, only me." He nuzzled her nose with his. "For thy sweet love remembered…"
"That's it!" she shouted, jumping up and knocking Fred's chin with her head.
"What's it?" he mumbled, rubbing his jaw.
"That's where I've seen that man!" A feverish light filled her eyes. "Remember me telling you about the theft at the museum, of John Dee's crystal ball?"
Fred nodded. "The one he used in conjunction with a scrying glass, right?"
"Yes! The man that stole those items is here! He's the man that was talking to Marlowe last night, and he was here earlier. He was always dressed in a hooded cloak. How on earth did he get here?"
"Maybe he comes from here."
"But that's impossible. That would mean he's jumping through time periods, altering different timelines. Plus, why would he steal Dee's crystal ball?"
Fred frowned, pondering. "You said this berk was talking to Marlowe, right? Wasn't Marlowe a colleague of Shakespeare?"
"Not really. They were more like adversaries."
Fred grinned and tapped her nose. "Well then, maybe this Marlowe bloke was trying to get a leg up on Shakespeare by obtaining a device that would show him the future?"
Her eyes widened. "Fred, you are brilliant!" She pulled his face close and kissed him hard.
When she released him, he smirked. "It just comes naturally."
She had no doubt that it did.
