June 6th, 1895 - Crowdey Memorial Library

London at last! Basil felt the relief of stepping over the threshold from Foxwood House wash over him unlike before at this particular time of year. The return from his beloved Hogwarts was, usually, so unwelcome that he made a direct bee-line for Bath in an attempt to avoid London society altogether. (At least until his mama forced him back out of hiding.) This year however he had, himself, forgone the extra effort and instead made his way to Bath only for a few early days to settle his affairs before coming to London for an exchange of his own pleasure— one that he would hazard to admit his mama might even be quite pleased with, though rather not for the reasons she might imagine. (So he’d not told her of it, clearly.)

No, Ms. Bonaccord was not his mother’s business in any capacity and as such, worry about the optics of their acquaintance was the furthest from his mind. Basil had sent along his card a few days prior and they’d agreed to meet at Crowdy Memorial the afternoon of June 6th and it was to this particular destination he made his way now. Dressed smartly in his usual attire and bringing with him a leather case with his latest research findings, he arrived rather a bit earlier than Ms. Bonaccord. He settled himself on the third floor, public records, and laid claim to a small table tucked between the stacks. It was quiet here, peacefully mundane. Only the occasional fluttering of an owl’s wings as it delivered the odd missive or request for a book retrieval interrupted sunny afternoon silence.

Basil made quick work of laying out a few of his books and leafing through them to mark a particular passage he wished to share. It wouldn’t be long now before his colleague’s arrival and he was pleased to pass the time continuing where he’d left off in his office the night prior: at the end of a curious passage detailing a history of transfigurative impact in the early Joseon dynasties.

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No one blinked when Hermia's schedule changed to include an afternoon at the library. She'd prepared a whole defense as to why she must go to London instead of going into the Flint stacks. Mama made some comment about wasted time, but father didn't blink. He, at least, understood his youngest's devotion to her studies. Hermia felt a pang of guilt at his support. If papa was made aware of her other reasons for visiting, he would certainly be less understanding. Hermia had no intention of educating him. Professor Foxwood was no business of her parents, though, ironically, Hermia could almost imagine this acquaintance pleasing mama.

The morning of June 6th found Hermia taking breakfast in her rooms (which she barely touched) and buried in her notes on the Joseon dynasty. Her fascination on the subject had been all-consuming since Professor Foxwood mentioned the region in mid-May. It was rare, at this point in her studies, for Hermia to encounter completely new material and she relished it. The joy of discovery, the mystery of a far-off land and culture, what more could she ask for? She had her satchel packed and was nearly running down the stairs. It had been years since she was told not to run in the house, but desperate times.

She was nearly giddy when her chaperone made clear she would be staying in 3rd floor lobby for gossip with some other lady's maid she encountered. After all, what trouble could a young lady get into in the public records section? Hermia couldn't believe her luck. For the second time today, she found herself not hurrying toward her destination. If she used her long stride to her advantage, who was to blame her?

She found her intellectual co-conspirator tucked at a table between the stacks. Something funny happened in her chest at the sight of Prof. Foxwood. She hadn't seen him in person since last September, the time and distance between that meeting and now seeming infinite. The knot behind her ribs seemed to loosen, something warmer in its place. It reminded her of seeing Hogwarts every September; familiar and safe. It felt like home. Her smile might have outshone the sun.

"Good afternoon, Professor." There was no hiding the excitement in her voice as she joined him at the table, the contents of her satchel quickly stacked beside her. Hermia barely managed a breath of silence before her enthusiasm got the better of her. "I have been researching the Joseon dynasties and how the current political situation is impacting the magical communities and it's fascinating. I know so little of the region and the history is magnifique." Her joy at seeing him collaborating barely contained. She's missed him; she'd missed this.

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   Basil Foxwood

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Lady is a genius

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Lost in his research, Basil rubbed the bridge of his nose and only just managed to avoid smudging ink across one of his cheeks. The droplet pooled on the fabric of his sleeve instead, dark and completely unnoticed. The open book before him smelled of dust and pressed hanji. This present chapter on the Joseon dynasty was sparse, frustratingly poetic, and interspersed with the kind of footnotes that felt more like riddles than clarifications. His translating spell was wearing thin by the time he came across a confusing little passage that, interesting enough to distract him, caused the Ravenclaw to recast (his translation spell) and double over the book closer.

“…a shadow within the blood, threaded through bones like silver-wire cursecraft—unwilling, inherited, and irreversible save through destruction.”

He hung on that last word for a moment and frowned before flipping to the footnote references. Esoteric Metamorphoses in Foreign Courts, Vol. IV. Basil exhaled through his nose, mouth tight. Unwilling struck familiarity in him. Inherited struck deeper. There was no coincidence he believed in when it came to the natural way of the world. Everything was tied to something else in an endless knot of magical transformation. Even the various disciplines had overlap: charms and transfiguration, potions and alchemy. It was far too common to see the suggestion of inheritance for him to dismiss the notion now. Perhaps the term maledictus referred to a school of blood curses. Basil felt a small shiver rake down his spine at the thought.

Whatever the maledictus was, however, he was sure it had to be transfigurative at its root. Something ancient and winding, predating modern classification, and often mislabeled (possibly?) as dark magic or “beastly affliction.” But the Eastern texts he’d been pouring over lately suggested it was more symbiotic than cursed. A transformation not simply of form, but of fate. Basil rubbed the bridge of his nose again and this time the smear on his sleeve did leave a bit of a smudge on his cheek. It was at that moment that he heard light, quick footsteps approaching and he looked up to see Ms. Bonaccord finally upon him.

Her smile was beaming as she approached and Basil was unable to help but return it with a quieter one of his own. He wasn’t in the business of wearing any emotion on his sleeve in a professorial capacity, even less so in front of a young lady, but he was pleased to see her too. It had been quite some time since their luncheon chats and he’d found, at Hogwarts, that he missed them.

“Good afternoon you too, Ms. Bonaccord,” he replied, and gestured for her to sit across. She did so and before he could even ask how she’d been these past many months, she was already diving into exactly the topic Basil felt most interested to discuss. By Merlin, he appreciated this woman.

“I am very interested to hear what you’ve discovered,” was the eager response. “I too have some rather fascinating notes collected and substantiated even today with theories that lead to yet more questions. There is a vaguely malapropos nature to my inquiries however so let’s discuss yours first— at length.”

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   Anne Moony

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Hermia forgot how much his voice warmed the room. This was an efficiency to his speech, never one to waste words, but he never seemed cold so much as measured. What Basil Foxwood spoke, it felt something like Christmas and her birthday combined. It was all silliness that had little place in the relationship between scholar and budding academic. Thankfully, the silly little flutter in her chest was quickly dismissed. This was nerves; nothing more.

His interest in her notes brought an additional thrill, something she wasn't certain she would ever make peace with. Hermia was used to having answers, but there was something different about being seen as a peer that intensified her work. Hermia was a diligent student, a Hufflepuff in all aspects, but this was different than expecting a student to show their work. Prof. Foxwood was not quizzing her for assessment; he wanted to know her findings. The distinction shouldn't have meant so much.

Turning back to her research, her strength, Hermia turned her notebook toward her companion. With practiced familiarity, she cast a translation spell over her notes; the French reluctantly reformed into English. "When I was young, Papa was close with the ambassador to Joseon. I'm afraid I have not maintained contact with his children, but I am certain I could reestablish communication. I know he had twins my age, it would be easy enough to reengage them, should we need any assistance in our efforts."

Hermia knew her Muggle countrymen had interfered in Joseon, but there was little in her family library or Flint's that could tell her more. "I find myself distracted by the history of the people and place. I cannot decide if I should chase the Joseon aspect or," Hermia caught herself and listened carefully to their surroundings before daring to say, "If it is the maledictus that requires my attention." She let that question stand for all of a breath before she added, "Although I cannot think beyond this maledictus. The traditional English translation is 'blood curse,' with a strong emphasis on curse, but what if that isn't accurate? What if the focus should be on heredity?" Hermia's excited pseudo-whisper died off, and she became aware of her hands.

It wasn't a conscious thought, but her hand had pulled a silk pocket square from her bag. Hermia's hand reached toward him, and the ink smear on his cheek. Her hand froze somewhere in the middle of the table, her complete lapse in sense now freezing her in midair. Hermia went whiter than parchment before exploding into patches of pink. "I apologize, it's just a bit of ink, sir." She gestured vaguely at his cheek, as if an explanation would make this less ridiculous. "May I?" If her voice cracked like a fourth year boy, so be it.

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   Basil Foxwood

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Lady is a genius

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As the lady settled herself across from him, Basil gave his little speech and then settled in to watch as she cast an effortless translation spell of her own— pretty notes morphing from French to English, for his convenience. Basil tremendously appreciated it. While his French was more than passable, he rather preferred reading in his first language so as to avoid the extra layer of accounting for cultural misunderstanding when analyzing delicate academic topics, and it was very considerate of his companion to accommodate him thusly. What she expressed then made him lean forward in curiosity.

It was true; he’d forgotten that Msr. Bonaccord Sr was an ambassador! How practical a profession, and very admirable for one, perhaps, more socially inclined than he, himself. The relation to Joseon was merely a bonus. Ms. Bonaccord’s generous invitation to initiate contact made Basil smile more openly. How clever!

As she continued speaking however, caught up in excitement and then pausing a bit, Basil felt the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention. He immediately picked up his wand to cast a privacy spell about them, a bubble shield charm that to any passersby would appear only as if they remained discussing history and the like. He was rather serious about protecting her reputation from this maledictus business in as much as he might be able to. He nodded through her explanation however, as eagerly invested.

It wasn’t until his own brain was racing to answer her on a number of different points that Basil, too, became aware of a seemingly subconscious movement on his companion’s part. He’d leaned forward in his desire to hear her clearly and now her hand floated a few inches in front of his face. All intention of indulging in his own questions came to an abrupt halt, like a skipping phonograph, and he blinked stupidly. She explained that he had ink on his face and Basil felt his own cheeks heat. Damn, he should have been more careful.

Nodding slightly, he let her move forward. He wouldn’t dare reject a lady so obviously when they were quite this far along the embarrassment together. Instead, Basil held very still.

Her grip was soft against the corner of his cheek, even through the silk of the kerchief. The scent of peaches, vanilla and jasmine wafted over to him and, startlingly enough, it was almost familiar. Basil had smelled this once before and it was wholly Hermia in its essence, a detail that he’d stored somewhere in his mind, uselessly. He blushed harder at the fact that he remembered it and cleared his throat awkwardness when she finished. Then, pulling away, his gaze dropped immediately to his sleeves to check for the offending source.

Whatever he’d been going to say before caught now in the back of his throat, warm along the collar as he felt. Basil forced his brain into some jumbled sense of motion and managed to garble out a quiet thank you. He cleared his throat again and gave up on finding the stain.

“Er— yes, well,” he forced his gaze back to hers and his thoughts back to the books. (For whatever reason, sight of her settled the knot in his stomach and Basil was able to suck in a small breath.) “Firstly, I appreciate the attention you’ve paid to our topic of mutual interest.” He cleared his throat a third time and by now was beginning to suspect there was nothing there to be rid of. “I too have wondered the same upon your question of the hereditary nature of this— our thing. My research in the East seems to support the ancestral notion but trends less in favor of curses and more so gifts. It’s an interesting interpretation actually compared to my more Western research.” As he spoke, Basil felt some of the fluidity in his speech level out.

He turned his own notes in Ms. Bonaccord’s direction and cast a reciprocal translation spell from English to French out of courtesy. “This passage here,” he gestured towards some scribbles “struck me a bit. It implies a rather more malignant nature to the maledictus, something that requires destruction. It’s unclear if reversal is possible but if it is transfigurative in nature, I should imagine there is some sustainment of human form. At least to a degree. So what then, should inspire fear to the point of erasure? I have not yet found any clear accounts that imply more than an animagus-like transformation. No distinction yet.” He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers in his lap, re- settled now.

“And, while I should find it very imposing to ask you to strike up an acquaintance with another diplomatic entity purely to satisfy my own academic inclinations, I might be so selfish as to benefit should you decide upon it.” Here he cracked a bit of a teasing grin. The kerchief mishap nearly forgotten.

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Hermia may have stopped breathing. It was the best way to explain why she felt so lightheaded. His slight nod had her catching her breath, and somehow, the smell of spilled ink on crisp linen mixed with old parchment almost settled her. It settled her just to send her heart racing again at her own discovery. It smelled like books and Basil Foxwood, both things of which she was incredibly fond. That strange thought startled her back to action, even as her cheeks were radiating heat.

She was gentle in her motion, rogue ink a common hazard of Bonaccord life. She had done this for her brothers dozens of times. There was no reason to be flustered about a kindness for a friend. Hermia did her best to remember that as she, satisfied with her work, sat back and tucked her handkerchief into her satchel. She used the moment to try to collect herself. She'd become too excited at seeing him again. It had been nearly nine months, but it was no reason to act so silly. She must do better to contain herself.

She looked up in time to catch his small smile, sheepish, almost as if he could empathize with her attacks of awkwardness. He was a kind soul, and it earned him a warm grin. It was easy to find reasons to smile at him.

He did Hermia another kindness and turned back to their research. She felt a bloom of warmth in her chest at his familiar pattern: a bit stilted, still finding his footing, before becoming almost poetic in his description. Hermia envied the students who still spent the school year hearing his lectures. Her grin broadened as he passed his notes to her, the letters rearranging themselves into French for her. It wasn't necessary, but it was a kindness she hadn't experienced in a long time. It was a small gesture, but it wasn't one she would soon forget.

Hermia considered their findings before musing aloud. "Is it possible that the East and West are discussing different forms of magic? Or possibly a benign and more dangerous version of the same spell? It could certainly be cultural interpretation, but I wonder..." Hermia turned her attention back to her notes, skimming the margins for something. "Yes! Here, in one of the Italian sources, I found a reference to the death of a witch with our present concern. Considering it was late fifteenth century, I considered it to be muggle propaganda or disrespect for the deceased, but what if she truly was sick in some way?"

"I wonder if the curse, if it is a curse, is tied to the transfiguration itself or if it was somehow dormant in the person afflicted? I wonder, would the signs have manifested if the person never took their animagus form?" She came to a question without a ready answer and found it didn't bother her in the slightest. This was what fueled her, the adventure of discovery and sharing that journey. It was perfect.

She settled back in her seat, her smile growing to match his self-satisfied grin. "Oui, Professor Foxwood it would be so very out of character for you to chase a curiosity." She gave her chin a slight lift and pressed her lips into a haughty line. She maintained her facade for all of a blink before her smile cracked through. "Of course, I will reconnect with the ambassador's family at once." Unable to help herself, Hermia found herself confessing. "I have missed researching with you. I am grateful for the opportunity to do so again." Somehow, the truth didn't feel awkward at all.

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   Basil Foxwood

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Lady is a genius

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The way Ms. Bonaccord smiled at him would never cease to force Basil’s inner narrative into less-than-ridiculous soliloquies about it. He noted this in himself almost as if abstractly, from a third person sense of displacement as the scene unfolded and he saw more than felt himself echo her smile and settle into his stride with her easy confidence.

The insights she shared were excellent, bringing to light more questions - some of which Basil had considered and others he certainly had not. He poured over the note she indicated as to the Italian reference and nodded along to her suppositions. There really was nothing more to it than for them to keep digging, but he appreciated her enthusiasm as it mirrored his own. “All excellent questions, Ms. Bonaccord, for which we evidently have no answers. I do wonder if this particular tomb,” he paused to flip through the pages in his notes for a reference “might have some of the answers we seek, however. I was unable to find it in the Hogwarts library and had hoped to take a look here.” He found the reference and turned it towards her.

Finding himself caught in the tease that followed, Basil paused. There was something in the way Ms. Bonaccord said his name that had him feeling warm under the collar. That soft French accent and her little ‘oui’ accompanying what was undoubtedly the follow up to a tease made Basil feel something he only ever felt under very rare circumstances. Something he refused to think too hard on now, focused as he was on what they were discussing. Instead, he huffed playfully.

“Would you like me any less or find me any the more effective if I was less direct?” He couldn’t help but point out. Unlike with men on the prowl for wives (or tails) out in society, in research there was no reason to take a hike through the mountain to reach one’s point. Of being able to ask for what one truly wanted, within the scope of respectable etiquette of course. “I should be happy to speak to you in riddles the way others might in ballrooms. Though I should think the game rather beneath us at this point in our acquiescence.” He resisted the urge to pull a face at her, as that would not be professional, and instead lifted his chin and sniffed, feigning haughtiness. “We academics are above such nonsense.”

If his point was lost to the cracking facade of a grin that stole across his face, it couldn’t be helped.

Basil softened a bit then at her admission. He gave a short nod of agreement and dug around for the best words to represent his own sentiments on the matter. He wasn’t quite sure what he felt, honestly, given the excitement that she incited in his person, but it felt rude to say nothing. In the end he settled on simple and merely started that he too: “Agreed. There is an easy comfort to be found in like minds.”

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   Hermia Bonaccord

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'All excellent questions, Ms. Bonaccord.' That was a sentence she'd heard often as a student, and it never failed to please her. Hermia didn't brag, but she enjoyed well-earned praise as much as any of her louder peers. What was unfamiliar was how effervescent that joy felt today. There was no hiding how the light in her eyes seemed to spread to her cheeks in a pale blush. She didn't bother to temper her smile.

There was typically a moment of anxiety that came with playfulness. Being so concerned with the feelings of others, of trying not to offend, had Hermia picking her jokes carefully. 'Carefully' usually translates to 'not at all.' It wasn't worth the risk. Now sitting across from her favorite wit, watching him return her play, drained her fear of offending him. In fact, it emboldened her reply.

"Certainly, I would think you less effective and possibly less clever." She raised an eyebrow in mock challenge. As if there was a world where she would doubt his brilliance. Professor Foxwood won the war of words by invoking her least favorite environment - the ballroom. "If you ever decide to torture me with ballroom niceties, I will know I've offended you beyond repair." The idea of ever tripping over small talk and searching for interesting ways to discuss the weather had no place in her visions of Basil Foxwood. She pressed her lips together, hard, to force her expression into something that mimicked his delightfully upper-class egotism. "Oui, professeur. We are above such things." She grinned; the only thing the British could find more stuffy than themselves was the French. She felt like obliging.

If it ended with her hiding her laughter behind her hand, so be it.

She wasn't sure how much time passed between regaining control and his kind confirmation. His agreement spread through her chest, warming like tea in winter. It made it easy to say, "I will write immediately, but, at the worst, I will see the ambassador and his family when we return to France in July." It occurred to her, perhaps for the first time, that this would mean fewer weeks at Flint this summer; fewer weeks working in person with Professor Foxwood. It drained some of the joy from her eyes.

Determined to distract from her own turn in emotion, she pivoted. "I don't recall warnings in the animagus literature I found for practitioners. When you were training for your transfiguration, do you recall any warning of a curse?" If this let her learn more about his journey, all the better.

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Lady is a genius

Thread Log

Basil couldn’t help the way he laughed in response to Ms. Bonaccord’s playful quip. His face was all dimples and full smiles, more genuine than the guarded professor most of the world experienced. She brought out the best in him it would seem and for that alone Basil was endlessly grateful. He mirrored her little laugh with a teasing roll of his eyes before sobering considerably.

“Jest aside however, I shouldn’t dream of torturing you in such a way even if I was offended,” he admitted after the fact. (Not that he could imagine a scenario where she could possibly do anything to annoy him.) “We academics need to stick together against the wrath of society,” he continued playfully. “In fact, I do expect to see you in a ballroom or two this season at some point. Will you find me a complete bore and pretend we never crossed paths again after graduation?” The tease was accompanied by a jovial raise of the brow, though he fully expected her to acquiesce in some capacity.

Basil had never given public appearance much thought other than to protect the fragile reputations of the young ladies and gentlemen he taught and worked with outside of Hogwarts. It had all started with Ida some many years ago now, but Basil had always been keenly aware of what society thought of two persons of the opposite sex spending time together even if it was in a strictly professional manner. He couldn’t be bothered by rumor or scandal himself, but he knew Ida and now Ms. Bonaccord would not be left unscathed lest the worst were to happen. So— he’d made a decision early on that he would never take offense to being held at arms length in the ballroom. It was only practical, especially if he didn’t want to accidentally discourage potential real suitors.

She soon reiterated that she would write to the ambassador and Basil gave a short nod. He shouldn’t have been surprised then that she would be returning to France for a time, but the reality of the fact left him feeling a little sad. He almost asked her how long she planned to be away but soon thought better of it. Nobody liked a busybody. Instead he shook his head at her question.

“No, nothing more than the reference previously mentioned,” he gestured again to the page before them. “In retrospect I ought to have investigated further then but as we are here now, shall we take a cursory look about to see if we can find the text?” Basil turned to look directly at the stacks. He didn’t imagine it would be that difficult without a house elf. As long as they knew where to look.

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   Hermia Bonaccord

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It was like staring at the sun, watching him smile like that. She felt humbled somehow, understanding that what she witnessed seemed precious. Hermia wondered if his laugh felt as good as it looked. She endeavored to see it again.

She made a little noise of resignation at his mention of their shared social calendar. "I would not dread those ballrooms so much if there were ever anything of note happening in them. Why could we not gather in ballrooms and read? I think Society would be much improved by it." She gave a small pout, but her moment of playful self-pity evaporated at his question.

He meant to tease her; that haughty eyebrow told her that, but she shook her head emphatically. "I would never shun you in public. I cannot imagine respecting someone who did." It was an easy assertion to make. Hermia was a lady of Society and a diplomat's daughter. She knew how to make herself appropriate in most rooms. She treasured the interactions that didn't feel like work. There was no scenario where she would willingly forgo his company. She'd never been such a fool.

A bit embarrassed by her own honesty, she turned her eyes back to the page mentioned. Memorizing the reference, she now offered him another grin. "I know where to find it. Shall I guide you?"

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Lady is a genius

Thread Log

Ms. Bonaccord’s statement of reading in ballrooms was one for the record books; it was as delightful as it was ridiculous and Basil couldn’t help but laugh indulgently again. He agreed with her wholeheartedly! Ballrooms should find themselves much more appealing to him if they had anything of substance to do and he said as much, grinning.

The response that followed the subsequent tease however sobered Basil a bit and he found his smile flickering. He felt her honestly like a thrust to gut and was partially confused by it. Perhaps he had not given Ms. Bonaccord enough credit to know how to handle herself in the public eye; she was the daughter of a diplomat after all, and he’d never seen her flounder under societal pressure. (Then again, he’d never seen her in society either, he thought blandly.) Regardless however, Basil felt the impact of her statement and tried to brush it aside. “You are too kind,” he responded, smiling softly. “But in all seriousness, I should never hope to put you out by my acquaintance. Don’t ever feel like you must acknowledge it if it will cause difficulties for your situation.”

It felt awkward to even say as much and Basil dropped his gaze, the tips of his ears burning. He was endlessly grateful when they changed the subject and she offered to show him where the book might be found. “Yes,” he responded as quickly. “Please.”

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   Hermia Bonaccord

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His response earned a full snicker that had her clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle her response. "If you keep rewarding my behavior, sir, I'll begin to think I'm witty." She warned him, though she couldn't manage a proper threat now if lives were at stake.

She regretted her words as she watched tightness crawl back into Prof. Foxwood. It was moments like this she regretted not choosing silence. Because of her words, now the moment demanded clarification and more words, words, words. Hermia thought, not for the first or hundredth time in her life, that a little less honesty may improve her character.

"I am not naive enough to believe any acquaintance without consequence." It was imperative to remind him that she was no longer a child, or, worse, mindless. "What I mean is that I cannot conceive of a situation where association with you could be anything but positive." A familiar frustration tightened in her stomach, an annoyance with the rigid cages they contorted in. "You, Professor Basil Foxwood, are my friend. There is no difficulty in that." And, she believed wholeheartedly, it was ridiculous to behave otherwise.

She gave him the truth, the best way she could manage to put into words when limited by English. It also felt too honest somehow, too emotional to belong to a research exercise. A matching blush and need to look anywhere but at him told Hermia she had truly overstepped. It was challenging to remember how restrained she was expected to be on this little island of tiny gestures and outsized reactions.

It didn't stop her from following her impulse to repair the disharmony she caused. With a grateful smile, Hermia reached for his hand. "Come on then. We aren't far." She gave him a tiny tug, amusement back in her eyes as she pulled him a few aisles deeper into the stacks. The smell of aging tomes a welcoming scent she took in with a small hum of satisfaction. Eyes scanning the shelves, she gave a small noise of triumph, releasing his hand and pointing to a nondescript book spine. She looked at him expectantly, pointedly asking "Do I need to lift it as well?"

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   Basil Foxwood

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Lady is a genius

Thread Log

Basil felt something unusual flutter in his chest at Ms. Bonaccord’s little laugh and resulting demure. She laughed at him and teased in a way that made Basil want to keep prodding at this, their shared enjoyment. He’d never quite felt so at ease before with her but this moment solidified… something. The following sobriety that she articulated only made his chest ache all the more.

He was glad that his reputation was not so tarnished as to have him doubting her grasp of reality as to an association with him. Basil figured himself, for the most part, a rather friendly member of society. He didn’t have too many that disliked him - that he knew - and he did make some effort despite his oddity about socialization. Perhaps Ms. Bonaccord was right, in some small way. Association with him wasn’t bound to be all... negative, right? Unless he stood in the way of her prospects, he supposed, but that was a matter more for the mother than the daughter. Or so he’d liked to think based on what she’d shared with him thusly.

Smiling slightly, Basil gave a short nod. “Friend,” he echoed. The word tasted soft and fragile on his tongue. “I don’t mind that sound of that.”

They discussed his reference briefly then and, before he knew what was happening, Ms. Bonaccord had taken his hand and was dragging Basil along the stacks. He followed her blindly, brain still trying to reboot from the moment she’d reached out to touch him. This was highly inappropriate, some small part of his mind highlighted, but Basil could not find it within himself to pull back. She’d called him her friend, after all.

They came to a halt suddenly and Ms. Bonaccord pointed to a particular tome. How she’d found it so quickly, Basil wasn’t sure he even wanted to ask for fear of sounding an idiot. Her playful little quip rallied his half-embarrassed, half-still-mulling sense of decorum however and he couldn’t help but snort a small laugh. “No,” he quipped back childishly. “I can be some modicum of gentlemanly…” Basil turned to reach for the book and plucked it off the shelf. “When I want to be,” he added, handing it to her.

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   Hermia Bonaccord

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The anxiety in her chest was familiar, but the knot that released when he agreed to her description of friend was unexpected. They had written as much to each other before; the word 'friend' was in play. Still, to hear it from his lips (in a voice that made her rather partial to the English), calmed Hermia. He had a way of doing that: a look, the right quirk of his lips, a gentle word. If she chose to think on it, she would come to the easy conclusion that Basil Foxwood seemed to comprehend her differently. She very much did not want to dwell on this, at all.

Immensely pleased that her playful teasing was met by the most childish indignation, Hermia didn't hide the smile that crinkled her eyes and nose, a full laugh that she had been reminded time and again not to show to the world. Such joy was unladylike, apparently.

"Then I consider myself most fortunate for your gentlemanly manner, Sir." It dripped with so much sarcasm, it felt foreign to an overly-sincere tongue. Very rarely had someone outside of the family heard anything but polite speech from her, but Hermia's brothers could attest to her razor wit translating into more than one snide comment. It was a rare thing, indeed.

Hermia took the book with a smirk, considering her next rejoinder, when the volume changed. Hermia blinked, certain she was seeing things. Cracking the book, she flipped a few pages before her eyes settled. As soon as her eyes focused, the words began to move. "How?"

The book was unremarkable, the title long, stuffy, and unhelpful. The binding was in good condition, though the tome was obviously old. It was weighty, almost too heavy for its slim profile. Nothing that would raise alarm, but the simple English changed before her eyes. For a moment, the words were clear, but a blink saw the letters rearranging on the page, scattering about like bludgers on the parchment. English, French, Greek, gibberish, Spanish, nonsense, pictograms, the harder she looked, the faster the text changed, leaving her dizzy. "Are you doing this?" If she was any less confused, she would have been embarrassed that a book was besting her.

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   Basil Foxwood

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Lady is a genius

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The tease was still lingering on his profile as Basil handed the book to Ms. Bonaccord and watched her smile more fully than he had seen before. He felt oddly at ease at the sight of it— of her — so peacefully able to be herself. Or, what he imagined to be her true self hidden behind the veneer of society debutant. This realization only solidified for him that they were, in fact, friends. If he too could let his guard down enough to be something of a tease with her, then she must have accidentally made it past his own walls as well.

Huffing a small laugh in response to her sarcasm, Basil let the moment linger there. He didn’t have anything more to say on the topic, curious as he was to their exploring that reference, but her visage changed when she opened the text and his brow creased just slightly. From his angle directly opposite her, Basil could see nothing amiss with the text. He frowned harder and tilted his head, making to take a step to look over her shoulder.

“No, what is it—?” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he felt himself stumble forward just slightly. Tripping on air brought him quite a bit closer to Ms. Bonaccord than he’d have liked but Basil said nothing. He merely cleared his throat, warm in the cheeks, and peered lower over her shoulder.

The text seemed ordinary to him. “I don’t see anything… amiss?” Basil commented. He made to flip a few pages and read a line or two and that was when he saw it. The words scrambled and changed form - and language - every time he tried to focus on them. “Ah,” the professor noted. He dug in his waistcoat pocket for his wand. “Sorry, may I?” He offered Ms. Bonaccord his hand to take possession of the book.

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Hermia Bonaccord & song inspo <3

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Hermia couldn't seem to blink; the letters before her seemed to accelerate, whirling in and out of existence. She felt lightheaded, the motion blurring her vision. Hermia did not get dizzy, but she couldn't find another word for the sudden realization that sitting was a very, very good idea.

His voice seemed to break the pull the book had over her focus. Hermia recoiled, as if bitten and, for a horrible second, wasn't certain of her body's place in space. Her foot shifted back to stop her perceived fall, landing right on the tip of his shoe. Dizzy or not, Hermia's reflexes were still intact, and she rebounded quickly. She was ready with a litany of apologies before he cleared his throat, and she felt just how close she had stumbled to him. When he spoke, Hermia felt the ghost of it against the curls near her ear. The poor man! She had invaded his personal space entirely, but stepping back now would seem rude.

Hermia wasn't aware she hadn't moved until she felt his shift. Blinking against what felt something like temporary madness and vertigo, Hermia was extending her hand to him before she could think better of it. Her hand clasped his in perfect time for her brain to make sense of his request. Mon Dieu.

Retracting her hand, Hermia couldn't help but clamp her eyes closed for a moment in complete humiliation. "My apologies, apparently I can no longer read books or social gestures." She couldn't help the reflexive shrug of her shoulders, a gesture that never seemed to minimize her as much as she would have liked.

Sheepishly, she extended the book. "My apologies, I have never seen this spell before." Doing her best to return them to something she could contextualize, she offered a self-depricating grin. "But if you give me a few hours, I can write you 2,000 words on its origins and modern usage." A trickle of mischief was back in her tone. She was teasing him; if he asked, she'd have 2,500 words and her initial sources by sundown. She was a Bonaccord, after all.

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Lady is a genius

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