Hello Everyone!
I am so terribly sorry to have been away for so long. I've been sort of down recently for no real reason except that sometimes the real world is hard, and I was having trouble even getting the most vital of things done. Without going into detail, life was hard, and I'm so incredibly happy to be back! Thank you endlessly for your patience if you were someone waiting for this story to update!
There are so many new readers from when I was gone - hey, what's up, hello! I'm grateful to everyone joining the journey and I hope that this next update lives up to your expectations. You readers are the most wonderful thing to happen to me during 2020. Everyone please continue to stay safe and monitor your mental health if you're stuck inside for long periods of time. Happy reading Xx
Chapter 44
"It is a long way off, sir"
"From what Jane?"
"From England and from Thornfield: and _"
"Well?"
"From you, sir"
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Spring came, and with it came an increased workload, the Dittany trees seeming to sense their prime reproductive months despite the eternal summer that lived within the Allman estate. Florence is strolling along the rows of seedlings, her fingers hovering just over their blooming, silver leaves, singing under her breath for strong roots and thick stems when her father arrives, his leathered skin damp with sweat, face relaxed into an easy smile.
"I could feel your song from nearly a mile away," Clifford murmurs, running a forearm along the skin of his brow as he makes his way towards her. Florence feels herself smile, mimicking his movements as she wipes moisture from her own skin. "For a moment I thought I was going mad you sounded and felt so much like Adsila. I had to remind myself she has joined the Great Spirit before I entered the greenhouses."
"Careful, wouldn't want all these compliments to go to my head," Florence cajoles, but there is a swelling within her chest at his words. Her pointer finger and thumb absentmindedly close around a leaf – for a moment she swears she can feel the swell of magic that surges through the sap before it fades, an echo of the Cherokee's song like memory brought to life.
"I received an eagle from your brother," Clifford mutters, his eyes scouring over the seedlings with a discerning eye. "He's planning on moving down for good in May when his affairs and Boston are finished."
"When do you expect him to take over the day to day?"
"Not for another year – he's got quite a bit to learn, and I expect you to help me guide him."
Florence's neck grew warm, but the usual jolt within her gut – the painful reminder that none of the land or the family business would pass to her – was curiously absent. You have sung your way into the heart of too much of the land to resent your lot any more Florence realized. The businesses may be going to Albion and Owen, but she had written her name and song into the property and beings itself. What could her brothers understand of this?
"I think the saplings in greenhouses A through H will be ready to transition into the fields over the next few weeks," Florence continues, moving past her father's announcement. What was there to say? Albion and Margaret would move into the big house and Owen would move into the Savannah home and the next generation of Allman's would take the reins from Clifford.
"Really?"
"The taproots are long, pushing the edge of their barriers. I don't want to risk stunting growth," Florence explains, the pad of her thumb gliding across the leaf within her grasp. It is smooth in its youth, the ridges within it perfectly crafted to catch the rays of light that filter through the glass ceiling above its head.
"Well, if they need transitioning, then I'll expect you to be on hand for the move. It's about time you moved past work in the greenhouse," Clifford huffed, but there was a thickness in his voice that hadn't been there. Florence's eyes seek her father's face at his words, dumbfounded at his implication. He was… promoting her? Tears sting at her eye, but she stands still for a moment.
"You mean it?" She asks, hating that she sounds so breathless, but her brain seems to be unable to wrap around the words her father has just uttered. It seemed almost too good to be true, that she could take on an even larger role upon the estate.
"Of course I do," Clifford grunts, his brown eyes that are the same as her own fixate at last upon Florence's. "Of all my kids you've taken most naturally to the land, I'll need you understanding the full scope of our operation before I'm too old to help and Albion gets it in his big head he knows how to run a plantation – which he doesn't."
If Clifford had intended to say anything else, Florence stopped him by jumping into his arms, burying her face into his shoulder to dry the tears that now ran down her face.
"Thank you! Thank you, dad!"
"I think Adsila's spirit would haunt my from the grave if I didn't give you more work to do. You're too valuable to what we're doing here. A true Allman if I do say so myself," he murmured into her ear, his hand patting her on the back before he gently pushed her away.
"I'd haunt you before you ever had to worry about Adsila," Florence teased, her eyes roving across the rows of plants around them. The rightness of it all seemed to ring through her, her mind already running away with the notes she would need to compile for Albion, the lessons she would need to teach in in the greenhouses, and now in the fields as well. There were spells she would have to teach him, workflows for ordering mulch and fertilizer and paying the staff he'd have to acquaint himself with. It was thrilling.
"Yes, well, I didn't mean to distract you from your work, just wanted to check-in and update you on your brothers plans. Drop by the big house this weekend and we can start to develop strategies for transitioning the first of the greenhouse saplings," Clifford offers before he offers her a final smile and ducks his head, shuffling out the door through which he entered.
Florence works with near frantic energy the rest of the day, her voice loud and brash as she sings to the seedlings about her, uncaring as sweat pours down her back and water from the irrigation system seeps into her boots. When at last the sun begins to set behind the far off horizon, Florence clocks out for the day and apparates onto her back porch, removing her work shoes and soaking socks before stepping into her home.
"Miss Florence!" June cries, her tiny head bobbing into the doorway with a low bow and a wide smile. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes, would you like to eat on the back porch tonight, or in your quarters?"
"Wherever you think is best, Junebug," Florence coos, stooping so that they are eye to eye. "I'm going to shower off and pen a letter, and then you and Cash can join me to eat if you'd like."
The house elf bobs again and disappears back into the kitchen, leaving Florence to make her way upstairs and strip herself of her mud soaked work clothes. She knew it was approaching eccentric to dine with her house elves, but as the year had elapsed, Florence had come to despise somewhat having so much space to herself, and after all, there was nothing wrong with eating with her staff. They were as much her friends as Lizzie or Forsythe or Tallulah, and it was better than eating her meal and allowing her mind to wander across the ocean to Tom.
Her shower is cold on account of her burning skin, scrubbing incessantly at the line of dirt that she can no longer remove from under her nails before giving up and turning off the water. At least cleaner than she was before, Florence wraps herself in a robe and slides on a pair of house slippers before making her way back into her private study.
The excitement that had thrummed through her system like living music seems to fade slightly as Florence draws a blank piece of parchment towards her, her hand hovering over the swan feather quill without taking it. She had planned on writing to Tom the moment she returned home, but now that the blank expanse of parchment expanded before her, the words seemed to elude her. He's going to be furious Florence realizes with a wince, and she cannot tell if more of her resents his impending anger, or pities him that he is not as happy in his own life as she is in hers. It is not your fault he hates working for Borgin Florence reminds herself. You didn't force him to take that job. And yet despite these forceful reminders, her eyes stray to the stack of letters that had arrived over the past several months. It had been over three months since she had seen him – traveling to England for his birthday and convincing him to take a week off of work to travel with her to coast. It had been delightful, and it hadn't been enough.
His words seem to call to her now, and as if under his spell even from afar, Florence returns her quill to its inkwell and pulls his letters close, flipping open the first and the oldest.
Florence,
Borgin is sending me to France for the following two fortnights to do business with the French wing of the Malfoy family. Should you need to contact me during that time, please send all your correspondences to Walburga Black at number 12 Grimmauld Place. She will transfer your letters.
I dreamt the other night that you were here beside me, and woke anguished that it was not so. I promised you time, but what would it take you to lessen the years between your move?
Yours,
Tom
Florence felt again the wrinkle in her stomach reading the name Walburga Black. Who was she? And why did Tom entrust his mail to her? Florence felt bile rise in her throat, and she moved on to the next letter before she could dwell on the emotion.
Florence,
I thought I had managed to fly the other day, but found that the spell I had crafted was too draining upon my energy and was impossible to maintain over any extended period of time. Have you mastered flight yet, or am I to be disappointed in you as well as myself?
I find that I cannot sleep for more than two or three hours anymore. My body does not seem to belong to itself, and I cannot understand why.
Yours,
Tom
She'd nearly ripped her hair out responding to this letter because no, she hadn't mastered flight, but admitting it to him felt like cutting off a finger or a toe. The second half of the letter had not made her feel any better. Florence had sent Tom sleeping draughts and tonics for nerves, but it had felt futile even to her. Tom was far superior to Florence when it came to potions – surely he had tried these methods, but what could she do with an ocean between them? At least she had sent him something she tried to reason, but her stomach felt hollow for days afterward.
The last letter was his most recent, having arrived only a week ago.
Florence,
The Dittany saplings you sent me for my apartment arrived last week. I cannot decide if they are a blessing or a curse – every inch of my space now smells like you, but they lack your warmth although they sing of your magic. You are stronger. Even here in England I can feel the power of your enchantment that runs through these plants, and it makes my skin itch and crawl not to have you close.
There has been growing unrest amongst several of the pureblood families, and some have suggested a vote of no-confidence for Spencer-Moon. I think it is too early, he still maintains too much support from the Mudbloods of the country for his work against Grindelwald. Hastiness will get people nowhere.
Tom
This letter had been the most alarming of the three for a variety of reasons – that he openly wrote the word mudblood into being despite knowing Florence's aversion, that he would go so far as to resent a gift she had sent him, that he hadn't signed his letter 'yours' in conclusion. Florence's finger traced over his name at the bottom of the scroll, her heart pounding as if lead and not blood moved through her system. It was the absence of that one word, not the presence of all the others that seemed to be pulling her apart thread by thread, and which made penning the letter she knew she needed to write him so much more difficult.
Her racing thoughts were stilled by the ringing of a bell and the echo of Cash's voice up the stairs calling her to dinner. Florence set down Tom's letters, double checking that her robe was closed before sweeping down the stairs and joining her two friends at the table on the back porch and losing herself in a delicious plate of chicken and dumplings.
.
.
.
It is two days later that Florence finally works up the nerve to write to Tom and explain that she has been promoted – that she will spend at the least all of the next year into the spring of '47 training Albion alongside her father before she will be free to move anywhere. Florence must remind herself that Tom had promised her a few years – they were too young, and she was not ready for such a move – and yet Florence could not shake off the overwhelming guilt that somehow she was adapting to life outside of their time at Hogwarts better than he was. She sends the eagle off early in the morning, apparating to the greenhouses immediately afterward so that she can distract herself with the intricacies of growing lifeforms and the beauty of unfurling song.
When the next week passes without response, Florence assures herself that it was too soon for a response, that he would have to work through his anger and that it is unfair to expect Tom to accept her rejection of an impending movie to England. Yet when two weeks, and then three pass without word, a hardness seems to settle in Florence's chest, like a rock lodged between her ribs. April turns into May, and with it the air warms – this time without the magic of the Allman estate, and still Florence has not heard from Tom. Lizzie's wedding draws closer, the weeks ticking away until soon the impending nuptials are closer than they are farther, and still she has not heard.
Florence sees Tom in everything. His silence hums in every curl of wind, the wave of his hair in the darkening shadows across the floor, his eyes in the sky just before blackness consumes the horizon. Her mother asks her if she is well, and Florence smiles and instead buries herself in her work, ingratiating herself deeper into the magic that had shaped her thus far, which seemed to carry her now that something externally had failed.
And then one day Tom is there, as if he has always been there, his narrow, towering figure a sliver of shadowed chaos detaching itself from against the back wall of her house where he leans as she returns from the fields. Florence halts upon the grass, her vision suddenly glazed as he moves across the lawn, his robes billowing around him like raven's wings. How is he here? How could he be silent, and then just be here, and if he'd wanted to visit what kept him so long?
Florence does not have any answers, and Tom reaches her before she can decide if she wishes to be angry or leap into his arms. His face is narrower than she has ever seen it, each plane of his façade sharper although she had not considered it possible, but his magic abounds from his slender frame like a wide cast net, enveloping every surface of her skin in a smothering blanket, singeing her down to Florence's core. Tom's eyes seem to burn like coals buried deep beneath the earth's surface, his head falling just slightly to the side as he looms before her, at once impenetrable and terrifying.
"Tom," she whispers, because like every other moment in her life where she is overcome by his beauty, by the sheer force that is his presence, there is nothing else to say. The dusty rose line that is his lips whitens, as if he bites back a retort, and the stone lodged between Florence's ribs only grows heavier.
"Your brother, has he moved here yet?" Tom asks after what feels like an eternity. Florence blinks once, and then nods, the joints in her neck popping as she moves.
"Yes, Albion arrived with Margaret two weeks ago."
"And you say it will take you one year to train him alongside your father?" Tom's voice was like sandpaper across stone, grating and unbearable with the weight, and yet she'd missed him so desperately that even this warped version of the voice that melted her into nothingness was better than the silence that she had suffered. Florence nods again, this time the motion more self-assured.
"One year," she agrees, and she knows what he is really asking because his eyes flash red and his lip quivers for a moment. For the first time she notices that his perfectly shaped curls seem slightly dull, as if their usual sheen has been buffed and broken by time.
"Florence," is all Tom murmurs in response, and he at last, at last reaches for her, his hands cupping her face, his lips insistent upon her own, the thrill of magic that races down Florence's spine like a shot of the most potent Firewhiskey and a current that is entirely Tom. Florence's fingers tangle in his shirt, in his hair, her body shaking with the months and months of repressed agony his distance has put her through.
"Why didn't you write me back?" Florence whispers against his jaw when he pulls away slightly, his chest rising and falling beneath her palms as if he'd run a marathon or perhaps across the sea itself.
"I was angry," he admits, his voice more like the velvet that she remembers when she is lost in memory.
"It was cruel," Florence tells him, and she tugs slightly on his hair so that he is forced to meet her gaze. "Do not do it again."
"One year," he mutters in response before kissing her again. It is not the patience he promised her that night in the Head Boy's quarters nearly a year ago, but Florence could not deny that some part of her ego seemed to preen at his desperate need for her. She could not deny, also, that the thought of Tom seeking her hand in marriage at barely twenty sent waves of panic spiraling down her system.
"I missed you," he whispers against her throat, his voice so quiet Florence thinks for a moment she has imagined it. But no, Tom's body is too stiff in his uncertainty at having admitted such an open emotion that Florence knows the words were more than figments of her imagination. Tom's shoulders are braced as if he is prepared to fight, his voice so near silence that Florence understands he's waited to speak these words into existence only when he can insure that she will be the only one to ever hear them. Her hands twitch upon his body, and the tension she has been holding within herself for the past months without him fades away at once.
"Of course," Florence murmurs, feeling laughter bubble up within her, unbidden yet unstoppable. There is the slightest tinge of pink across Tom's cheeks, and Florence cannot resist tracing her finger over it, admiring the way his porcelain skin glows in the first rays of sunset.
It was hard to stay mad at Tom Riddle when he put everything she had ever known to shame. Impossible even.
.
.
.
Lottie Greengrass was assigned to show Florence to her room when she arrived at the Greengrass estate two days before Lizzie's wedding. As a witness to the ceremony, she was expected to be a part of all the preceding dinners and celebrations, to give long toasts, and to participate in the private ceremony before the public reception. There, Florence alongside the other selected witnesses and family members would help to weave the bonding spell that would officiate their nuptials – a spell Florence had practiced incessantly over the past few weeks until she was confident she would be able to perform.
"I cannot wait for you to see Lizzie's dress," the younger Greengrass daughter chimed, leading Florence up the now familiar grand staircase and down the hallways to the bedroom she had been assigned at Samhain so long ago. "Pyrrhus is going to lose his eyes when he sees her."
"I hope so," Florence agrees good naturedly, recognizing Lottie's excitement as the same joy Florence herself had fostered for Albion and Margaret's wedding. There were few things in the world as affirming as seeing someone you love taking a step towards lasting happiness.
"I got to help mother make the seating arrangements for tonight's dinner," Lottie continues without pausing for breath. "You're sitting at the head table two seats down from me, and between Philip Burke and your boyfriend." Here, the young girl turned and gave Florence a dazzling smile that was completely at odds with the typically somber expression the Greengrass women bore. "Lizzie says you'll be the next to get engaged."
"Lizzie should probably learn to keep her mouth shut," Florence countered, blustering slightly at the words. Lottie's mouth turned down in a pout.
"My mom says Tom Riddle is quite the catch, and I hear all the ladies at her supper club talking about him too."
"Yeah, Tom's something," Florence murmurs, irked by the heat that fans across her face and neck. It was strange to remember that she was the talk of gossip across the Atlantic now as well as in Spectre, although it was not a fact she resented. Florence had always enjoyed being the center of attention.
"If you get married, can I come to the wedding?" Lottie asks, clapping her hands together as they watch one of the Greengrass house elves begin to unpack Florence's things.
"Lottie," a sharp voice rings from behind them, and Florence turns to find her friend standing with her arms crossed, blond hair swept back over her shoulders with a careless movement. "Don't be a nag. Go help mother direct the florists – they've just arrived."
The young Greengrass frowned, but agreed and disappeared from the room, leaving Elizabeth free to sweep Florence into a hug.
"I don't know where she gets her tongue from. When she's around mother, she manages to keep her questions at bay, but the moment she's set loose she's as bad as you and your American sensibilities prattling on all the time," Lizzie teases, kissing each of Florence's cheeks before leaning back to take a look at her. "You look well."
"Hard labor six days a week will do that to you, I suppose," Florence jests, feeling the stretch in her cheeks as her smile expands across her face. "It's a good thing too – June and Cash feed me enough for six grown men I think."
"Well, you'll be well fed this week too. Just wait until my mother gets a hold of you to talk about all her hard ordered plans," Lizzie comments dryly, but even Florence can see the hardly repressed spark deep in the summer blue gaze.
"So dinner tonight, reception tomorrow afternoon followed by dinner at the Avery's, and then the bonding ceremony the following morning with the reception here," Florence states, running through the itinerary and taking the proffered glass of wine from one of the house elves and seating herself. Lizzie takes the second and does the same.
"Yes, it'll be exhausting but we've combed over the guest lists for each event and I think you'll have enough people here to catch up with that it'll be a good time."
"Lizzie, you're getting married! I wouldn't have to know a soul to enjoy myself," Florence assures her friend, their glasses clinking loudly across the stone floor as they cheers each other.
"So was my sister able to pry anything out of you regarding you and Riddle's intentions?" Lizzie asks, her voice a shade more controlled as her gaze dulls slightly. Florence's face burns with the uncomfortable itching of flaming pride.
"Of course not, there's nothing to talk about," Florence snaps. Lizzie rolls her eyes.
"He came by here two weeks ago just to make sure that he was seated beside you for every single meal over the next few days. He even weaseled his way into the private ceremony, and I can assure you that it has nothing to do with wanting to watch myself and Avery be bonded."
Florence feels her mouth fall open slightly as she rushes to swallow the mouthful of pale yellow liquid. He'd had the nerve to order a bride around at her own ceremony? What was Tom thinking?
"Can I apologize for his rudeness on his behalf?" Florence mutters, horrified. She knew Tom held a certain amount of resentment for the upper echelons of wizarding society, but this seemed unnecessarily rude, even to Florence's own low standards. Lizzie waves away her hand.
"No, no. Don't worry. We'd already seated you two together, and I think he's just taking your separation hard. There's no need to worry," Lizzie assures, but Florence misses the tightness around her summer blue eyes, and desperate not to discuss any further, Florence changes the topic.
The night's dinner – the smallest of the myriad of events the Greengrass' and Avery's had planned – was full of the most lavishly decorated members of British wizarding society. Tom arrived in his usual black dress robes, sweeping Florence across the floor and introducing her to a variety of members of the Wizengamot or other notable families. Florence tried not to be relieved when she was introduced to Walburga Black and her brothers, finding the woman lacking in everything from looks to decorum, a smugness settling about Florence's shoulder that had Tom's lip quirking with a poorly hidden smirk as he recognized her pride brimming to the surface as she surveyed the other woman.
When she was pulled away to discuss the upcoming several days with Lizzie and her mother, Florence watched Tom from the corner of her eye. Person after person approached him, some offering differential little bows, others shaking his hand. Tom's face was impassive, his eyes more often than not upon Florence than those vying for his attention, and yet she could not shake the nagging, tickling sensation at the back of her brain. How do all these people know him? Why are they so desperate to meet a shopkeepers assistant? But it took only a brush of his fingers down her spine and a few glasses of champagne to calm her thoughts. Florence attributed it to their months apart, and within a few hours, she was wound so tightly around his arm that when the party ended well after midnight, Florence tugged him up the stairs and into her borrowed bedroom rather than allowing him to leave her even for the night.
"Do you want a big wedding like this?" Florence asks, egged on by the warm pooling of alcohol within her stomach. Tom's face is pressed into her neck, his body partially covering hers so that her hands have free access to his back. Her fingers trace up and down the ridges of his spine, along the planes of lithe muscles, palms pressing into the warmth there.
"I have never considered it," Tom says, a hint of stiffness sliding into his body, his words tickling the delicate skin where her neck met her shoulder.
"Consider it now," Florence commands, smiling to herself even in the darkness. How strange that he'd offered to shape the world for her, but they had never discussed something so mundane as their wedding – at least not outright. But then again, there was nothing normal about Tom, of course he would be more inclined towards deep, abounding statements of adoration instead of daily, humane acts of commitment.
"I have only ever considered a wedding as a means for making you mine," Tom whispers, propping himself up on his elbow so that their eyes can meet. He traces down her arm, pressing his thumb to her finger where his ring will one day sit. Florence's breath catches in her throat, her eyes riveted to the bob in his Adam's apple. "I could care less for the wrappings so long as the end result is that we are one, that your everything is mine."
Florence twists her hand in his so that their fingers lace together.
"I want to get married in America," she whispers, never looking away from his gaze which is hard and soft simultaneously. In the shadowed half-light of the moon, his weight loss is more pronounced, his face like a multi-faceted jewel.
"Alright," he rumbles, and he presses his lips once, then twice to her own before returning his head to her shoulder and settling back into a position to sleep.
As his breathing steadies beneath her, Florence wonders if perhaps in another world, where she was not subjected to the whims of her father, where Tom would be happy chasing her across the ocean and not vice versa, if he would have asked her to marry him then. She knew what her answer would be, if she'd been allowed to give it, but the question was never posed, and Florence instead buried her nose into his hair and chased Tom into dreams.
.
.
.
Lizzie's ceremony is a blur in Florence's memory as she tries to sort through the sensations that had poured through her days later. There had been wonder at the smile that graced her friend's features when Lizzie's eyes found Pyrrhus's, at the abounding grin that was matched upon Avery's features – for once gentle instead of canine. Never before had the haughty Greengrass appeared so soft, egged on by the demure white gown which made her appear like a vision of heaven's highest peak. Tears had sprung in Florence's eyes the moment she'd first beheld Cadmus Greengrass and Lizzie appear at the edge of the ceremony space, and her eyes had remained moist for the remainder of the ceremony.
There had also been the burning sensation Tom's gaze had left along her body as midnight eyes followed Florence's every moment. Seated in the second row of chairs, he'd watched her with the unnatural determination of a predator, the smirk that was plastered there often melting into an almost feral growl, as if he was resisting the urge to pounce upon Florence in front of the gathered crowd.
And above it all had been the magic, the warm, encompassing sensation of electricity that stretched through her tired muscles and made her mind feel as if she was floating along the stirring tune that emanated from the quartet seated at the back of the room. The entire ceremony was a spell – spoken in binding Latin, both families first releasing their children from their familial bonds before those selected witnesses joined their voices in weaving the new spell. Pyrrhus' and Elizabeth's hands were wrapped around one another, a white light spilling out from between their fingers as the words of the bonding spell continued to grow. Florence could feel her tears spilling down her cheeks and onto her gown as the verses slid from her mouth, her throat raw with the emotions that flitted through and about her. To the beginning of your happiness Florence thought as the final phrase left her tongue and the light between the now married couple's hands grew and then flashed like lightning, blinding everyone momentarily before returning and settling deep into their skin. Both Pyrrhus and Lizzie's skin seemed to glow, and then Lizzie let out an unusual giggle and they pressed their lips together, sealing the magic in place.
Florence's eyes found Tom as the magic became defined, almost tangible, and she felt the stirring in her gut at the awe she saw etched into the lines of his jaw, the storm in his gaze. Without question she knew he too was wondering what the bonding magic would feel like, if it would burn or if it was reminiscent of euphoria – that sitting here now, he wanted to feel it with Florence. She smiled at him, abashed by the uninhibited desire that swirled across his face, thrilled that she was the center of his thoughts at all times.
The ceremony takes place under a massive open walled tent that is magically enchanted within so that the flowers perfume is more pungent, the ceiling painted like the finest Renaissance painting with moving clouds and spiraling little cupids who smiled and waved the guests. Florence and Philip enter behind Pyrrhus and Lizzie, arm and arm as they watch their friends spiral onto the center of the dance floor for the opening song.
"I've never seen Avery look so happy in my life," Philip comments, but Florence notes there is no bitterness there.
"Which Avery?" She teases, admiring the way Lizzie's skirt fans out from her as she spins.
"Both," Philip admits without missing a beat. "Should we join them? Lizzie will murder us if we don't get the dancing started," Philip offers, holding out his hand palm up. Florence acquiesces and allows herself to be swept out onto the floor, both Pyrrhus' and Elizabeth's parents joining them upon the teak floor as well.
"How is working in America?" Florence asks as they turn, unable to rip the smile off of her face. Philip glances down at her, his own easy smile spread across his face. His jaw seems wider, his hair somewhat more cropped, at nineteen more of a man that Florence had ever truly considered before.
"Nice. Your brother was a real ace getting me his job when he left to take over the farm," Philip says, his eyes crinkling as he chuckles.
"Well, he's not running the farm yet," Florence growls. "I have plenty to teach the idiot."
"Aye, go easy on him, won't you? We can't all sing trees into existence."
"So now you're defending Albion?" Florence asks, raising a brow at Philip as she turns under his arm.
"Someone has to protect him from you," Philip returns, but his hand is gentle upon Florence's waist and he sweeps her across the floor off tempo and laughing.
As they move, Florence's gaze moves across the watching crowd. Without thinking she is looking for Tom, and soon enough finds him surrounded by no less than ten young men, each in expensive black dress robes with carefully manicured hair and some holding drinks. She notes as they spin that each man is arranged around Tom, staring at his porcelain face as he speaks with expressions approaching reverence. Nott is present, Lestrange to Tom's right, as well as many others Florence has never seen before.
"Who is Tom talking too?" Florence asks, turning to look back at Philip. The sandy haired boy's face pales for just a moment, but his smile does not falter.
"Bunch of ex-Slytherins," he explains. "That tall blonde bloke is Abraxas Malfoy, and the Blacks are there too."
"Ah," Florence murmurs in response, but unsure why the sight of the young men leaning in to hear what Tom is saying unnerves her so, as if a splinter driving under her skin. You're just jealous he is giving them attention she tells herself, but even to Florence who feels possessive of Tom's smallest thoughts and movements the words ring hollow.
At last the song ends, and without hesitation Florence approaches the brooding group of young men. Pushing between two chattering grandmothers somewhat rudely, Tom's eyes at last find Florence's when he hears the women's indignant squawks, and he falls silent, watching her approach with the same animalistic desire he'd held when the ceremony began. The young men gathered around him turn to see where his gaze had landed, but wisely they remain silent.
"Tom," Florence calls out, her voice loud to her own ears as she steps into the middle of the silent circle. She swallows slightly as the usual clean scent of him washes over her, heat pooling in her abdomen as she recalls the way his hands had moved across her skin in their shared shower. Tom smirks when he sees the flush creeping across her skin, and Florence rolls her eyes at him if only to preserve a semblance of dignity.
"Florence," Tom murmurs, and his voice curls and weighs upon her heart, a comfortable warmth that Florence missed during every beat of quiet. She wraps her arm through his, resting her head on the point of his shoulder and at last turning to face the semicircle of young men facing them. Unabashed, several of the men are peering at her with varying levels of questions in their gaze. Florence meets their eyes without blinking, accustomed to high-brow, society men who thought they could intimidate her.
"Hello, gentlemen," she says after having the chance to meet each of their stares first, letting her voice ring out low and loud. Beside her Tom shifts his weight onto the other hip, his eyes tracing the profile of her face as his smirk becomes sinful.
"This is Florence Allman," Tom says, gesturing to her even as his eyes remain locked onto her face. "Florence, these are some of my peers from before your time at Hogwarts." The word peer makes Florence snort before she can stop herself, and embarrassed at the sound that has left her, she turns to meet Tom's gaze meeting his smirk with a raised brow. Both of them know that he considers no one his peer – no one that is besides her.
"Pleasure to meet you," Florence says after a moment, but like the man she is wrapped around, her eyes never leave Tom's face.
"Would you like a drink?" Tom asks, his voice quiet as he leans closer to her. Florence's breath catches in her throat, and she nods. Under the pale light of the tent, the ring of sky blue that surrounds Tom's pupil has morphed into a tender periwinkle, and Florence has the strange urge to run her fingers over his brows and eyelids, to melt into the color there.
"Lestrange," Tom commands, breaking the moment. "Fetch Florence a glass of champagne, Firewhiskey for myself. If they don't have champagne then white wine will suffice."
At once the hooded gaze of Leonidas Lestrange disappears from the circle as he moves to obey the order, leaving Florence to once more take in the young men gathered. She can see from their shifting stances and serious gazes that they are unsure how to carry on with Florence now a part of their gathering, as if she had interrupted something. The splinter that had slid between her ribs, driving unease into her veins while dancing with Philip, seems to grow.
"So, what did I interrupt?" Florence asks, smiling at the Slytherins assembled. Tom's arm slides out of Florence's so that he may instead trace his finger up and down the side of her neck. Over her head where Florence cannot see him, Tom's face becomes thunderous, threatening oblivion upon the fool who misspeaks now.
"We were simply catching up," Abraxas Malfoy says with the smooth confidence of someone accustomed to every privilege in life. "It has been some time since we have all been together."
"I see," Florence says with a smile that does not reach her eyes. There is something too familiar in the manner which the men gather around Tom for her to believe that it has truly been any significant amount of time since they were last assembled. Why Abraxas is lying, though, Florence does not know. The knot in her stomach intensifies. Seconds later Lestrange returns, passing Florence and Tom their respective drinks.
"Let's go for a turn about the room," Florence offers, but her voice is harder than she intended, as if in command. Tom smirks, but takes her arm in his and leads her around the perimeter of the tent without question. The gentlemen watch them go in silence, and only once they are on the other side of the dance floor does Florence relax, pacified by the fact that Tom had chosen her over them – whoever and whatever they were. As they watch Lizzie and Pyrrhus dance upon the floor, Tom pulls her to a stop, his arms wrapping around her waist from behind so that his chin can rest upon her shoulder. Beside them, an elderly couple frowns at the display.
"One year," he whispers into her ear, and Florence shivers in response because his voice is not full of desire or promise – his voice is a threat.
"One year," she repeats, her eyes never leaving the spinning couple on the dance floor. Cold seeps into her limbs, and her hand shakes around her flute of champagne. Toms fingers sink into her skin as if he is imbedding his claws into her flesh, as if he might never let her go. Perhaps he never will.
As always, thank you for reading, and if you feel so inclined, let me know your thoughts!
