Four: Fall
In the weeks after Jago’s return Hermia managed to sufficiently impress Hermione so that she was forgiven what Hermione had termed ‘a gross lapse in judgement’. She had avoided Ashtad as much as possible, as had been her habit since he sent her up to the owlery on her first night at Hogwarts. It was more difficult than usual though, he seemed to be around more often than he strictly needed to be. He was always coming into the office where she worked on errands, he would appear in the lift and in the staffroom when she was having her lunch. She had no idea what he was plotting, but it was deeply aggravating. She wished that he would get on with it quickly, so that she could be embarrassed and then blast him into the middle of next month.
After a long day of checking the clauses in laws for Hermione, Hermia scooted out of the office as quickly as she possibly could. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost twenty five past five, meaning that she had already kept Jago waiting for far too long. Thinking that he would be annoyed, she broke into a run and jumped into the lift, just as the golden grille closed. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hello Smith.”
Hermia, span around, away from the button that she had just pressed. She scowled, wishing that she had not bothered to run for the lift. The frustration that she had felt at him becoming her shadow suddenly boiled over.
“Djalili, what is it that you want from me? You been following me around for weeks!”
“Don’t flatter yourself. We work in the same department. I see Andrew Williamson just as often as I see you, it doesn’t mean I want anything from him.” His voice was neutral but the dull flush of his cheeks betrayed him.
“Oh right, okay, fine. Just get on with whatever pathetic joke you’ve got planned and leave me alone.” Her voice was dripping with distain.
“Is that what you think of me?” His voice was filled with genuine surprise and hurt but Hermia did not hear him, she had swept out of the lift and into the atrium, towards a wizard in midnight blue robes. He had dirty blond hair and when she embraced him, he lifted Hermia up and swung her around, both of them laughing loudly. “Happy Birthday, Beautiful Girl.”
Ashtad stormed out of the lift and past them to the first free fireplace. As he shouted his address he saw Hermia kiss the man on the lips. Ashtad closed his eyes as he span through the Floo Network, the sick feeling in his stomach having nothing to do with the movement. He fell gracelessly out of the fireplace in his tiny flat and onto the hearth rug.
*****
Hermia had been feeling lonely ever since she had started at Beauxbaton’s. Today she felt down right miserable. It was her birthday and apart from a card and a gift from Thea, no-one else even knew or cared. She hugged the book that Thea had sent her to her chest and walked quickly towards her dormitory, head down so that no-one could see her tears. She turned a corner and walked straight into someone. The someone in question was quite a bit stronger than she was and she fell flat on her back, dropping her book.
“Désolé ! Désolé ! Laissez-moi vous aider vers le haut!”
She looked up into a handsome face with dark with glittering black eyes. There was something wrong with his accent.
“You’re not French.” She allowed him to help her up.
“Neither are you Beautiful Girl.” She stopped brushing her robes down and looked at him, trying to work out if he was laughing at her.
“No, I’m not. I’m Hermia Smith and you are?”
“Jago Harwood. I think we may be the only two English people in this entire palace.”
She arched an eyebrow at him “Well, I’m not English.”
“My dear lady, with a cut glass accent like that, you most certainly are.”
She laughed. “I’ve never been to England. How can I be English?”
“Well, let’s see, there’s the accent, the fact that you have the whole ‘English Rose’ look down to a tee, and the fact that I’d like to bet that when you are really mad, you just get cold and haughty and punish the person later, when they least expect it. There is more to being English than just the ground beneath your feet. Or at least I like to think so. Now, why are you so sad?”
“Who said that I was sad?” She demanded, feeling wrong footed by his honest manner.
“Your tears did, Beautiful Girl, your tears.” He bent down to pick up her book and Thea’s card fell out of it. “Oh dear, did everyone forget your birthday?” He frowned giving her a look of sympathy.
“They didn’t forget. I didn’t tell them. I don’t need your pity.” She snatched the book and card from him.
He smiled. “See? there’s the haughty coldness that I was talking about.”
“Oh yeah? That was nothing. I wouldn’t waste my time on you.” she started to storm away from him.
“Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made for kissing, lady, not for such contempt.” He called after her.
“Don’t think that quoting Shakespeare will help you get round me like I’m some silly French tart.” She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around, giving him the fiercest look that she could manage.
“Listen, you can spend the rest of your birthday hating my guts or we can start again and go have some fun. What do you think?”
She weighed up her options. She could, as he said, spend the evening hating everyone or go enjoy herself. She sighed, resigning herself to what she was about to do.
“Hi, I’m Hermia.”
“Nice to meet you Hermia, I’m Jago.”
*****
Ashtad sat in the Magical Law Enforcement staffroom reading in a low voice from a thick, old book which looked a little care worn. Hermia Smith walked into the room with out making a sound and stood behind him, listening.
“And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all
— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?"
She could no longer suppress the comment that was determined to burst free. Without bothering to suppress her mirth she asked “What’s the matter Djalili? Can’t you read without saying the words out loud?”
He looked up at her, with a look of disgust. “You’re such a philistine. Poetry is best heard aloud.”
She raised her eyebrows, insulted. “Philistine? I was raised in Venice, Berlin, Paris and Barcelona. I was encouraged to a have broad cultural horizons and be open to the avant-garde.”
“And you think poetry is better when you read it in silence?” His face was a picture of perfect skepticism.
“Yes, I do.” She said simply.
“Well, that just proves you’ve never had it read for you by the right person.”
He snapped the book shut and stood up, walking away from her without another word. She watched him leave, surprised by the hurt that had been all too evident in his voice.
The poem that Ashtad is reading is
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Elliot which is a poem that I've fallen back in love with myself recently. It is available online if you google it, but I personally think that everyone should have a book with at least one Elliot poem in it
The line of Shakepeare is from Richard the Third Act 1 Scene 2, when Gloucester is trying to woo Lady Anne. He compliments her on her eyes and she says : Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!
Apologies again for my rusty french. PM me if you can correct it!