Hello, I'd just like to take a moment and say thank you for the comments on the last chapter! Whether you like the developments, you hate them, your anxious to see where things go - all of your opinions are so valid, and more importantly Im still touched to the very core of my being that after all this time you people are still here and willing to share your thoughts. I know all of this is uber cheesy, but I just want you to know that I spend a lot of time thinking about this story and to have your feedback, whether its a two second "thanks!" or an in depth dive of your theories/opinions is honestly the greatest gift I can ever receive as a writer and I'm so thankful!

I'm finally writing the way I was before - I'm almost done with chapter 52, but then from there I don't know how many more. I always get myself into trouble when I try and guess how my writing will span out in actuality. All of this to say, still so much to come!

Thanks for being here and happy readingXx


Chapter 49

"Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps . . . perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath."
― L.M. Montgomery


It is, Florence thinks as she pulls on a pair of jeans in front of the mirror, noting with a smirk the bruise at the base of her neck that Forsythe had given her last night when he'd dropped her off at home, how any relationship hoping to last should start. There was a spark – but then again there had been a spark between her and Tom, a flame that they had fed with careless abandon until it had grown into something monstrous and unattainable. She liked Forsythe, he was more handsome than anyone had any right being, but they moved slower, more cautious, adding kindling one piece at a time. Perhaps they were all too aware of the years they'd spent growing up, of what it would mean for their families if this went wrong, or perhaps they were both just older, a few failed relationships under their belts.

Cautious, however, did not mean that Florence stopped him when he leaned in to kiss her, raking his stubble lined chin across her face until she shrieked and pushed him away laughing. And it did not mean that she stopped his hands when they wandered father than was strictly appropriate, especially when they were far out in the fields where no one could see them, nor did she stop herself from reaching for him when the urge struck, and she certainly didn't stop inviting him over to help planting the camellias they'd decided on, or for dinner, or just to see him. And if he stayed longer that was strictly necessary on these visits, well that was no one's business but their own.

Cautious simply meant that around their families they minded their distance and paused only momentarily to give each other knowing looks from across sitting rooms. If their parents noticed, they did not say a word, but Florence feels Eudora's eyes watching her more and more often, and the Blounts happen to be present at more and more family events without an explanation.

"June," Florence calls out as she pulls on her boots, stuffing her jeans down into the legs before tugging an faded old NoMaj baseball t-shirt on over her head. Florence feels energy pulsing through her system, the strange feeling of being late even though she knows if she leaves now, she will arrive at Forsythe's farm early. The elf appears with a loud crack, curtsying deeply.

"Missy Florence!" The elf chirped, and Florence squatted before her, patting the top of her balding head.

"Do you have the Dittany Concentrate ready to go?"

"Yes, it's by the front door on the table stand," June says, clapping her hands together slightly.

"Amazing, thank you, Junebug."

Her footsteps thunder across the floor in her boots as she makes her way down the stairs two at a time, snatching up the crystalline vial in such a hurry that she nearly knocks it off the dresser. Catching it, Florence presses a hand to her stomach, taking a deep, steadying breath before stepping into the parlor, scooping out a fistful of Floo powder, and stepping into the flames.

She resurfaces in one of the many Blount sitting rooms, spluttering slightly from having swallowed ash, and stepping out onto the carpet without a thought for the mess she will make. It is a bright space with East facing windows that capture an early morning sunrise over the blooming azalea fields in all its easy magnificence. Florence moves without hesitation to the window, leaning against the frame to admire the acres and acres as far as the eye can see of rolling pink and white and sometimes blue blooms until trees or hills cut them off from sight. Forsythe had managed the transition of running the farm from his father to himself with undeniable grace, a comfort with the land that was reflected in the lush fields, the increase in Blount azalea sales across the globe.

"Florence," a deep voice calls, echoing off the wooden floors to greet her, and she turns to see Forsythe approaching through the doorway, his copper hair still slightly damp from his shower. A smile breaks across her face, and without thinking she moves to meet him, her arms wrapping around his torso as his hands find her face in a practiced moment of ease they have grown accustomed to sharing. "You're early," he adds under his breath before kissing her, thumbs pressing into her cheekbones as he angles her face upward to meet his.

"Well, you wrote to me last night telling me you had a surprise for me," Florence teases when they break away a moment later. "You know better than to get me excited about something and then be surprised when I act on it."

"Fair enough," Forsythe agrees, leaning back in her grasp so that he can take her in. "Good, you're dressed for the field. Let's go."

"Not wasting any time?"

"Not today I'm not," he says, and his face is light with such childish excitement that Florence's entire abdomen clenches. Her hand slides into his without thinking, the other holding the flask of Dittany Concentrate.

"I brought this for you," she says, holding it out to him as they move. There is no pomp and circumstance with gift giving between them – when one has something for the other, it is given and cherished as nothing more and nothing less. The break from formality is refreshing, as is the low whistle that Forsythe lets out when he looks down at the object extended to him. Forsythe's eyes widen as he takes in the silver and sage liquid floating within the crystal sphere, and his smile broadens as he takes it from her, his hand gentle despite its crushing size. "It's from the first batch of concentrate brewed from trees I grew all the way from seedlings. I wanted you to have one."

"Thank you, Florence," he says, and his usually gentle tones hum with something deeper, his face dipping to hers for a moment so that he can press his lips to her forehead as they walk. He leads her out onto the back porch, setting the concentrate vial carefully on the table by the door before letting the screen door slam behind him and pulling Florence down and out into the sunlight.

"You have to put this on," he says with another smile, pulling out a bandana from his back pocket, folding it over in imitation of what is clearly supposed to be a blindfold. Florence's brows shoot across her forehead, but she nods, and lets him wrap the weathered fabric around her eyes.

"I can feel you shaking," Florence says as Forsythe secures the knot at the back of her head.

"Excited," is all he manages to respond, wrapping his arms around her from behind before burying his face in her neck and pulling Florence with him into side-along apparition. They reappear from the pressing darkness on the far side of the Blount farm – Florence only aware of this because the birdsong is different here, and she can smell the mossy river soil which can only be found at the rear of their expansive property. Forsythe's hands tighten on her sides for a moment and then he releases her, taking her hand and tugging her to his side so that he can guide her forward.

"I swear if you pull this blindfold off to show me an empty field, I'll punch you," she grumbles, but her face is wide with a smile that she cannot repress and her fingers sink into his side like she is a cat raking him with her claws, intent never to let go.

"I'm not mean enough to do that twice," he says with a deep bellow, referencing the prank he'd pulled a month prior when he'd done exactly this only to whip of the blindfold and reveal – nothing.

"Just checking."

After only a few steps Forsythe stops, turns Florence slightly, and then his hand creeps to the back of her head. She can feel again the tremor in his body, like a hurricane bottled inside of him, and she smiles again – his joy infectious.

"Ready?" He whispers, and Florence jumps slightly as his breath tickles her ear and glides across her neck. Her throat goes dry, and she nods. Without wasting another second, he pulls off the blindfold, leaving Florence to blink her way back into the light.

The field is on fire – an ocean of tangerine and apricot and the deepest ginger – blooms of every exacting shade of orange so that each ruffle of the wind makes it appear as if flames are roaring across the horizon. Florence's mouth falls open, her eyes threatening to pop out of her head because Forsythe has done it again – invented something new and magnificent andbeautiful. She does not feel herself move, only aware that one moment she stands before the flowers, and the next she is among them, the shadow across her back the only sign that Forsythe is following her.

Up close she can see that similar to the blue azaleas, this particular species has petals that begin at the pales of oranges, like the hint of sunset, near the lip, and grow steadily darker until they were a dark amber at the center. These blooms are smaller, the size of her palm fully opened, like tiny, delicate hatchlings that make her eyes water and her stomach clench. Florence's fingers brush across them without hesitation, the flowers waxy and soft and she has the strange urge to bury her face in them, to smear pollen across her skin, to inhale the subtle scent of honey that the flowers are giving off until it is all she can smell ever again.

"Forsythe," she whispers, stopping without thinking to press her face to a particularly lovely cluster of flowers, the scent of honey richer up close. "They're beautiful."

She turns at last to see that he is only just behind her, his square face so soft she feels as if she could melt into it. The familiar crinkle at the corner of his eyes is there – the sign of a smile that he cannot repress any more than she can in the presence of nature's wonder – in this thing they share together. He reaches for her, one callused hand tangling in her hair at the base of her head, scratching against her scalp in the manner that he knows leaves her shivering.

"They're for you," he murmurs quietly, and gone is the excitement in his voice, only the echoing, hollow vestiges of something stronger Florence cannot name. "The blue ones were for you too, but I couldn't tell you at the time, I don't even think I really knew it until I saw you amongst them anyways." Florence feels her lip wobble, her knees grow slightly weak, and she reaches for him, her fingers closing around the waistband of his jeans to steady herself. He always steadies her – he had when she's replanted the burned fields, and here he was steadying her now.

"I started to design them ages ago," he says, and his voice is still quiet and echoing, reverberating through the air until the words settle upon her chest, nesting there. "I couldn't decide on anything, but I kept picturing you in the field – showing them too you – and orange seemed right."

Florence lets the first few tears spill from her eyes without trying to bat them away. She remembers when Tom gave her the diamond necklace, how it had felt powerful, heavy upon her throat, and how she'd loved it as a symbol of him upon her. Glancing at the flowers around her now, the thought seems juvenile, the whims of a lesser version of herself, reduced only to an ornament. She can hear the voices of the azaleas, strong and vibrant with what she knows is impeccable care from Forsythe, and the thought that he designed them for her, cared for them on her behalf makes her vision swim with tears and her chest feel so tight it might explode.

"They're perfect," she says, and Florence laughs, more tears spilling down her face. Her body is glowing, and without realizing it she is floating a few inches off the ground, levity made real as her spirit sings alongside the flowers and the wind and the stirring emotion that threatens to overpower her on behalf of the man before her. "God, they're so perfect I don't even know what to say."

"So these are happy tears?" He asks, clearly unconcerned that she is now eye to eye with him as her body floats slightly higher. The hand in her hair tightens slightly, preventing her from lifting any further away from him.

"The happiest."

She looks at Forsythe, and her smile feels like it might rip her face in two – wide and painful and still not nearly large enough. She thinks of Tom – not with longing, but in a clinical, detached manner that one might watch a ship coming into dock or a bird alight upon a tree branch. He'd been like a genetic super-seed, predestined to be successful, containing a genomic code that should have flourished anywhere, and yet he'd been malnourished, ill cared for, and his roots had withered and died, erasing any biological advantage he might have had. Forsythe had none of these advantages, but perhaps they were the stronger together because of it – for watering and caring and selecting a time and a place to grow together with the utmost attention.

Love had struck her twice – once like a meteor, fated and inevitable, burning bright and then gone – the second time steady, the fine mesh of fibrous roots, the stable meandering of a river towards its eventual destination.

Florence reaches for his face, cupping his chin in hers and pulling him in for a kiss, allowing Forsythe to drag her back to the ground so that he can pull her flush against him. His body is warm, threatening to swallow hers with its sheer size, and she laughs into his mouth when she feels his hands creep beneath her shirt, the pads of his fingers sinking into the skin of her waist.

"What have you been telling everyone when you were working on these?" Florence asks, when they break away, slightly more breathless than before.

"No one knows besides Tallulah, and you know that she could care less about what's going on out on the estate," he says with a wry smile.

"Will you tell them you made them for me? Please?" She asks, and her face threatens to break at the light that glistens in Forsythe's eyes.

"You know what kind of gossip you're asking me to stir up don't you?"

"Yeah, I do," she says, pressing her lips to his once, twice, a third time. "And while you're at it, you can tell them we're dating." She kisses him again, this time hard and frenzied, like he might disappear from her grasp. "And anything else you want to tell them too."

He laughs as he spins her in a circle, his face buried in her neck, his joy so abundant that she can feel it flickering in his magic, in the tendrils of heat that pass from his body to hers, in the rattling vibrations in his chest that mirror those within her own. How wonderful, how affirming to have chosen this Florence thinks, wrapping her arms around his neck, laughing alongside Forsythe.

"For the love of all that's good, can I take you back to the big house?" He asks, panting as they come to a stop. His pupils are wide, and Florence cannot resist tracing her fingers over the flush in his cheeks. "Well, to my room more specifically?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Florence teases, and her shriek of surprise is swallowed by apparition as Forsythe pulls her against him again.

.

.

.

With the Floo's to their bedrooms connected, Florence has to do little more than pull off her boots after work before stepping into the green flames and calling out for Forsythe's home. His room has deep navy walls and dark oil, still-life paintings that move with wind no one can feel, the wide floorboards slightly warped from age as Florence skirts across them to the bathroom.

Without hesitation she pulls her shirt over her head, tossing it into his clothes hamper as she reaches for the shower nozzle. She'd been working extended hours for the past few months, slowly transitioning many of her responsibilities on the farm over to Albion and his more than capable staff in preparation for a time in which she would no longer work there. Most days, she follows after Alb, pointing out instances where native magic could solve a problem faster than traditional growing methods, teaching him the words and the songs he would need to know in order to run the farm in the proper Allman way – one with the land.

Her muscles ache as she steps out of her muddy jeans, and without meaning to, a groan escapes Florence's lips as the stream of warm water connects with her skin. She'd hardly had a moment beyond the weekends to see Forsythe, hence the connected bedrooms. Their relationship may have been brought into a more public life, but this detail they left unspoken for obvious reasons.

The water is like a soothing balm upon her battered body, and with a deep sigh, she reaches for the shampoo, lathering it slowly into her hair where she feels a few clumps of dried dirt break loose from her waves. There is a rattling of footsteps across the creaking floorboards out in Forsythe's bedroom, and Florence smiles when she hears the familiar sound of a belt hitting the wooden floors. Mere moments later, the shower curtain is pulled back and the sun kissed visage of Forsythe Blount joins her in the steam.

"You're late," Florence whispers against his lips as he brushes his mouth against hers before shifting her to stand beneath the stream of water himself. Florence's gaze traces the trickles of water that trail down his chest, blushing at the urge to run her hands across the flat expanse of tanned skin that overwhelms her despite this being a daily ritual.

"And you're staring," he says, raising a brow at her as he reaches over her shoulder for the soap.

"I'm always staring, as you like to point out," Florence mutters, feeling her face grow red. Forsythe laughs, but moves out of the water so she can wash out her hair. She looks away pointedly as his soapy hands move lower across his body, her skin burning with its previous embarrassment.

"I told Mimsy to make us a good dinner, so you will have to put clothes back on unfortunately," Forsythe says, leaning forward to nip at her shoulder before spinning them again so that he once more has the stream.

"Absolute betrayal," Florence groans, but she smiles at him and kisses him one more time before peeling back the curtain and stepping out, pulling the robe that Forsythe had purchased on her behalf from its rack. She seats herself at the vanity, reaching for the curlers that she knows are stored in the bottom shelf, listening silently as Forsythe hums something off tune behind her. Once her hair is properly rolled, she reaches for her wand, casting a charm so that a steady stream of warm air rushes from the tip, slowly drying her hair. Forsythe is out of the shower before she's finished, toweling down his body with unusual haste before scampering into his bedroom, surprisingly light on his feet for someone so large.

Florence is pulling out the last roller when he ducks back into the bathroom. His copper hair is still wet, but he's dressed himself in a pair of casual, pale gray slacks – his navy button down only halfway buttoned, the olive toned expanse of his chest open to Florence's constantly roving eyes. She smiles at him in the mirror as he approaches from behind, his hands resting upon her shoulders, eyes meeting hers in the glass.

"I forgot I wanted to get a nice bottle of wine from the cellar," he says, his thumbs massaging into her shoulders. Florence feels her body slump backwards against him, and she nods lazily. "Don't take too long, I'm starving," he adds with a kiss to the top of her head and one final glance at the mirror before making his exit. Florence smiles to herself as she listens to his retreating footsteps, realizing that in his rush he forgot shoes.

It is twenty minutes later, barefoot as Forsythe and dressed in a simple wool skirt, her own blouse unbuttoned at the top, that Florence makes her way down the stairs still trying to ease the tension from her day from her muscles. Forsythe is waiting for her at the base of the stairs, leaning against the railing, hands shoved deep into his pockets and legs crossed at the ankles. He smiles like she is the sun, and for one moment she stills, hand upon the railing, fixated by his gaze.

"Fast enough for you?" She asks, reaching out for him with both hands, grasping his shoulders and jumping down the last three stairs at once. He catches her with mock fragility, his face warping with agony as he sets her lightly upon the ground like she weighs nothing at all.

"Faster than usual, I'll give you that," he says, expression returning to normal as he loops her arm through his and tugs her down the hall.

"Are Tallulah and your parents eating with us too?" She asks, noting that each room they pass is dark. She can smell something sweet on the air as they draw close to one of the smaller dining rooms, and her stomach gives a betraying growl. Forsythe smirks at the sound, but he shakes his head no. As the head of the estate, he'd taken over possession of the main home. His parents and Tallulah still resided in the house but they'd moved into the West wing of the home in a similar manner to Albion, Margaret, and her own parents.

"No, I made dinner reservations for them in town that I told them they weren't allowed to miss," Forsythe admits with a grin. But before Florence has a moment to dwell upon this detail, Forsythe is steering her through the doorway, pushing her before him slightly as the dining room is revealed.

Florence gasps, coming to a halt and causing Forsythe to run into her with a surprised chuckle before his arms snake around her waist. Every available surface is filled with blooms – the familiar orange petals of her azalea living in Forsythe sized vases in each corner, in silver bowls both low and high upon the center of the table, running like garland along the crown molding of the ceiling, petals falling from the ceiling in a steady, magical stream. The room smells like walking into a beehive, the sweet scent of honey filling her nose within seconds as she tries to take in the literal greenhouse that Forsythe has crafted for her within the room. Outside, the sun is just beginning to set, the sky fading into dark reds and ambers.

"Forsythe, what have you done," she breathes, and turns in his grasp to look up at him. His typically gentle face is alight with a broad smile, sage eyes gleaming in the flickering candlelight as he stoops to kiss her once, briefly.

"Come on, I meant it when I said I was starving," he murmurs against her lips, sheepish in the face of her praise, and releasing her, Forsythe pulls Florence over to the table. She looks expectantly at the chair, but allows herself to be drawn past the setting and over towards the window with mingled amusement and confusion as Forsythe once more wraps her in a hug from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder as they take in the sunset together.

"Feeling contemplative this evening?" She asks, her eyes roving over the neat rows of flowering azaleas beneath the reddening sky. Forsythe hums deep in his chest, the vibrations sending shivers down Florence's back, but he says nothing in response. His grip loosens slightly on her waist for a moment, and then the light catches something beneath her eye and he looks down to where Forsythe's hands are pressed into her stomach.

The velvet box looks small in his hands, fragile and delicate as strong fingers peel back the lid to reveal a diamond ring, a large stone cut in such dazzling proportions it momentarily renders Florence blind. Her hand trembles over his, her breaths shortening as she suddenly becomes aware of every place where their bodies are touching.

"I know traditionally I'm supposed to get on my knee," Forsythe says, and she can feel his breath on her ear, his low voice humming with poorly contained excitement. "But I bought this the day after we got back from London before I even knew if you'd give me a real chance, so I'd say there's nothing very traditional about this entire situation."

Florence marvels at the calmness in his voice, at how steady his arms are around her when she feels as if one breath of wind could send her flying, her mind oddly light, her skin burning like a thousand fires. There is an ache within her chest that she cannot name, but she wants to prod him on, to drive him to the finish because her answer sits on the tip of her tongue, waiting to be given.

"But regardless of tradition, you would make me the happiest man alive, Florence, if you'd consent to wearing this ring. If you'd marry me?" He adds, as if remembering at the last moment that it is supposed to be a question. "I know how strongly you feel about your farm – you can keep working there if you'd like, but if you say yes, all of what's mine is yours – we could grow something new together – we can grow whatever you want." She turns to look over her shoulder at him, determined that he should see her face when she gave her answer. He's smiling before her mouth has even opened, the answer written plain upon ever line of her body.

"Yes, Forsythe," she murmurs. "Yes I'll marry you."

The ring slides onto her finger, magically enhanced to tighten to just the right size, a warm weight upon her skin like her own personal sun. He kisses her after that, long and deep as if the touch of their lips is the only thing left for him to claim, the only thing he will ever need. Florence's arms wrap around her neck as she kisses him back, and never once does she think of Tom, of what could have been.

Forsythe is what was.

.

.

.

It turns out that neither Florence nor Forsythe have any skill at planning a wedding, and perhaps even less desire. Tallulah and Eudora and even Lizzie from afar send them near daily eagles with recommendations for florists and possible fabric swatches for the tablecloths. Most often Florence and Forsythe read them in bed together, laughing manically at the details that sent their mothers and sisters into a frenzy until they are distracted once more by a stray flash of skin or a swipe of a hand and allow themselves to be carried away by more pleasant activities.

"I have waited my entire life for you and my brother to fall in love," Tallulah bemoans as she and Florence parade up and down the aisle of a china store, considering options for her registry. She'd begged Forsythe to come with her, but he'd laughed until he'd cried and then left her to his sisters devices. Bastard Florence thinks with a small smile. "So could you please just do me a favor and let me help you plan?"

"No," Florence says with ease, turning to give the other girl a broad grin. "We don't want a big wedding, and we certainly don't want whatever hell-storm you and my mother have cooked up for the two of us."

"You're incorrigible," Tallulah groans, holding up a gold rimmed plate that Florence grimaces at.

"I'm aware, my mother made sure to tell me every day growing up."

"Have you at least decided upon flowers?"

"Azaleas," Florence replies with ease, looking closely at a blue and white set of plates that has caught her eye. "The ones Forsythe made for me."

"Orange? On your wedding day?" Tallulah says through an audible grimace. Florence smiles, remembering that part of the reason she and Forsythe had chosen the flowers was because the gaudy color was certain to upset their nagging families.

Nearly two hours later she arrives back at the Blount home, traipsing up the stairs and down the hall towards the study where she knows she will find her fiancé. The word sends a chill through her, and she represses the girlish urge to giggle. Forsythe is indeed in his study, hunched over a long list of names, his palms pressing into his temples as if his head might explode at any moment.

"You look miserable," she says, sweeping across the room and seating herself without pretense in his lap, one arm draping itself around his shoulders while the other turns the list towards her.

"How was china shopping."

"Terrible, as you predicted," Florence says lightly, the hand on his shoulder tightening for a moment. "Have we gotten any more RSVPs?"

"The Greengrass family politely declined, as did Pyrrhus, but Lizzie will be in attendance," Forsythe says, passing her two cards. Florence had expected this – she did not know what Tom was doing in England or even if he was in England, she'd heard neither hide nor hair of his activities. But all the same, whether he was still running his strange boys club or traveling the world as he'd always wanted too, she doubted any of his followers would be welcome to step away for a week and attend her own wedding to a man that was not Tom. It was enough that Lizzie was risking her husband's wrath to be here with her in the end.

"And Dumbledore?" Florence asks.

"Another no, although he sends his warmest regards. Why you wanted to invite an old professor is beyond me," Forsythe says, leaning his head against her shoulder.

"Should we just throw all this away and go to Peru and get married?" Florence asks, partially teasing, the other part serious.

"Why Peru?"

"First place I thought of," Florence admits through a yawn, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle it.

"You know, when I die, I'd like for it be in your arms when I'm old and gray, not because my mother's revenge fantasy finally succeeded," Forsythe says, propping his chin on her shoulder.

"Alright," Florence agrees easily, pressing her lips to his for a fleeting moment.

His arms tighten around her, and they do no more planning for the rest of the afternoon.

.

.

.

In the end, Eudora and Tallulah get their way on most things, but the chorus of singing cherubs and the full orchestra that plays during the ceremony pale in comparison to the look in Forsythe's eye as her father walks her down the aisle. She's so taken with the smile upon his face, the fresh shave across his chin, that she doesn't even notice the doves that are released behind them nor the song of bonding that makes the air hum with magic incarnate. In her hand the orange azalea bouquet gives off the subtle scent of honey, and she forces herself to exercise any and all of her self-control not to slide the ring on Forsythe's finger immediately and then apparate somewhere more private. The winkles in the corners of his eyes as he grins down at her suggests that he feels the same way.

"You know," Florence whispers out of the corner of her mouth as they stand before the altar, their names having just been announced to the cheering crowd as man and wife. "Forsythe and Florence is an absolute mouthful to say together. These poor people having to say our names all day." He laughs and kisses her again to the delight of the assembled witches and wizards. Someone in the crowd sends up golden sparks which pop and bang above their heads, and in the front row, both Radella and Tallulah are crying. Lizzie holds Tallulah upright with an exasperated look upon her face, but when she catches Florence's eye, she beams at her friend.

"What about Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe Blount?" he suggests when they pull away, his hand firm upon her back, steady as always. Florence smiles like a child on Christmas, giddy with a rare kind of happiness that she knows could lift her off the ground if she would let it.

"Marvelous," she replies.

"Wonderful," he agrees.

Their fingers lace together as they make their way back down the aisle, this time as one. Florence tosses her bouquet to a still sobbing Tallulah, pausing to press a kiss to her father's cheek before allowing her husband – husband she thinks with mild shock – to tug her down towards where a unicorn drawn carriage is waiting to take them to the reception.

The party passes in a whirl, a memory that feels both centuries long and faster than the blink of an eye when she looks back. There is a champagne tower in honor of Florence's favorite beverage, and more than one hour spent spinning slightly off rhythm in Forsythe's arms upon the dance floor. She nearly goes into full-on, hyperventilating shock when she realizes that Albion and Owen had managed to place a strong confundus charm on none other than Frank Sinatra, the blue-eyed, NoMaj crooner snapping and singing before the crowd, none the wiser to the obvious displays of magic happening before him.

"You're going to get me and Forsythe sent to jail," she says in horror, glancing between Albion and the NoMaj singer as her husband fans her. Albion smiles wickedly, the drink in his hand sloshing over just slightly.

"Dad and I cleared it with MACUSA, Florie," he explains with obvious pride. "And he's getting paid twice what he normally does for his troubles."

Thus appeased, she allows Forsythe to drag her once more out onto the dance floor where his hands upon her body make her forget the anxiety of mere moments before, let alone the watching crowd and the endless extravaganza.

"Are you going to tell me where we're off to when this is over?" Florence asks, laying her head on his chest as a slow song steals across the venue.

"Of course not," he scoffs, smiling down at her even as he pulls her closer. Florence laughs, ignoring the cat-calls Owen and Radella were lobbying their way, retribution for their own wedding reception.

"I love you, you know?" Florence murmurs, her hand tightening around his for a moment as she feels another warm surge of champagne pass through her. Forsythe's lips press to her temple, and she leans into the touch, the tent falling silent around them as they spin, two as one.

"I love you too," he tells her easily, earnestly, and Florence closes her eyes, certain of him without having to see it written in his gaze. Another chill passes through her as the words settle with that place devoted solely to Forsythe within her chest. She'd never understood the wonder of hearing the words repeated towards her – Tom had never once given her that gift – but like so many other things, Forsythe gave those three words freely, a gift without expectation, a promise and a song and a magic only he could share with her. A magic she had chosen.

They spin, and Florence thinks only of the man in her arms, more content than she has ever had reason to be.

{{{}}}

Across the ocean, far on the other side of the Atlantic from the gay wedding-goers, Tom Riddle lies in wait deep in the forests of Albania, his cloak wrapped around him, his vision scarlet even in the early morning light. It is cold in the woods, but Tom can no longer feel warmth the way a normal human might – the way a weaker human would – and he barely notices the mist that rises from each of his exhales. He's been up all night, but like the cold, he no longer has need for sleep, the first wizard to truly utilize every hour of the day.

Just another thing that makes him remarkable.

Beneath him, just down the valley, is a small hut where smoke has started to emit from a stone chimney. For hours he debated just bursting down the door and killing the old hermit that lives inside, having the task over with, but he knows the man will have to come outside to collect wood and check his herd of goats, and somehow it felt cleaner to have his quarry come to him.

In his pocket he runs a finger over the silver curve of the diadem, the expanse of unfurled eagle's wings familiar to him even out of his sight. It had taken longer than intended to find the heirloom of Rowena Ravenclaw, but in the end he had mastered this too – like flight, like death. He smirks at nothing, pleased by his ability, the only thing he holds faith in these days.

Behind the diadem the back of his hand grazes a mirror, small and nondescript beyond the fact that it is magically connected to the painting within Florence's house even now. His smirk fades at the contact with the small trinket, a reminder that Florence's home is not even her home anymore, that somewhere far from here unremarkable Florence Allman was marrying that pathetic excuse for a wizard Forsythe Blount.

If Tom could feel nausea anymore, he is certain that the thought would have made him sick.

He doesn't watch the mirror anymore these days, not like he had when he was weakened by Florence, but he cannot help it if the mirror is propped on his desk or some other inconsequential location when Florence happens into the sitting room where the portrait of Atalanta will give him a sight of her. Tom is not seeking a glimpse of her, he is merely around when Florence comes into view upon the glass and nothing more.

And if he happens to notice that her hair is longer, that she says fucking Forsythe Blount's name with the same warmth she used to pronounce his, it's not his fault. Tom is certainly not liable for noting that she no longer visits the portrait as she once had – deep at night, shadows beneath her eyes – and he's certainly not responsible for overhearing the date of her wedding, for locking away the time and day within the vault of his mind where he could not forget it.

Tom withdraws his hand from his pocket, returning his gaze to the steady stream of smoke exiting the Albanian hermit's house. Florence Allman was nothing without him, pathetic, diminished, worthless. If she could do no better than the menial farmer boy from the waste town of Spectre, well that was no concern of his.

Still, he feels a surge of anger within him that he has not felt for some time, and without thinking he pulls his wand and begins to twirl it through his fingers. He hates that he even thinks about her at all, but it seems that a few vestiges of his own weakness remained. No matter, after today even that will be diminished. At last, after nearly a fully night of waiting, the door to the hut opens and a man becomes visible. Tom watches him approach without moving, waiting until he is only a hundred meters away before lifting his wand, the curse already reverberating around in his mind.

To the bride and groom he thinks with gruesome relish, and then there is a flash of green light, and the farmer is no more.


Are things getting better before they get worse?
Are things getting worse before they get better?

Up to you to decide! I'll be back with more in only a few days:) Stay safe you lovely people:):):):):):)

P.S. one lovely guest reviewer asked if I would be continuing on to the Marauders era. Ok 1) I am FLATTERED you would even want more of this, and 2) right now I don't plan on it, but I think my reasons why will make sense as the story progresses!