Eight: Prey

Ashtad Djalili was beyond annoyed. He was beginning to think John Smith was leading him on a wild goose chase right across Europe. They were currently sitting in a filthy muggle bus station, some where in the south of Italy. Or was it Portugal? Ashtad had actually lost track of which country they were in.

“Tell me again what your contact said.” He kept his voice low.

“That the people we are looking for will be here.” Smith replied simply.

Ashtad closed his eyes, trying to retain his composure.

“And you’re sure we’re tracking the right people?”

Smith smirked at him maddeningly. “Of course.”

Ashtad wanted to blast him into a thousand pieces, but as they were in a foreign country and were surrounded by muggles he resisted this urge. He was exhausted, filthy, hungry and most maddeningly, under informed. Smith had insisted upon keeping his information to himself; he kept disappearing for hours at a time to meet with his contacts, leaving Ashtad to wonder exactly what it was that the man had to hide. Ashtad used the time he was alone to write to Teddy, using a code charm on his parchment, to keep his mentor informed of what was going on. He had very little idea of what Teddy thought about the situation. Once Ashtad and Smith were off the british mainland, the talking patronus spell no longer worked. Teddy had warned him that this might be the case. It would seem that distance mattered when it came to magic.

Smith stiffened beside him, like a hound who had caught the sent of a fox. Ashtad followed his gaze to where an elegant woman with long brown hair was just sitting down. She raised her head and Ashtad saw that she had a kind, serene face with an oddly vacant, glazed expression.

“Her?” He breathed to Smith, hardly daring to speak. Smith simply nodded and stood up. He strode confidently across to the woman and sat down next to her. She glanced at Ashtad vacantly and reached inside her robes and passed a letter to Smith. Smith took it and smiled. He returned to where Ashtad was sitting, looking spectacularly smug.

“Well?” Ashtad looked at him expectantly.

“Come on kid, let’s go. It’s time to catch a portkey.”

“Home?” Ashtad could not help but sound a little hopeful.

“Not exactly, no.”

*****

In a splendid breakfast room, surrounded by silent, watchful people, Emil Nequam lifted the baby girl up and looked into her four week old face, not with the wonder or reverence that most people approached a new baby with but with pure, unadulterated loathing. Perhaps the baby could tell, as she screwed up her little face and started to cry. Disgusted by what he saw as a fit of attention seeking, he none too gently put her into the moses basket and walked away, sitting on the far side of the room.

“Well, Emil, what do you think of her?” The commanding voice of Morgana rose above the child’s crying. No-one in the room stirred to comfort her. Every eye was trained on Nequam.

“Beautiful.” His voice was full of its customary coldness.

“Of course she is, she takes after her mother.” Alberich eyed Nequam smugly. He grasped Morgana’s hand, as though he were a dog scent marking its’ territory.

Morgana shook off his hand. “Make the child quiet, either that or remove it.”

Alberich lifted his daughter gently out of the moses basket and rocked her soothingly, as he had seen women do with children before. He felt no attachment to the child other than what her existence meant for him; that he was connected to Morgana in a way that no-one else in the room ever could be. He was sure that there would be no more children, this girl was all his mistress needed. He would never love this child as he did his mistress, but he prized her highly.

“What is she named?” Quirinus Eastman’s dispassionate voice called from across the room.

Morgana replied. “Bellona. She will be forced to fight those who do not accept my wisdom, so it is best that her name reflects that.”

The people who had been listening smiled appreciatively. The name was apt indeed. Bellona: to fight.

*****

“Something in your glances
Puts a spell on me
As the world fades all around
You’re all that I can see
And this time is right for falling
This time I’m gonna
That’s the price I will pay...”

Hermia was listening to a muggle radio station that she had charmed her radio station to play. Laying on her bed, she stared listlessly at the ceiling. There was a soft knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The door hinges creaked and Amelia appeared in the doorway.

“Sweetheart, you have a visitor downstairs.”

Hermia frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone; Elspeth and Jago had gone to Paris for Valentines’ day and there was no-one else who might visit her at home.

“Who is it?”

Amelia smiled widely, her eyes twinkling.

“Come down and see. They’re waiting for you in the garden.”

She left as Hermia stood up, perplexed and slightly annoyed, why couldn’t Amelia just say who it was? She checked her appearance in the mirror and grabbed her cloak, turning the radio off with a swish of her wand.

She walked through the cottage in no particular hurry. When she reached the kitchen, she saw that Teddy had started to make dinner.

“... Remus Alexander Lupin! If I have to tell you about that one more time young man, I’ll attach it to your finger with a permanent sticking charm! ”

Remus sniggered at his father’s serious tone and ran out of the room at high speed.

“And YOU, Miss Smith,” Teddy said in the same tone, pointing the fish slice at her in an aggressive fashion, “No funny business!”

Hermia held up her hands in surrender, indicating her innocence. He cracked a smile and said, “Go on then, outside!” chuckling to himself.

She opened the door and stepped out into the crisp february air. There, sitting on the slightly rickety, frost covered garden furniture was Wilmot Shacklebolt looking simply resplendent in a vivid burgundy traveling cloak and black robes.

He stood up and walked towards her, taking her hand and kissing it again, in the way he had when they had met. His fingers slipped up her sleeve in the same practiced fashion and again her pulse quickened.

“Miss Smith, it has been too long.” He rumbled in his deep slow voice.

“Has it?” She asked, almost dismissively as she withdrew her hand.

“Seven weeks is a long time, especially when someone makes a first impression like you do.”

“Is that right?” She asked him lightly, stepping away from him. Again she was being deliberately evasive.

“Oh absolutely. You have been dancing through my dreams ever since.”

A comment like that would usually have earned a derisive snort from Hermia, but instead her stomach squirmed pleasurably.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

She led him on a walk into the frost painted woods, unwittingly following the same path that another young woman from Lupin Cottage had led a handsome young visitor along twenty years before. As they walked he tried again to ask her about herself, her family, but she skilfully deflected the questions. Seeking to draw attention away from herself she asked;

“Why does Jago call you Tell?”

Wilmot chuckled.

“Not as obvious as Beautiful Girl or Aoife, is it? I met him at the dueling championships last year. He watched me, lost to me and then decided that I was really William Tell.”

“The archer? The one who shot an apple off his own son’s head?”

“That’s right, the muggle. I had to look him up.” He seemed to be impressed that Hermia knew who he was talking about. Hermia gave Wilmot an evaluating glance. To beat Jago would have taken speed, power and talent.

They had walked a circuit through the trees and had ended up back in the garden of Lupin Cottage. Teddy had built a small extension to the cottage, a sort of shed that he laughingly called the owlery. Coming from it was a persistent, scared hooting. They rushed across to investigate. Wilmot crouched down to see what the problem was.

“It was this one, she was stuck.”

He passed a rather disgruntled Artemis to Hermia. The owl nipped her hard and flew off into the afternoon sky. Hermia was just about to remark how strange this was when there was a loud 'smack' from inside the owlery.

“Good Godric that hurt!”

Wilmot emerged, the side of his face already begging to swell.

“Oooh, that looks like a black eye coming up.”

Hermia reached up with her cool hand and tentatively and stroked his cheek. He turned his head and kissed her thumb. A small gasp of shock escaped her lips, she was completely mesmerised by him and couldn’t move when he grasped her waist, pulling her tiny frame to him. He bent low and kissed her softly. For a moment she allowed her self to melt into the kiss. He licked her top lip and she pulled away, her eyes suddenly furious. Without warning, she swung her arm back and slapped him, hard on the uninjured side of his face. Giving him a cold, contemptuous look she stalked back to the cottage, slamming the door behind her.

~

“... I kissed her, right and it was great! And then for no reason at all, she slaps me straight in the face, harder than you’d think someone that small ever could, gives me a look worthy of a basilisk and stomps off back inside!”

Jago laughed so hard that he almost fell off his chair. He put down his half drunk glass of mead and wiped the tears of mirth form his eyes.

“Well, there’s one thing I can say about my BG, she’s unpredictable.” he said blithely.

“Unpredictable? She’s the most fiery person I’ve ever met!”

Jago laughed again. “Yes, she’s that too. Did you ask her if you could kiss her?”

Wilmot frowned. “I just went with the flow, is that such a bad thing?”

“It is when it comes to her. No-one is allowed to know more than she wants them to, including what it feels like to kiss her apparently.”

Wilmot shook his head. “Unbelievable!”

“And a few other things too.” Jago started to laugh at the look of sheer frustration on Wilmot’s face.


The song is I’m Gonna Fall by Ash. I'm a 90's indie kid at heart! Do you listen to the songs? I know my clone does because I make her but what about everyone else?

Emil Nequam's photo has now joined the Tempestuous gallery. Kita (when she gets here) will not be surprised, although I have to say, he's not quite that clever or that bonkers!