Inspired by oxoniensis's Writers' Workout Challenge on LJ but not submitted because I need to learn how to follow instructions.

The bells above the door chime discreetly just as I begin my nightly closing rituals. I slide the keys back into my pocket, careful to keep them from jingling.

He looks a bit lost. Also, more than a bit ... disreputable. I do hope I won't have to call in the guard. There will be so many forms to fill out and I'm not sure where we keep all of them.

We get his type in here now and again. I'm not sure why. We keep some of our better pieces in the window display, which helps to discourage the casual browsers from entering. The security camera trained on the front door helps to deter the more unsavoury characters. However, occasionally, they slip in anyway.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. Why, one of our very best customers (sapphire tennis bracelet for Christmas, new diamond every anniversary) often arrives on foot and dressed in the most deplorable dungarees. We celebrated the New Year in Majorca last year, thanks to the commission from his bi-annual purchase.

I suppose I'd better approach this man. Usually my presence is enough to run his type out of the shop.

"May I help you, sir?" I use my frostiest tone and snootiest expression. He doesn't take his eyes off the rings and points one long and surprisingly well-manicured finger at the display case. I spy a ragged hole in the elbow of his shabby army-style pullover.

"The scrollwork on this ring is familiar. Do you regularly commission pieces from Beatrice Harrington?"

I am taken aback. He knows on sight the work of one of Britain's premier designers? Perhaps I should rethink my approach.

"Oh, no, sir," there's definite warmth in my voice now, "we are extremely fortunate to have one of her best pieces on display here. It was done as a favour to the owner of this shop on the occasion of his twenty-fifth year in business. Would you like to examine it more closely?" I take a step toward the case.

He looks at me now. His eyes are the most unusual shade of green, reminding me of Alexandrite in natural light, although his eyes are more golden than blue. A question drifts idly across my mind: will his eyes turn red in a certain light, as with that particular stone? Of course, that's nonsense. Human eyes don't change colour that drastically in any light and anyway, we're bathed in a cool fluorescent glow right now. True Alexandrite would be the colour of blood in this light.

"No, that won't be necessary," he says softly. A faint smile twists his mouth, giving him a rather predatory expression. "I am merely dreaming today."

It's the kind of response that does not invite further conversation, so I keep my silence. He strikes me as a man still in the early stages of a relationship but contemplating taking a larger (and more expensive) step forward. One can always tell by the eyes.

Best to withdraw and be at the ready should he need assistance. This particular brand of customer doesn't respond well to hovering.

He walks slowly through the shop, pausing now and again to ask questions about the merchandise. His knowledge of precious gems is impressive, if a bit spotty. He's familiar enough with the naturally occurring stones, but doesn't seem to know much about the artificial pieces.

This bodes very well. My mind wanders to the beaches of Majorca while he browses.

Alas, it is not to be. He spends a few more moments studying the wedding sets then thanks me politely and exits the shop.

I shouldn't worry, though. He'll be back. Men with that look in their eye always are.

-

It's an unseasonably chilly evening, the kind that never fails to remind me of short, cold nights near a warm fire, whispered conversations in the dark...

Oh, how I will miss that.

Wandering down one of the many identical lanes near my temporary lodgings, a brightly lit window catches my eye. Soft blue velvet flows under a bright spotlight trained on thick golden necklaces and silver stickpins. The cloth is the exact shade of the sky above and the light twinkles off the many sparkling stones like starlight.

I know I shouldn't go in, but my hand reaches for the door handle anyway. A warm blast of air caresses my face and blows the fringe out of my eyes. I hadn't even realized my hair had grown so long.

The shop is larger than I expected from the outside. It smells faintly of must and old money. Lots of old money. I adjust my too-well-worn pullover, aware that I don't belong among these pristine gems and precious metals.

A meticulously dressed little man hovers near a door at the side of the shop. I see him slide something into the pocket of his waistcoat.

I am on the verge of calling out a friendly greeting to alleviate his inevitable suspicions when my attention is diverted to the largest display case. It stands in the middle of the room under a bright white spotlight. The jewellery inside sparkles and flashes, as though the gemstones inside are clamouring for my attention.

Inside the case, a multitude of rings vie for attention against a rich black velvet cloth. Diamonds in every conceivable cut and colour wink at me from their varied settings. The contents of this single glass case would easily purchase an entire island nation in the South Pacific. A very small island nation, but nonetheless, it is impressive.

I once worked – very briefly, of course – for a Muggle book publisher. In the three months I was employed there, I worked on a number of projects but was absolutely obsessed with only one. I was responsible for writing the copy for the photographs in a mid-level jeweller's book. At the time, what I knew of fine jewellery wouldn't have filled a thimble. Many a night was spent in my dingy, draughty flat devouring books on gemmology and design. Several years after I was asked to leave that job, I enrolled in a few courses at the Muggle university in Edinburgh. The tuition money would have been better spent on better food and more comfortable shelter, but I never have been one for practicality when it comes to learning.

Not that the knowledge has done me much good since. I cannot afford to buy the pieces I so admire and scruffy persons such as myself are rarely offered jobs in the trade.

I spend a few moments studying the rings on display. It's a collection of wedding sets. None of them are marked with either price or designer, which speaks volumes about both. I can feel the clerk hovering nearby, probably deciding whether to call for help. I don't blame him. If I saw someone lingering over these jewels, dressed as I am, I'd be nervous too.

One set in particular stands out against the rest. The wide platinum wedding band has two channels of pure white princess-cut diamonds separated by delicate Celtic knot scrollwork. I would estimate the total weight to be a little over a carat. The engagement ring is a simple slender band of platinum with a tiny heart-cut white and green moss agate. The man's ring rests just under the wedding band, a thick tapered platinum ring with two heavier knots surrounding the square-cut agate – which looks to have been cut from the same stone as the one in the engagement ring. The contrast between the diamonds and the agate is striking, perhaps even a little off-putting. The craftsmanship is exquisite; I know of only one designer with the talent to pull it off.

The clerk offers his assistance, though his tone makes it clear that he is only asking as a matter of habit. A dismissive reply is on the tip of my tongue, but instead, I find myself pointing to the rings.

"The scrollwork on this ring is familiar. Do you regularly commission pieces from Beatrice Harrington?"

I can practically feel the shock rolling off him in waves.

"Oh, no, sir," he says, in a deferential tone, "we are extremely fortunate to have one of her best pieces on display here. It was done as a favour to the owner of this shop on the occasion of his twenty-fifth year in business. Would you like to examine it more closely?"

He moves toward the case, clearly intending to remove the pieces for my inspection. I lock eyes with him and demur. As Dumbledore would say, "it does not do to dwell on dreams." I know of only one witch who would suit these unusual rings and it would be far better for me to direct my dreams elsewhere. I am too everything and nothing for her.

The clerk nods and steps back again, doing his best to blend into the background. I wander through the shop, reacquainting myself with the beauty of the cold stones. We carry on a bit of conversation about many of the pieces. The store stocks a wide array of paste and costume jewellery - something with which I am not terribly familiar. I make a mental note to visit the library tomorrow for a book on artificial gemstones. The wide array of colours and shapes has sparked my curiosity. It's been an age since I studied anything for pleasure and in a matter of days, I will lose the opportunity for any sort of civilised pursuit.

At length, my circuit of the store brings me back to the central display. I gaze at the Harrington set for a moment longer, but I am well aware of the clerk's expectant air. It seems cruel to lead him on when I have not the means to purchase even the cheapest trinket, let alone these three exquisite rings.

I thank him and make my way back out into the street.

The cold wind chases down my neck and creeps in through the hole at my elbow. Shoving my hands into my trouser pockets, I set off for my miserable rooms, images of sparkling diamonds and glossy agates and tear-filled eyes tumbling through my mind.

I shake my head to clear it. It's far past time I started getting into character. Thoughts such as these have no place where I am going.

Someday, perhaps...

Caveat emptor: What I know about gemstones/jewellery design wouldn't fill the head of a pin, let alone a thimble. Google, however, is my very bestest friend EVAR!

Written while listening to "Radha Kaise Na Jale" from the Lagaan soundtrack (OMG go find a copy!) and after a discussion of the jewellery on display at the Field Museum in Chicago. Could be read as part the wotcherwerewolf challenge universe - see previous chapter - although this particular scene takes place very soon after the end of OotP/beginning of HBP.

At my LJ, I've posted pictures of actual rings that closely resemble the pieces in this story, if you're so inclined.

One more thing, this chapter title comes from W.B. Yeats's Easter 1916. If you're not familiar with Yeats, get yourself to Bartleby!