Act II, Scene I: Majesty? Who is this bloke?
Title: Riddle
Pairing/Character: Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger also starring Emporor Joseph II of Austria, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and a young Viennese maid named Alda
Rating: 18+/NC-17
Wordcount: 4,589
Summary: Part III: In the search for the remaining horcruxes Ron, Harry, and Hermione have been at Grimmauld Place hoping to find information about the locket. During their research Hermione accidentally happens upon something quite different - something which takes Hermione and Ron to St Mungo's on a visit to Gilderoy Lockart still in the Janus Thickey ward, until he in turn leads them back into the time of Emporor Joseph II and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Beta(s): I need to say a huge thank you to millieweasley for her tremendous help with historial information as well as her wonderful encouragement, to manynames for her input in overseeing my proper use of English, and to Amadeus the film for helping to confirm some (as I'd thought) long forgotten detail
Author's Notes: In response to millieweasley's Harry Potter History Challenge **here**. I'm taking some of our HP friends back to Vienna, 1786. It's terribly brave of my volunteer history advisors to allow me to take this on, I'm not too sure whether they'll encourage me back another time however! Link to Part I **here** and Part II **here**. Part IV **here** and Part V is **here**




Part III of V: Act II, Scene I - Majesty? Who is this bloke?

As they were instructed, Ron and Hermione slipped into two empty seats towards the back of the room and watched the scene that was unfolding in front of them with fascination.

“What is it?” Ron whispered to Hermione as a group of people were positioned beside a small stage at the front of the room.

“I think it’s a rehearsal for an opera,” Hermione whispered back, pointing to an area to the side of the stage, “If you look down there, there are some musicians and a conductor.”

“Hermione,” Ron whispered again, “If this isn’t fancy dress then …”

“… then you’re right and we’re definitely not in 1997,” Hermione finished Ron’s sentence for him, “Ssssh, let’s listen.”

The large room, more an auditorium than a theatre, was opulently decorated. The walls, white, were adorned with decoration in gold. Mouldings of the most magnificent design and craftsmanship held elaborate sconces with candles waiting to be lit when the natural light dimmed and the rehearsal was over. Hermione could feel plush carpet, which appeared to be deep red - much as they’d had in Gryffindor Tower,.

Poised to begin, the piano player and the singers stopped themselves short at the sound of a voice.

“Herr Friseur. Herr Friseur. Gilderoy, I’m calling you.”

Ron and Hermione looked towards each other and then towards the person, sitting lazily in a vast seat not unlike a throne who had called for Herr Friseur, Gilderoy Lockhart?

“Majesty, Majesty. Forgive me for not hearing your first call.” Gilderoy Lockhart was moving swiftly towards the commanding voice, bowing deeply as he moved. “How may I be of service?”

“Herr Friseur?” Ron asked Hermione, an eyebrow raised, “What’s that all about then? And “Majesty”, who is this bloke? Some sort of King or something?”

“Majesty usually means that, yes.”

“What’s happening? Lockhart is talking to a King. Where are we, Hermione?”

“Sssh,” Hermione suggested kindly, sitting back in her seat, “They’re going to start.”

At the edge of the stage, the pianist had stood and gestured to a group of people on stage with his arm. “He’s the conductor as well,” Hermione whispered more to herself than to Ron. “Oh crikey.” The music had started, a simple tune played with great enthusiasm on the piano, a single voice rang out as two violinists and a wind instrument, perhaps a clarinet joined in.

Voi, che sepete, che cosa è amor, donne vedete s'io l'ho nel cor

“This is Mozart, Ron. It must be a rehearsal for one of his operas. Don Giovanni, I think. No, maybe not. No, it’s definitely not. Oh Ron, this is The Marriage of Figaro. I’ve seen it before with my parents in London.”

“What?” Ron whispered back, not having caught a word of what Hermione had little more than mouthed at him.

“This is Mozart,” she repeated, “The Marriage of Figaro.”

Quello ch'io provo, vi ridirò; è per me nuovo, capir nol so.

“We’re at someone’s wedding?”

“No Ron, this is a rehearsal for one of Mozart’s operas.”

“Oh,” Ron’s voice gave away his disappointment. He’d heard a little bit about opera. It was supposed to be dull, boring, just people singing to each other in a different language and not easy to understand at all.

“It’s wonderful. Listen.”

“What’s she singing about?”

“It’s in Italian, Ron. That’s Cherubino, he gets dressed up as a girl and –“

“What?” Ron raised an eyebrow quizzically, “Are you out of your mind, Hermione?”

“Ssssh.”

In the corner, the King was signalling again. Not this time towards his Herr Friseur, but towards the pianist who seemed to steadfastly ignore him, turning his back slightly as if to make the point.

Ron looked more closely at the scene. The throne-type seat, which wouldn’t have been out of place in some of the grander rooms at the Ministry of Magic, he thought, was matched with another one, currently empty.

It was hard to see much of ‘Majesty’ as he sat back apparently watching the rehearsal taking place. There was evidence of one long leg stretched out slightly to the side of the chair, and a finely sculpted head of very white hair – meaning he must be old, considered Ron – over the top of the throne.

Lockhart was busying himself around, dipping and fawning in front of the throne-type seat and scuttling off again, returning to fawn and dip once more. That baby blue dressing gown now wasn’t quite so out of place. In fact it was much like the top coats many of the other courtiers were wearing as they too buzzed around, or sat silently waiting to answer any questions thrown at them by ‘Majesty’. Ron also noticed Lockhart’s ‘pajamas’, in a darker blue satin with a shimmering stripe, didn’t look at all out of place; the top with its ruffles sat perfectly under the neckline of the jacket and from the edge of its sleeves; just as if it was made for the occasion. Lockhart’s hair also seemed to have undertaken a bit of a transformation. Always golden blonde, shining and bouncy, its waves perfectly formed, it was now paler, almost white and made more of an impact than ever as the longer bits were tied back with a small deep blue bow. Ron sniggered to himself about what a woman Lockhart looked like, to be dug in the ribs gently by Hermione.

“If the song-“

“Aria, Ron.”

“If the aria is in Italian then we must be in Italy,” Ron suggested in totally hushed tones.

“Not necessarily,” Hermione whispered. Her mouth was very close to Ron’s ear, so close he could feel her words gently moving his hair against the edge of it.

“Why not?”

“It’s rare for the libretto – the words of an opera – to be translated. The music doesn’t flow so well, you see.”

Ron could feel the warmth of Hermione’s breath actually in his ear now. The feeling was having a similar effect on his insides as lying with Hermione on the sofa had the night before. “So this Mozart,” Ron suddenly had an idea.

“What?”

“Is he still alive now? You know, in our time.”

Hermione shook her head, the end of her nose brushing gently in Ron’s hair.

“No.”

Ron’s insides were flipping about now. He was confident that she had no idea whatsoever of the effect that this intimate contact was having on him.

“He died just over two hundred years ago, in seventeen ninety-something, I think.”

“Oh!,” Ron exclaimed, “So we could be just about anywhere and any time.”

“We could,” Hermione agreed, “But I think we could narrow it down a bit if we could find the answers to a few questions.”

Concentrating on anything but keeping control of his body systems, the ones that liked to think they had a life of their own, wasn’t easy right now. Thinking was getting close to being out of the question. “Like where are we? And, when are we there?”

“I was thinking more like ‘Who is that man at the piano?’, and ‘Who exactly is that sitting in the throne?’,” Hermione answered, a smile on her face. The answers to Ron’s questions would, of course, narrow when and where down to exact pinpoints, but hers meant they could really piece it together themselves, far more of a challenge.

“Not to mention,” she continued, “Whether this is a wizarding community or a Muggle one.”

From the front of the room, the occupant of the seat they were both considering a throne by now stood, turned towards the pianist and beckoned him over. Once again they noticed that the man, small and wearing very similar clothes to Gilderoy Lockhart, chose to ignore him, his piano-playing becoming more determined. On the small stage the current singer, definitely a female this time, Ron was sure, faltered in the flowing passage she was delivering only to be joined in loud voice by the pianist.

“I really must protest,” suggested the man known as Majesty towards the pianist, who continued to play his instrument very definitely as well as sing along with the faltering words. The soprano on the stage finally shuddered to a halt and was standing looking not just uncomfortable but also a little embarrassed.

“Sir. Madam,” Alda had reappeared at the door and was beckoning Ron and Hermione to join her, “Your room is ready for the night. There is a tray and fresh night clothes. I think you will be very comfortable.” She looked from Hermione to Ron, her eyes lingering as she looked him up and down slowly as if she was finding it difficult to believe what she saw.

“Thank you Alda,” Hermione responded her own eyes scanning every inch of wall as they walked. There were pitifully few portraits lining the walls in this part of the building now, and those there were definitely didn’t respond as the ones they were used to would have done at such places as Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic, or at St Mungo’s. No occupant had requested a password from them, or passed comment about the strangers. Neither of them had been mocked for their obvious physical differences to the other people around, or asked questions they’d rather not have to answer. So far, Hermione’s logic told her, there was nothing whatsoever to let her believe they were in a wizarding place.

“Alda, can we ask you some questions?” Hermione chanced as they made their way down steps which seemed to lead into the corridor that their room was in.

“Oh no, madam. That wouldn’t be right at all. Herr Friseur would not like it. He has asked me to tell you to be ready after lunch tomorrow and that he will make sure you get what you came for tomorrow night. Everything you need until lunch tomorrow I’ll bring to your room.”

“Thank you,” Ron replied, ducking carefully to save his head as they reached the bottom of the steps. He wondered if Hermione, or Alda, come to that had noticed the strain in his voice from those two simple words. If Lockhart was going to see them tomorrow that meant they were staying tonight, and if it was their room then that meant he was sharing it with Hermione. The last time they’d been in the room there had only been one bed, quite a small bed at that, and unless that had changed it meant … Well, he didn’t want to even start to think what it meant. The moment he allowed his thoughts to travel in that direction he would lose total control.

“Here you are,” Alba informed them, her hand resting on the door handle, “Leave the tray outside when you’re finished. I’ll put your breakfast tray there in the morning. Have a comfortable night.”

With a slight bow and a gentle smile, Alda turned and made haste back towards the direction from where they’d just come.

“Well, I don’t know about you, Ron Weasley, but I’m keen to see just what Alda has provided on that tray.”

It seemed like an age since they’d last eaten. She had no idea what the time was now, but it was dark outside and that suggested it was reasonably late, she was hungry. Hungry enough to eat anything, anything at all.

If Ron and Hermione had believed they’d got past the stage of dancing around each other yesterday, then today – or to be more accurate, tonight – was proving that belief entirely wrong.

On the tray had been some bowls with a thick and tasty soup, fortunately still steaming and warm. Two small loaves of fresh bread smelled wonderful, and a bowl of fruit more than welcome.

“Where would you like to sit?” Ron asked Hermione as they both stood a little awkwardly, realising that the door was shut and the night loomed in front of them with no-one else or nowhere else to go to break it up.

“On the bed,” Hermione suggested looking at the piece of furniture, now looking amazingly small for two people who’d never been on a bed together before. Soon they were going to have to be in it together, rather than merely sitting upon it, “There’s plenty of room and if we sit on that side, the light from the candles will help us while we’re eating.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. His insides now felt like his mum had done one of her mixing spells on them, one of the ones she did before making a birthday cake big enough to feed the lot of them and their friends.

“That’s a good idea,” He smiled nervously towards Hermione and then looked at the tray, “It’s soup, I think.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” Hermione agreed, walking to the tray and picking up a bowl, feeling the rough worked material of the dish beneath her fingers as she did so, “It looks really good.”

“It smells nice too,” Ron agreed, taking his bowl and moving to sit awkwardly on the edge of the bed underneath the light of a candle, “It’s okay. The soup, it’s okay. It’s got lumps of meat in.”

“Yes?” Hermione asked, sitting down beside him and feeling the chill of the room. There was no fireplace like they were used to in Gryffindor Tower, nothing to keep them warm other than themselves. “Best eat it while it’s still hot.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, taking another mouthful, “It’s got bread in, like a loaf at the bottom. And meat, it’s nice.” Hadn’t he already said that? Bloody hell, this was difficult. He’d not even thought about sleeping with Hermione. Sleeping in the same bed as her, where she’d be close and probably touching him and his body would react. He’d not be able to stop it and she might not think it so nice when it was happening all the time. He’d not blame her for thinking he was some sort of pervert for constantly being aroused by being next to her and he knew he would be. His hormones had taken complete control lately, it seemed. Ron let out a sigh, he shouldn’t be thinking like this, not now. Not just before he was going to have to get undressed and put on the nightshirt he’d seen folded at the top of the bed on top of his pillow, identical to the one on the next pillow.

“That was a big sigh.”

“Food’s nice.”

“Ron?”

Ron looked along the bed and towards Hermione, “I’m alright. I’m just wondering about sleeping.”

“You’ll be fine. You can curl your legs up if you think it’ll help.”

Ron swallowed hard. She did know, of course, what he was expecting. What’s more she’d found a way around it, so he could hide it. Ron tried to find some words, but nothing would come to his mind, so he just nodded and put his empty soup bowl down, the last dregs soaked up by the end of his loaf of bread.

“I’m sorry we can’t use any magic. I know it would be easier for you if we could. But we just can’t risk it, not tonight. Not till we know.”

Magic wasn’t something Ron had thought about to solve this particular problem. There was usually only one way, a temporary one at that, and that way definitely didn’t involve magic. And it was a way he wasn’t going to use in front of Hermione, ever as he could see it. Though maybe all was not lost, he could go to the bathroom just before bedtime. If he took a few minutes longer than she did to get ready, then he got lost on the way back. That was the answer, “No magic, that’s okay. Though it would make it easier to see.”

“Hmmm?” Hermione asked, reaching for the fruit and offering Ron the choice of a pear or a peach.

“I was thinking it would be easier if we could use a Lumos rather than a candle going to the bathroom in a bit, you know to wash hands and that before bed.”

“I don’t think there’ll be any need for either,” Hermione smiled kindly, bending down and reaching under the bed and pulling out exactly what she’d expected to be there - a white porcelain pot with a handle, “You’ll find one each, I think.”

Ron swallowed even harder, “Oh. You mean that we …”

Hermione just nodded. “Yes. I know it’s not going to be easy, for either of us with the other one being here in the room. But I’m sure we can manage. It’s not like we haven’t been in difficult situations before. I won’t watch you, if you don’t watch me and I think, Ron, that to be entirely fair, it’ll be much easier for you than it is for me. Then there’s a jug and a bowl there, for hand washing – and that.”

It was typical, thought Ron, that the moment it was pointed out to him what exactly the pots were for, he needed a pee. Bloody typical.

“Wine,” Hermione poured two goblets and handed one to Ron. “It’s warm still, mmm spicy, like mulled wine from Christmas. It might be best if we drink it. See if it can relax us a bit and help us to sleep.”

The candles were beginning to flicker, Ron noticed. One of them was almost burnt down now, it wouldn’t last much more than ten minutes, most likely. The others looked as if they’d only be a minute or two behind it. There was no magic to use to keep them burning like that all night. By the time the last candle had gone out, they needed to be ready to settle down, or at least have memorised everything to be able to. Without the light from the small flames, the room would be totally dark. He really did, he realised, drinking from the goblet as Hermione suggested, need a pee.

“I might get ready Hermione. You know, for bed.”

“Okay,” Hermione agreed, shifting so he could walk past her to the other side of the bed, out of her sight. As soon as Ron was ready, she’d do the same. The nightgowns on the pillows looked comfortable: white cotton, simple with long sleeves and probably long too. The bed, she wasn’t so sure about. Sharing a bed with Ron wasn’t a problem; there would have been a day in the not too distant future when that would have happened anyway. Being forced into it today was only changing when and not if, in her mind. With a slight chuckle, Hermione imagined one day telling her grandchildren, their grandchildren possibly, that the first time they’d slept in the same bed together had been in … when? When were they? 1920, 1820, 1720 even?

“What?” Ron asked from the other side of the room. “Were you laughing at me?”

Hermione turned without thinking and saw him standing with his back to her, the white nightshirt hitched up as he held the pot in front of him. “I wasn’t laughing at you. No. Why?”

“You laughed, that’s all. I thought … never mind.” Ron looked at the pot. Why couldn’t he fill it? He needed a pee; he’d needed one for a little while. He’d never had trouble before so why couldn’t he just do one? It wasn’t as if Hermione was standing over him watching and eyeing him up, was it? Relax, Ron, he told himself. Take a deep breath in and then let it out and, ahhhhhh, that was better.

Hermione looked down at her form covered in the nightgown. All she needed was one of those long knitted hats and a candle from the wall and she’d be Wee Willie Winkie, the thought brought a smile to her face, “Do you mind which side you sleep on?”

“No. Do you?”

“No.” Hermione slipped into the bed, someone had put a warming bottle part way down. “Come on,” she suggested and held the covers of the four-poster up for him to slip in, “We can pull the curtains around when the candles go out if you like.”

Try as he might, Ron could not stay on the edge of the bed. As soon as he relaxed, he found himself slowly slipping, but slipping anyway, towards the middle and towards Hermione.

“Hermione,” Ron whispered as the last flame flickered and died leaving them in total darkness.

“Mhmmm?”

“Do you mind if I don’t sleep right on the edge?”

“No, of course I don’t. I wasn’t expecting that you would.”

“You know when you said about curling my legs up.”

“Yes.”

“What did you mean?” Ron’s legs were sticking out from the end of the covers and his feet felt like they were starting to go blue. It occurred to him that she might not have meant what he thought she did at the time.

“The bed’s not very long Ron, I didn’t want you to be cold.”

“Oh,” Ron giggled.

“Why, what did you think I meant?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Ron?” Hermione turned over and slipped an arm across him, and whispered into his ear, “Why are we both pretending we don’t want to be close?”

The reason he’d thought she’d meant he’d want to curl up his legs was going to become quite apparent to her very soon if she pressed herself towards him and breathed like that into his ear, “Do you want to be?”

“Yes. I do. It’s not every day I sleep in the same bed as my boyfriend for the first time. I’d rather it was memorable.”

“For more than china pots and –“

“Sssssh,” Hermione suggested as they pulled each other closer and their mouths found the others.

Snogging under the covers, just two layers of fairly flimsy white cotton between them was amazingly seductive, Hermione thought as she ran one hand down over Ron’s back, stopping when it cupped a firm cheek. There was no doubt now that Ron wanted to be there with her, she’d noticed, wanting more than anything to be brave enough to move her hand round to touch and feel, to let him know with no doubt that she was aware.

“Hermione?” Ron breathed against her lips, “Can I touch?” His fingers traced up over her back and slid towards her side.

“Please,” she held her breath and waited to feel Ron’s fingers slowly and nervously trace along her side and brush tentatively along the side of her breast, letting out a small sigh of pleasure as he did. Even through the fabric his fingers felt wonderful. Biting her lip Hermione willed him to move his hand further, to explore, to keep going. She was aware of her nipple hardening at the thought of his fingers rubbing against it, “Oh Ron.”

Smiling at Hermione’s response, Ron continued moving, his fingers working over and over the hard and tight tip of her breast when he found it. This was too good to be true, sharing a bed with Hermione and her encouraging him to be touching and feeling her. He wanted to move his mouth and to kiss where his fingers were working, but the fabric ... oh sod the fabric, he thought, and shuffled slightly to be able to do so, his tongue taking their place. Ron had no idea if he was doing this right, or what he should be doing, though he supposed he ought to find out - in a minute, he didn’t want to stop quite yet, in case Hermione said that, no, he wasn’t.

“Ron?”

Ron moved his mouth at the small whisper, “Yes?” he asked sliding up a little to put his face on a level with Hermione’s, “Are you okay? Am I –“

“You’re -, I’m fine. I wondered –“ Her voice sounded as nervous as Ron felt.

“Hermione?” Ron’s feelings were mixing inside now, dread that she was going to ask him to stop and hope that she wanted something else.

“Ron, I’d like to touch you too,” Hermione’s hand was resting on his thigh, he realised. There was one thin garment between their skin, her small soft hands and his rough hairy leg were only a piece of cotton apart. He took a breath and held it, needing to push away the feelings that were building in him far too soon. They were only just starting to touch, yet alone anything else, and already his body was over-reacting, “It’s okay if you don’t want me to.”

“No. I do,” Ron explained. “I do, I really do. It’s just …” How did he explain that? How did he tell Hermione that he was afraid one small touch and he’d totally lose control, that everything would be over for him?

“Shall we just see what happens?” Hermione asked, “We don’t have to do anything we’re not ready to do, after all.”

She understood. Ron realised she understood, “You won’t mind if we –“

Hermione put a finger on Ron’s lips, “There’s no rush.”

As she spoke she moved her fingers from Ron’s thigh, moved them upwards towards his stomach and then he felt her hand curl around him through the fabric and heard himself groan at the same time as Hermione let out a small sigh.

“Is that okay?” she asked, her fingers moving a little bit against the heat that was apparent through the fabric.

“It’s more than okay, Hermione,” Ron breathed, biting his lip for a moment when he finished speaking.

“Can I, you know, move the material?”

The strained sound from Ron was supposed to be a yes, though Hermione hadn’t waited. Her fingers were now directly on him and he was fighting every nerve not to move into them. He wasn’t going to be able to take very much more of this, he knew. He wanted it to last, to lie there for hours feeling her fingers grip him, her thumb exploring as she did. Ron groaned again, just as Hermione began to move her hand and deep in his stomach he felt an explosion starting.

“Hermione,” he muttered, losing control, his hips thrusting into her hand, “Oh Hermione.”

For a while Ron laid back elated, his breath coming in pants as Hermione moved to lie beside him. He tried to speak to her, to say something but words wouldn’t form. It didn’t seem fair though. Hermione had, well it was obvious what Hermione had just done and he’d done nothing for her, and apart from that there was something he definitely wasn’t going to be able to do for her now, spent as he was.

“Hermione?”

“It’s okay,” she replied again taking one of his hands and kissing his fingers one after the other, “Don’t talk.”

Ron smiled as Hermione’s hand led his to the top of her own thigh, to touch her skin where she let it go. Carefully, slowly and gently, Ron moved his fingers along the soft satin skin of her thigh, taking a deep breath as his fingers slipped over damp heat and she gasped before taking his hand once more in hers to guide him. More slowly, more firmly, more quickly, she encouraged him until Hermione too took a deep breath and shuddered against his hand.

“That’s something to tell our grandchildren,” Hermione whispered into Ron’s neck.

“What, that I wasn’t any goo-“

“No, silly. It’s what I was chuckling about before. The first time we slept together, in every sense of the word, was probably a good hundred years before we were even born.”