He could have gotten lost in introspection again (there was certainly enough to digest in her comment to warrant it), but then she was frowning. This drew his attention sharply back to his initial purpose in striking up a conversation with her; he was meant to be bluffing, putting on a good show for anyone who might be watching and drawing conclusions, and if he'd upset her somehow he wasn't helping his cause. Ford bit his lower lip as she apologized, then nearly tripped over his own words in his haste to reassure her.

"No, please, don't apologize. I meant it as a compliment," he said, although in truth he had not really meant anything by it at all. "It was a thought-provoking way of phrasing it, was all. And surely no one finds that unnerving, in a place like this? One would think scholars would be keen to have their thoughts provoked," he joked. He took another sip of his champagne and wondered whether he was drinking it too quickly (having entirely missed that she had already finished hers).

"Have you ever read any of Keats' poetry?" he asked suddenly. "He was a Muggle, and he died half a century ago, but it's quite good."

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“Oh,” Ida’s eyebrows creased as though the compliment bemused her more than its alternative. Then she reconsidered what she said under the perspective of it being thought-provoking, and surmised that she stumbled on nothing more telling than what this man already knew (this being his profession and all). So there was really one logical explanation for a comment like that, one that kicked the tension up in her shoulders a notch. Oh no. Was he flirting? Ida didn’t want to recognize it, but the back of her mind already nastily supplied evidence as to why this might be the case. Why else would he joke with her about provoking thoughts, for example?

Ida pursed her lips to keep back her skittish laughter, lest she encourage this behavior (or worse, seem like she’s flirting back). Or, he’s just being nice, she chided herself. “You would be surprised, scholars can be quite possessive of their worldview,” she pointed out, hoping a Serious Topic might help keep them in safer waters. “It can be unnerving to have one’s philosophies questioned by someone who reminds them of their little sister.” There. If there was any ember of intrigue, which there certainly was not, then nothing served as a better wet blanket than likening herself with Clem. Probably.

But then, he started talking about poetry. Oh, good heavens. “Keats…” she echoed, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. For a moment she considered pretending to know the poet and acting unimpressed, but her ability to bluff was poor at best. Wary that this would be an invitation to continue, “I cannot say I am very familiar with his work.”

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   Fortitude Greengrass

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stefanie made this beautiful set <3

"No, I wouldn't expect you to be," Ford said easily, because he did not expect anyone he met in magical society to be very familiar with the work of any Muggle poet, no matter how good they were. It wasn't as though literature was a part of the Hogwarts curriculum, and most people simply didn't have the exposure to know whether they would have liked it or not. "But there's one poem that came to mind when you said that, about people wanting to be known. It starts off 'When I have fears that I may cease to be before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain—' I don't remember all of it, of course, though it's not really very long. Anyway — he does carry on and talk about the sorts of things you would expect, not being with the person he loved anymore and that sort of thing — but it struck me when I read it that the first thing he worried about was that he would die before he'd gotten all his thoughts down on paper," he explained. "Which — almost certainly did happen, because he died awfully young. But — sorry, I'm rambling a bit," he realized. He offered her an apologetic wince and finished off the glass of champagne.

"I suppose what I'm saying is that I think Keats would agree with you," he continued. "So you oughtn't to be self-conscious about reminding anyone of their sister. It was insightful. If that makes any of the revered scholars annoyed —" He shrugged. "— that seems more their problem than yours."

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Ida managed to give him a bracing smile when she sensed he was about to launch into things. The phrase ‘waiting with bated breath’ came to mind because - well, it wasn't starting off well. There was nothing poetic about what she said unless he was trying to read into things. She thought polite inquiry about work was supposed to be just that– polite. If she can’t rely on that, then what on earth should she talk about at these sorts of things? Just the weather, then?

He was quoting this Keats fellow now. Just the weather, then, she thought darkly. Though what he said was intriguing – and unexpected, once she bobbed up out of her initial wave of panic. The young woman tilted her head to the side in thought as he went on, not even grimacing when he talked about love, because even before he explained it, it seemed to her like that wasn’t the point.

One small shake of the head – not rambling – as the meaning of the poem meandered through her head. She could see Keat’s perspective, and found it supremely familiar. "I suppose some ghouls never get their words– metaphorical or otherwise – out in their mortal life," she annotated in agreement.

But then Mister Greengrass levied over what sounded like another compliment, and Ida’s cheeks turned a brilliant shade of pink. It’s not that Ida didn’t like what he said, it was actually quite… nice. But the why he said it worried her more than anything! Damn it all– she didn’t make a habit of carrying her fan to professional functions like this, but how she wished she had one to dally with now.

“His fear is relatable, though I doubt I have much more in common with Keats than that,” she managed to feebly deflect. If he loved Keats so much, she was certain she wanted nothing to do with him! (Although the poem sounded interesting. ...Regardless!)

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stefanie made this beautiful set <3

It was only by this point in the conversation that Ford was feeling himself enough to afford any proper attention to his conversation partner — only now that he realized how much she was blushing. He twirled his empty champagne glass between his fingers, feeling inexplicably conspicuous. What had he said to make her blush? Only that she was insightful, which seemed like it should have been a rather tame compliment for someone who was pursuing research as a career. Someone — several people, at least — must have already found her insightful, or else she wouldn't have gotten here in the first place.

"You're probably right," he admitted, still trying to work through her reaction in his head. "Not much else I'd expect you might have in common with a dead Muggle."

He got it then. Taking compliments a little too much to heart — she thought he was flirting with her. Which he wasn't, of course he wasn't — but the realization begged two questions. First: did he want her to think he was? Would this turn of events earn him any points with Noble, if he was watching, or would it be too transparent what he was doing? Second: did she want him to be flirting? He was embarrassed to say he hadn't been paying enough attention to her so far in the conversation to hazard a guess. And supposing she did... did that make it more or less likely for him to lean in to this? Was it cruel to actively pretend interest in someone who might be interested in him? Did he care? He'd only met her once or twice before tonight — there were important things at stake. More important than her feelings? Ford didn't know.

"I don't usually quote poems at people during soirees," he said with a self-effacing, apologetic smile. He had not determined whether or not he was flirting yet. "But thank you for indulging me. It just seemed to fit."

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The evasive maneuver seemed to accomplish something, but Ida couldn't place what exactly caused this subtle shift in the current of their conversation. Just that she felt it. She decided at that moment that she was absolute garbage at this social business. If only she were a man, then she could at least punt off her poor personality as just being ‘eccentric’ like Professor Foxwood. If only she were rich, then she would not need to worry about “meeting people” at all. She thought she would rather enjoy a life of a gentleman of leisure, and might purchase a cottage in the mountains, and spend all her days reading and writing and being a bit like Keats herself, minus the dying young bit.

In any case, what Mister Greengrass said now made her feel a little bad. She even winced somewhat, eager to correct any misunderstanding – “Oh it’s not that he’s a Muggle,” she clarified hastily. “It’s just that I’m – er, not very poetic? Or romantic, for the matter. And as a scholar I am quite good at writing what’s on my mind, less-so what’s in my heart.” Speaking of her mind, the wine at least gave hers a nice level of effervescence to cope with the fact that she was blundering through this conversation. But she felt bad if he felt bad, so she felt compelled to make up for it.

“Oh, well…” She didn’t think she was really indulging him, the conversation just ran that way, even if he never really answered her question about how to convince ghosts. She understood more about it now. “It did fit, so I wouldn’t worry about it.” Not that he was worried. “I suppose what I mean is, thank you, for introducing me to Keats. I’d like to read his work now.” Thank Merlin, at least reaching for nice-sounding words helped fade some of her blush.

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stefanie made this beautiful set <3

If Ford had been at all in doubt over what she thought of the conversation's tone so far, her response would have settled it. Romanticism, matters of the heart. She certainly thought that he'd had some sort of ulterior motive in talking about poetry, which was quite reasonable he supposed. It really wasn't the sort of thing people did at parties, and maybe the connection to what they'd been discussing had been lost on her, no matter what she said. Or maybe she saw the connection but simply didn't believe that any sane man would quote poetry at someone without a hidden agenda. Maybe a sane man wouldn't — Ford felt sane, but Noble had found the entire matter incomprehensible, so — it was hard to say which of their perspectives was accurate.

This thought — that something he had already said might reasonably be attributed to him trying to flirt or as him being off but probably to nothing else — made the stakes a little higher. It pushed him slightly more towards leaning in to the flirting direction, though he still had his reservations. If he didn't make any overt overtures there was no harm done, right? Should he offer to get her another drink, or ask her to dance? Or were those actions too concrete to leave him blameless at the end of the night if she left disappointed? Either scenario seemed less damning than anything he could think to say in response to her line about not being able to write what was in her heart.

"I'm not sure you can call that an introduction," he said with a shrug and a half-smile. "I hardly did him justice. I'm not actually very poetic either, no matter how much of it I read," he continued, though honestly he didn't know how much of that was true and how much was measuring with an inaccurate rule; being so closely entwined with Tycho for so long, who actually wrote poems all day and night, may have skewed his perception somewhat of how poetic the average person really was. "Someone told me once that I'd write poetry if I ever fell in love, but —" Ford had to bite his tongue before he could continue I haven't found that to be true. A sentence which would have been damning, because it implied that he already had been or was currently in love, which wasn't something he wanted anyone speculating about.

"— I think that rather misses the point," Ford continued, because if he could not say something honest then he would have to say something earnest instead. Better would have been not to have brought this up at all, but it was too late for that. "If you're not inspired to write poetry until you have something lovely to write about, you couldn't possibly write poetry that's any good."

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Ida mirrored his shrug with her own– it was as good an introduction as any– though was rather surprised to hear that he didn’t consider himself poetic. This was a man who was sentimental about ghosts’ feelings, she already presumed he was a bit of a romantic. Even what he said next seemed romantic – or at least, what she thought he’d say. Without really thinking about it, her head tipped to the side in thought. But I haven’t fallen in love, or but I’ve been in love and still couldn’t, she expected to hear. Though he pivoted.

Well, it makes sense he’d pivot from that. Maybe her wet blanket worked after all, and he decided it felt too overt. The faintest inkling of intuition made her wonder if maybe he was in love, which might explain why he felt so clear on the matter of being no poet. It’s the type of thing someone says after they’ve attempted. It contrasted with Ida’s situation, since she was sure she’s never been in love, and thus never attempted writing poetry herself.

In that light, maybe he was just being nice all along? Which of course, instantly correlated with feeling guilty, even if she probably did nothing wrong. In hindsight, she disliked being so skeptical and standoffish during their conversation. (Agh, all these cues one must know how to read, why must talking with the opposite sex be so complicated? Always in the way of finding a perfectly good friend or having a pleasant philosophical discourse?)

Impulse fueled by equivalent feelings of guilt and liquid courage, Ida resolved that she ought to be more of her typical ‘insightful’ self, and speak her mind and be less self-conscious, as he suggested. “Something lovely or something devastating,” she nodded in agreement, “Real artists seem to have the ability to find fresh wonders in the most mundane, everyday things. I suppose it’s why Shakespeare is so popular. His romances and tragedies are things anyone can find a bit of themselves reflected in. Ah, there you are,”

Ida cut her own thought off, nearly diving to wave for the attention of a servant drifting by with a tray of drinks just behind Mister Greengrass. “I shall trade you,” she offered the server once he approached, taking one full glass and placing down her empty, “And one for my friend, if he pleases.” The servant had already reached for the man’s empty glass at the instruction, and it was as the new drink was handed over that realization struck the young woman. Drat – she’d gotten him the drink, which effectively reversed their roles, didn’t it? With a sinking feeling she realized that was... probably odd, wasn't it?

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stefanie made this beautiful set <3

Ford had a good deal of first-hand experience with how poets could find beauty in the mundane. Tycho had been writing poetry about him on and off for months, so he had regular opportunities to see himself (and what could be more mundane to one than oneself) through Ty's eyes. This wasn't particularly helpful for the conversation, though; it wasn't as though he could mention that his good friend regularly wrote poems about him. Particularly when most of those poems weren't exactly fit for public consumption. (Maybe he should ask Tycho where he kept those sorts of things — the idea that they might be uncovered someday, as Noble had uncovered Ford's stash of pining letters, was absolutely mortifying. Though the danger was much less, of course; Ty lived alone, without any siblings to invade his private space).

Before he could think of what to say she had waved the waiter over and replaced both their drinks — so he supposed he didn't have to decide whether that was too egregious or not after all, because she'd decided for him. How should he interpret that? Was this conversation going well? Presumably she was at least enjoying his company if she wanted to linger with another drink rather than cutting ties and dissolving back into the crowd around them, but was this more than just that, wasn't it? Women were not typically so bold as to hand out drinks to gentlemen at parties, so Ford couldn't help but interpret this as her hinting towards something... but hinting towards what, he didn't know.

Ford hesitated a moment, then made the decision. "Do you have a spot free on your dance card this evening?"

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With a growing sense of dread in the pit of her stomach, Ida convinced herself that the move had somehow said something. What thing, she could only guess. But the man was now definitely reading into whatever “it” is; she could tell because he didn’t say anything about what she said while he contemplated what she didn’t say. This left Ida nervously clasping both of her hands together around her glass, as if she were giving herself a little prayer. An invocation for embarrassment to turn into an ailment that could strike her dead. Or at the very least, make her faint. Then he gets to be a hero, and she gets to be out of this situation. (Could she learn to faint on command? It seems like a useful skill.) But as it stands now, there was no way to tell Mister Greengrass this was a grave mistake without offending him terribly… And now that she’s gone and dug her grave, she now had to lie in it.

“Oh,” she balked slightly at his request, then decided to buy time with a dainty sip from her glass. He was literally the one and only person that had asked her to dance, seeing as most were put off by her height, her generally morbid and dour personality, or both.

“Yes. I do. Just, er–” What a horrific time to get tongue-tied, “I just don’t do gallops,” she finally mustered. What a terrible dance. Every time she’d taken a gallop with a man he seemed to spring some surprise on her: with one man she had to clarify he was not proposing to her, and with the next she had to clarify that he was not propositioning her. Nothing good came from gallops.

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stefanie made this beautiful set <3

Something about the way she said the word gallops made him simply have to laugh, despite his nerves about having asked in the first place. Actually, maybe it was partly because of his nerves; he'd registered some hesitation in the way the she responded and had briefly panicked about having done something wrong, or misread the situation. He'd started to tense just slightly, so when she said gallops he was so relieved he nearly said oh, is that all?

"Whichever dance you like," he reassured her. "Though if you pick one of the very slow ones and we have to spend most of it making conversation, I can't promise I won't run out of interesting things to say. You'll have to tell me more about your research, to fill time," he joked lightly. They'd already discussed poetry and ghosts. Unless she was intrigued by Muggle hauntings and seances, or wanted to hear him complain about chaperone duties as an older brother, they were close to exhausting subjects Ford considered to be within his area of expertise.

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The man’s laugh helped diffuse some of the tension that built up in Ida’s shoulders, and she couldn’t help but quirk a small smile of her own. She did not think anything she said was particularly funny, but perhaps he shared her distaste for jumping around like a bleating goat. In any case, something that felt like relief settled between the two of them, and it was… nice.

“I believe the next is a gallop, so whatever song comes after that?” she suggested. It was easier to be helpful than helpless, and so the young woman curiously inspected her dance card while she took another small sip of her drink. “Oh,” she wrinkled her nose, “Oh dear, then this will be my last glass of wine before our dance. This puts us down for a polka, which I think involves a lot of spinning on my part and skipping around on yours.” It was actually quite fun watching the men skip, some were much more sprightly and coordinated than others. Though Ida’s humor was more… deadpan, and it was sometimes difficult for acquaintances to know when she was joking. Yes. She was attempting to joke with Mister Greengrass.

“Still, it seems to be our best option. The next songs are slow, and I don’t wish to bore you to death with my research. It would be quite ironic if after all this talk about ghosts, I turned you into one.”

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stefanie made this beautiful set <3

Ford chuckled at the comment about ghosts. "I wonder if they'd let me keep my job if I were a spirit," he mused. The task of negotiating with other ghosts wouldn't be negatively impacted by the lack of a body, and in fact it might expedite things if he were able to follow petulant ghosts straight through a wall instead of jogging around to meet them in the next room. On the other hand, not having a wand would make it impossible to deal with boggarts, dementors, and the other things that fell under the purview of their division, so maybe not. Of course, for all his time spent with them, Ford didn't think he actually wanted to be a ghost after he died. All the more reason to avoid expiring any time soon — because if he died with two of the girls still unmarried, he really would have to stay behind. At least he wouldn't lack for company, between all the ghosts already in his social circle and Tycho's ease with spirits — though it would put a damper on certain other aspects of his relationship with Tycho.

(Not the time or place to be thinking about that).

Miss Chang seemed a little uncertain about the dance, still; clearly she preferred it to a gallop, but her use of the phrase I think gave the impression that she wasn't confident in the steps. "We can handle a polka," he said with a grin. "I'm supposed to be leading, anyway, so if you end up spinning the wrong direction it will be my fault, not yours. But don't worry. I promise not to run you into anyone, at least," he joked.

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A gloved hand flitted to Ida’s mouth as she laughed, quietly amused by the thought of one’s job prospects as a spirit. “Oh, I am sure you could negotiate to keep your place at the Ministry,” she encouraged. “But the real hurdle might be convincing them to still pay you. Unless you would continue working out of the goodness of your ghostly heart?” Surely Mister Greengrass would rather do other things with endless time, not that she knew what he liked to do besides reading poetry— or what ghosts could do either, now that she thought about it. She could see how passing through all solid objects could be incredibly frustrating, and even get in the way of reading properly.

He was grinning now, over the polka of all things, and it was the kind of smile that made Ida smile too. She nodded her head approvingly as he promised to lead her the right way, not that she was particularly worried about being at fault for stepping on a few toes (literally and metaphorically). A small part of her was still faintly worried about why Mister Greengrass was having such a nice time, like she was conning him. Not that she was, exactly. But she had all intentions of being seen with men with zero intentions to follow through on marriage, so it felt a little odd when the man in question wasn’t aware of her little ruse. It made her feel guilty. Like she was wasting his time.

“I’ll gladly follow your lead. Not that I was ever a polka enthusiast or anything,” she waved as though batting the idea aside. “But I broke my ankle some months back, so I’ve fallen out of practice until recently.”

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stefanie made this beautiful set <3

"Oh, no, they'd have to pay me," Ford responded immediately, though with a wave of his hand that indicated he didn't think this a significant hurdle (it was easy to be dismissive of obstacles when the scenario was purely hypothetical). If he was only lingering behind as a spirit to help his brother get out of debts, though, they had better be paying him. Or he'd have to go peddle his ghostly services, such that they were, elsewhere &mdash, which would create a headache for his former colleagues in the spirit division. Maybe the threat alone — that he had all the right inside knowledge to make their jobs difficult — would have been enough to blackmail them into keeping him on the payroll. "Maybe I could even negotiate a raise," he joked. "Due to my increase in subject matter expertise."

He winced at her mention of broken ankles. As he inventoried his past experiences for anything relevant to say he briefly considered how he'd sprained his ankle coming off the dance floor last summer, but discarded it as a potential anecdote. Macnair had helped heal it; the memory was too fraught to be conversation fodder. So he skipped trying to relate and opted for sympathy instead: "I'm sorry to hear that. Did you at least break it doing anything interesting?"

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“Oh, very good,” she nodded emphatically about his adamance to get paid. To play along with the hypothetical she raised her glass to him in cheers over his prospective raise (“They won't want you to leave with all their trade secrets, too,” she added helpfully).

“Hmm, not really,” Ida took another sip of her drink as she considered his question. “I still lived in Irvingly at the time, and was a bit distracted with the lockdown news I suppose. I fell off my horse.” More accurately, she was thrown off by the horse when it was startled by a criminal attempting to tackle her for her gun. For such a plausibly traumatic experience though, Ida had a funny way of showing it– a shy smile graced her features as recalling the event seemed to make her think about somewhere and someone else.

“Oh, and I was a mile and a half from home. I’m shit with healing spells, mind you,” she added with a laugh. “I tried to fix myself but likely made it all much, much worse. Gauging by the healer’s face when she finally saw me, anyway.”

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stefanie made this beautiful set <3