"'Enrí, come you to bed anon?" Catherine called from the bed chamber. Henry couldn't help but smile. Since their wedding a year before, Catherine's English had improved a lot, but the r's yet trilled off her tongue, and she never quite managed to sound out the h's. His nickname had never sounded as sweet.
"Hastily, my love. I merely must read through these," he called back and flipped through the pages in his hands. Something that Mr. Foxe and Mr. Warham had given him regarding France – it was always something about France. Nothing interesting, though; he'd much rather be in bed with Catherine. "Oh, s'wounds!" he muttered to himself. "It can wait". He had the servants undress him and then sent them away.
His wife was a creature most beautiful. Eyes blue as heaven's own tint, her nose a precious pearl, and, for once, her red-and-golden hair was freed from the covering head cloth, falling in waves over her ivory shoulders. He crawled in under the duvet and embraced her. The last few months she had spent most nights in her own private chambers, and he had missed her dearly.
"Your foots are like ice, my king," Catherine said as he kissed her on the lips.
"Pray forgive me," he said and moved his legs thence.
"Nay, it feels good." She sneaked closer, warming his feet with her own. "I was warm all day."
Henry placed a hand on her forehead. "I can tell," he said. "Called you on the physician?"
Catherine removed his hand and held it in her own. "Nay. You need not worry, I am well."
"I cannot risk it. On the morrow, I shall bring the physician to you straight."
"Should you think it necessary." She place her head on his chest to rest.
"I do," he said, twisting a piece of her copper-golden locks around his finger. "Might be some illness has taken its hold of ...?" He didn't finish the question, but they both looked at her bulging stomach. "I cannot risk it," he repeated.
Catherine crossed her heart before she answered. "You must not think such foul thoughts. God 'as made this one strong and 'ealthy. I can sense 'is movements now as we speak."
"… it moves?"
Catherine nodded. She placed his trembling hand on her stomach. Henry laughed as something nudged the palm of his hand.
"Fie! I can sense it," he said, with a tone of surprise.
"'im," Catherine corrected.
He smiled. "Him. I can sense him."
"Nuestro hijo," she said. "Príncipe de Inglaterra." Our son. Prince of England.
... ... ...
Hermione took notes even though she'd already read about the event several times before. Although, when the teachers at Woodlands Junior School had mentioned Henry VIII, or her eight-year-old self had read about him before going to bed, she never would have thought he'd have such an immediate impact on her life. It was rather interesting how someone who had lived almost five hundred years earlier still could influence the magic society so much.
Harry and Ron didn't seem to agree. Ron was snoring with his faced pressed against his palms and Harry looked out through the window, absolutely oblivious to the world around him. They probably expected her to lend them her notes again. She was seriously considering turning them down for once, just to see how they'd react. And maybe to get them to pay attention in class now and then.
"'T'is forbidden to conjure of Sprites witchcraft enchantments or sorceries to intent to find money or treasure, or to waste consume or destroy any person in his body, or to provoke any person to unlawful love, or for any other unlawful intent or purpose ...'"
Hermione ignored the monotony in Professor Binns' voice and wrote down his monologue word for word.
"The penalty," he continued, "to break the Witchcraft acts was death, by axe or fire. In 1944, a Helen Duncan was jailed under the Witchcraft Act on the grounds that she had claimed to summon spirits. Obviously only a muggle would try to summon spirits, since it is a perfect waste of time. Therefore the episode demanded no intrusion by the Ministry of Magic. Later that year, although, a Ms. Yorke was also convicted, and she was indeed a witch, suffering from permanent memory loss due to a miscalculation when using the obliviate charm, which lead to quite a lot of publicity in muggle newspapers."
When the class finished, Harry and Ron yawned and rubbed their fists in their eyes.
"Anything worth knowing?" Harry said as he grabbed his books and shoved them into his bag.
"You'd know if you had listened," Hermione said and walked out of the classroom.
"Hermione, you know we never listen. That's why we have you," Ron said as he hit a second grader in the head with his history book. "Make some room," he said and passed by.
"Ron, you're a –"
"A prefect, I know. And who are you, my Mum?"
She looked at Harry to get some backup, but he was busy staring at Ginny. She wasn't sure when he'd realised that his best friend's little sister was, in fact, a very attractive girl, but she knew nothing good would come from it. Not only had it taken Ginny forever to get over Harry in the first place, but she also happened to be dating Dean Thomas.
"In a school with over five hundred girls, you couldn't have chosen anyone else?" she groaned.
"Huh?" Harry said, pulled out of whatever fantasy he was having.
"Oh, never mind," she said. "Boys!"
"What's with her?" Ron asked Harry as Hermione disappeared up the stairs.
"Probably nervous about the NEWT's," one of the twins said – Hermione could never tell them apart. Before she could hear their answers she'd closed the door behind her.
She sighed as she saw the mess Lavender and Parvati had left behind: make-up and beauty products and clothes all over the floor. She could just lift her wand and the tidy the place up, but what good would that do? The next morning it would just look the same. They were just like Ron and Harry – they always expected her to clean up their mess.
"Oh, Crookshanks," she said when she heard a soft purring. "At least you're on my side, aren't you?" She let go of her book bag and sat down on the bed. "What have you got there?" she asked as Crookshanks jumped up next to her and she scratched him behind the ear. "You could really use a good scrubbing cha…," she started, before she saw the glittering object in Crookshanks' mouth.
She wasn't sure why she hadn't handed the time turner in after she'd saved it in the Department of Mysteries the year before. She probably wouldn't have been punished too severely, since the rest of the stock had been permanently destroyed and this was the last one in all of the United Kingdom. Then it was the fact that breaking into and destroying Ministry Property made everything else seem rather meek. Still, for some reason she'd put the time turner in a closed box sealed with several locking spells and placed it at the bottom of her trunk, thinking it might come in handy. Being friends with the Boy Who Lived, one could never know.
"Crookshanks, give that to me," she said cautiously. "That's not a toy!" She reached out her hand to catch the small hourglass hanging on its golden chain, but the furry animal was too fast. He jumped onto her nightstand, took a leap for the red and golden canopy and then disappeared into her trunk.
Bullocks. Ron better never find out about this, or she'd never hear the end of it. Not only is that scabby excuse for a cat a danger to other animals, it's even breaking wizard laws!
"Crookshanks, come here!" she lured, but no cat appeared. "Fine!" she said. "Colloportus," she murmured at the door, and the lock clicked – she wouldn't need Lavender or Parvati in here either before she'd sorted this all out. "One last chance, Crookie." Still no cat. "Alright, suit yourself. Stupify!" she said and pointed at the trunk. The cat better still be in there. She reached down the trunk, and … bullocks.
The world started spinning around her.
AN: This story has been updated, which is why there suddenly are a lot more chapters than before. Henry's language has been made more appropriate to the 16th century, and there are five new added chapters: 14, 17, 18, 19 and 20. Enjoy!