Greetings my good, Hotmen! (any fellow Avatar fans out there? I've been dying to start my AN like that for MONTHS but I've tried to refrain, and here I am giving in to my baser instincts.)
Anyways, I'm sure many of you are wondering - what, Ads is posting ANOTHER chapter so soon? Shocking, truly I know, but I'm currently working on chapter 54 and I'm quite literally itching to get these chapters out and to share with you what all I have in store.
I did just want to say this before you dive into this latest installment - I know many of you are like, Yeah, Forsythe is nice, but he's not Tom, to which I would like to say...Correct! If you have hated the most recent turn of events, that is 100% fair and fine and valid and I'm not upset with you AT ALL, I just want to point out that the relationship pairing hasn't changed in the summary for a reason, and that it's looking like this story could be anywhere from 57-60 chapters, so there is still quite a bit of plot to go! I feel like I'm being vague and annoying, but I just want you all to know everything I write I try and write with intention. Of course that doesn't mean anyone should have to like it and I appreciate your honestly more than I can express, all of that to say that this is Florence's story and that there is still SO much more to come! Ages ago I asked you to hang in there with me cause this story would take some turns, and I'm begging for your patience now because at last we've hit! those! turns!
Ok, enough of my rambling. Here is another chapter, and then I'll go back to my author's cave and continue to hammer out some more words on my silly little keyboard. Grateful for each and every one of you! Stay safe and THANK YOU THANK YOU for the comments I had the best day yesterday cause you people left so many, and they were so good and thought provoking and thoughtful!
Chapter 50
"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
It turns out that Forsythe had rented an ancient French Chateau in the southern wine country for their month long honeymoon. When they arrive upon the stone stoop, still dressed in their tuxedo and gown from the reception, June and Cash are there to greet them with yet another bottle of champagne and many high pitched well wishes. For possibly the first time in her life Florence considers rejecting the proffered coup glass, but one blinking stare from June has her accepting it with a gracious hug.
"It's supposed to be haunted," Forsythe admits when at last they have made their way into the master suite, his hands at once seeking the zipper at the back of her gown. "The Chateau I mean."
"Is that why you chose it?" Florence says with a sleepy giggle, leaning back against Forsythe and making his job of undressing her decidedly harder.
"Maybe," he admits, and Florence can hear his smile without looking at him. "But they also have their own vineyard. I thought you'd be interested in learning more about the growing process."
"Mhmm," Florence agrees, turning to help him undress after she is freed from her own cumbersome gown. Soon enough Forsythe's garments join hers on the floor, the two of them falling in a tangle of limbs into the bed.
It is several hours later that Florence sits up in bed, waking from a dream, her heart racing at a terminal velocity as she fights to stabilize her breathing. At once, Forsythe is awake beside her, his palm running up and down her back as his other hand pulls her against his chest.
"Bad dream?" He asks, and Florence takes another deep breath before shaking her head noagainst his chest. In the early rays of morning light, Forsythe's eyes are the palest green, like buds of new grass coated in a layer of frost.
"No," she says, pressing her lips to his neck for a moment. "I just realized I won't have to Floo home in the morning anymore." Forsythe kisses her in response, dragging her back down to the mattress before she can say another word.
.
.
.
Some parts of their lives fit together with such ease that most days Florence does not even feel like her life has changed at all. June and Cash move onto the Blount estate with her, and with Florence comes her own personal collection of Herbology and Mythology and Language texts that she uses to augment Forsythe's upstairs library. Our library as she'd taken to calling it whenever she mentioned it in conversation to Forsythe, and he would simply smile and nod his agreement.
He joins her without question in her morning coffee ritual out on the back porch, and they silently agree to avoid as many social functions as possible unless Florence was in the mood to dance and show off her husband to the local gossips. Much to Forsythe's chagrin, this mood to show him off strikes Florence more than either of them had initial bargained for, but he doesn't chastise her for it. As the years go by, she thinks he's secretly pleased by her desire to tote him around, to dress him up in a tuxedo just so she can rip it off him when they get home.
Harder are the first years on the estate after their marriage, Florence adjusting to life upon a property where she had no expertise, no ties beyond those founded through marriage. Forsythe is gracious, allowing her to trail after him as he goes about his work on the property, but there are more than a handful of tense nights where she can see the pulse jumping in his temple as she pesters him with her hundredth question, challenging him on one of the finer details of the operation. She flounders in the fields working amongst shrubs, azalea being a non-medicinal plant throwing her for loop after loop.
"They need less fertilizer than Dittany," Forsythe patiently explains when he observes several acres of shrubs with shriveling buds that Florence has mistreated. He does not chastise Florence, but she can see the tightness around his eyes as he looks out over the hurting plants, and everything within her threatens to shatter because she knows what it feels like to have another harm your land, and to be responsible for it is almost more than she can bear.
"If you're going to sing to them, sing to their leaves not their roots," he explains another day. "We have to be able to uproot them and sell them for aesthetic purposes just as often as we sell them for ingredients. Strong roots make them hard to remove" Florence nods in agreement, but she feels the cool trickling of failure down her spine at his words. I should know this Florence thinks to herself later when Forsythe is not there to see. I am the one that can sing to the plants. Eventually after running through several ill-fitting positions on the property, Forsythe assigns her to the greenhouses.
"Just sing to them," he says in a tired voice, pressing his lips to her forehead before releasing her to apparate away to the plots of azalea that are scheduled to be harvested that day. Florence smiles at him as he disappears, and then sets off by foot to the low, glass paneled buildings that are far off to her right along the horizon. There are fewer greenhouses upon the Blount estate than upon her family's, but already she can feel the easing of her tension as she moves towards the familiar buildings.
The air inside is warm and moist, the scent of freshly tilled soil stronger here where the wind could not carry it away. Moving down the rows, her boots scuffing along the concrete floors with each step, Florence recalls without intention her first Herbology lesson at Hogwarts, how terrified she'd been about failing her other practical classes, how relieved she'd felt entering the greenhouses, to be face to face with something recognizable.
Forsythe finds her seated on a stool, hunched over a tray of seedlings long after the sun has begun to set, tears streaming down her face. His hands are soft as they cradle her head to his chest, and she can see the concern in his eyes, the worry that she will never find a place upon his family estate that makes her feel like she belongs.
"What happened?" He asks, and his voice is like a warm blanket, cloaking her shoulders like a mantle that only he can provide. Florence wraps an arm around his torso, using the other to point to the seed trays where after a moment blinking in the semi-dark, Forsythe notices for the first time the tiny green heads of young azalea seedlings poking above the soil. She hears his tiny exhale, and something that can only be understanding passes between their spirits – a warm, languid pulse between their beings.
"It's just beautiful," she whispers into his shirt, and then she laughs at her own foolishness and pulls him down for a kiss. Forsythe returns it eagerly, his lips hard upon hers despite having had years to grow accustomed to the feeling.
"You're wonderful," he says, and the word ignites again the same levity within Florence that it had all those years ago on a forgettable rooftop somewhere in London. He kisses her again, this time smiling against her mouth.
"Thank you for being patient with me," she tells him, getting to her feet as they begin to make their way back across the fields of azalea towards their home. Around them fireflies flicker in and out of action as the sky becomes a dusky blue, the first stars winking into existence far overhead. Forsythe's hand slides into her back pocket just as hers tangles in his shirt, their trek across the land rooted in amicable silence. She can feel the land singing around her – a different song from the one she'd been born upon, a new song that hums with the steadiness of the man beside her, the frenzy of her own emotion, magic that they had built together.
The years go by and with it they experience the usual highs and lows of life. Albion and Margaret welcome a second daughter, Owen and Radella a first son, and Tallulah meets and marries a the wealthy son of a Mexican corn farmer while on holiday in New York. The wedding celebrations last an entire month, finishing off with a three day reception in the heart of Mexico City before the newly wedded Mr. and Mrs. Martín Veracruz set off on a year-long trip around the globe. Forsythe swears off tequila after the wedding has concluded, and he refuses to attend any party with Florence for nearly six months, claiming that he's paid his debt to society more than enough after dealing with Tallulah's ridiculous ceremonies.
Forsythe's father passes away unexpectedly in his sleep, and he locks himself in his study for three days and three nights before he finally allows Florence in to hold him as he cries. They sleep on the carpet that night, and sometime after midnight Florence wakes to find Forsythe pressing his face into her stomach as he sobs. She cradles his head in her hands and summons the blanket from their bed and lets him cry until he is empty, and in the morning she summons the elves to bring them breakfast on the floor, feeding Forsythe tiny bites of egg and bacon until he has enough energy to eat himself.
Forsythe gets his chance to hold Florence through grave news when the Mediwitch that visits them every six months relays the news that Florence will never bear children, that she'd in fact never been fertile at any point in her life. The news leaves her despondent for weeks, unable to get out of bed even to bathe, unable to escape the expression on Forsythe's face of undeniable pain that had flashed across his features before he'd schooled his façade. He carries her to the bath with him every night, and every morning he levitates her down the stairs to join him for coffee on the back porch until one day she takes his hands in hers and pulls him to bed with her and reminds him what they have together when working at two parts of a functioning whole, the magic that makes them stronger.
Philip meets a quiet painter from Wisconsin named John who specializes in moving portraits, and several years later Florence and Forsythe find an invitation to a small wedding ceremony for the two of them waiting for them at breakfast. Lizzie is conspicuously absent, but Philip beams at her from the front of the room and Florence does not dwell upon it. Lizzie is conspicuously absent from her own life when she begins to think about it upon their return to Georgia. The letters slow, the visits stop, and eventually even the holidays come and go without so much a as a Yule card. It doesn't surprise Florence – she can read about the civil unrest in England in the Wizarding Times if she so chooses – and somewhere in the recesses of her mind she knows that Elizabeth Avery's silence was a form of protection, saving her from questions Florence would rather not have answered.
Yet as the years pass, neither Forsythe nor Florence is privy to the rumors that begin to swirl around Spectre on their behalf. It begins with stray comments – such good genes – not a day over twenty they seem – but as years stretch on into decades, some of the older, more questioning members of Spectre society begin to wonder if there are other factors at play. You remember that Allman grandmother, lived well past her years and other thoughts like it's unnatural to look as young as they do at their age, I hope it's only vanity and not something more. Even Albion and Owen mention it one night over a decanter of Firewhiskey, but neither has an answer beyond Owen's comment that Florence was deeper into native magic than any of them had ever been.
Florence thinks only that Forsythe is beautiful, that his mouth moving against hers is the best kept promise, and if times seems to affect them differently, it is simply because they are immersed in magic of a different kind. Forsythe doesn't question it at all, but he's never questioned any feeling when it came to Florence.
.
.
.
The sun is beginning its downward decline far above when Florence returns to the house, stepping out of her mud coated boots and leaving them by the back door before stepping into the house. She pops her head into the kitchen, patting both June and Cash on the head before pouring herself a glass of lemonade and exiting the bustling room once more. Forsythe had informed her that he'd purchased show tickets for the two of them that night, and she was under the strictest order to be dressed and ready to go at five o'clock sharp. Florence smiles into the sweet, yellow drink as she recalls the ways he'd used his fingers and tongue to convince her to leave work early today in order to get ready in time. In the end it had not taken much convincing.
She rounds the corner toward the main stairwell when her eyes land upon a solitary figure standing just inside the door, the long, violently purple wizards robes clashing offensively with the dark oriental carpet. Florence screeches to a halt, nearly spitting her lemonade back into her glass when the undeniably familiar set of piercing blue eyes latch onto her own umber, a smile spreading across the notably more lined face.
"Professor Dumbledore," Florence splutters, unable to think of anything more welcoming to say, her eyes still absorbing the sight of her now silver-haired professor standing in her foyer.
"Mrs. Blount," he says with a weathered smile, inclining his head in her direction. "My apologies for the sudden intrusion, but I was in the area and thought I might drop in."
"It's not an intrusion," Florence rushes to say, remembering her manners as she steps closer. "I'm just surprised to see you after all this time, but not displeased. Can I get you something to eat? I hope you haven't been waiting long?"
"No not long, as I said I decided to pop by on a whim," Dumbledore said, following after her as she sets off back down the hallway by which she'd come. Florence glances over her shoulder, reveling at the sight of the long-bearded professor admiring the paintings upon the wall, the woven tapestries and velvet curtains that lined the windows.
"What are you doing in Georgia?" She asks, motioning him into the main library where Dumbledore sinks into a large, tufted chair with golden tassels. She calls softly for Cash under her breath, the small elf appearing almost at once, a wooden spoon still clasped in his hand. "Cash, this is Professor Dumbledore – Professor, Cash," Florence introduces. To her surprise, the aged wizard shakes the elf's hand. "Cash can bring you anything you'd like to eat or drink."
"A cup of tea with a splash of brandy would be lovely, thank you, Cash."
The house elf disappears with a smile and a crack, and then Florence seats herself across from her old teacher, feeling as small as she had during their lessons, the familiar crackle of his magic still humming in the air despite his age. It had been many years since she'd been in the presence of someone who's magic was so undeniably powerful, and the reminder makes her throat tighten.
"I have been traveling to visit old collogues across the globe, and was visiting one in Atlanta when I recalled that you resided not far from the city," Dumbledore offers as an explanation. "I do appreciate you taking a moment to sit with me, as I get older I find that spending time with familiar faces is my most preferred method of wasting the days away."
Florence smiles and meanders through various stories, telling Dumbledore about the estate's growth under Forsythe's management, about the difficulties her brothers had been facing with opposition in the trans-Atlantic shipping industry, and answering any other question her professor deems fit to ask. Dumbledore's eyes give her the long forgotten, but now undeniably familiar sensation of being x-rayed as she speaks, as if he looks for hidden messages beneath all of her words. For his part, Dumbledore tells her succinctly that he is still teaching at Hogwarts, although he'd been appointed Headmaster against his own better judgement.
"I'm sure they could have found someone more fitting," he sighs through a smile, and Florence holds her own glass of wine aloft in response.
"Well, if I may offer my late congratulations, I'd like too." Dumbledore beams at her, again bowing his head in her direction in acceptance of her praise.
"Forgive me for asking," he says after taking a sip of his now lukewarm-at-best tea. "But as I recall, you were at one time good friends with Miss Elizabeth Greengrass, now named Mrs. Elizabeth Avery. Do the two of you two still correspond?" Florence feels her stomach tighten, but she smiles through the sensation.
"Lizzie and I have lost touch over the years. An ocean will do that to a friendship I suppose," Florence says. Her fingers press into the sides of her glass without thinking.
"It is a natural course of events," Dumbledore agrees, bridging the tips of his fingers together in a pose that makes Florence feel like she is about to be transported back to class. She swallows. "And it is also the natural order of things to fall out of communication when circumstances deem them unsafe. I'm sure you've read all about our civil unrest in your papers, Mrs. Blount."
"Florence please," she says with a thin lipped smile. She has an itching, crawling sensation at the base of her spine that she knows where this conversation is going, and while she won't run from it, she doesn't want Forsythe's name – the name they have built together – brought into the conversation.
"Florence," he corrects himself. "You have seen the papers?"
"Yes, I've seen them," she whispers quietly. She knows now, before he opens his mouth to speak next, that this was no chance meeting, no circumstance of fate that he was seated before her within her own home. She feels another ripple of unease pass through her, and her hands ache for Forsythe, for his steadiness in all situations.
"Florence, I would like to ask you questions regarding your one time relationship with Tom Riddle," Dumbledore says after a moment, and although his voice is still pleasant, his eyes have lost some of their gleam. "I understand that this may be painful, and in some cases considered outright rude, but I believe that there is a possibility that you possess information that could save hundreds, if not thousands or millions of lives in the long run."
"It's alright," Florence responds after a breath. She remembers telling him about her native magic, how easy to confide in he'd been when everyone else thought that her magic was strange and alien. The same sense of ease sweeps through her now, and with a silent flick of her wand the door to the library swings closed, and with another, a fire springs up in the hearth. "You can ask me whatever you'd like. I'll endeavor to answer to the best of my knowledge."
"May I ask you when you and Tom severed your relationship?"
"1948," Florence says without hesitation, and then she blushes, horrified that even now, decades later, she can remember the precise year. "Sometime around March or April."
"Were the circumstances of the severing…amicable?"
Florence laughs, but it doesn't reach her eyes and she takes a long sip of wine before speaking. A door within her mind swings open with the sensation of a cold draught of air sliding down her neck and curdling within her chest.
"No, they weren't," she says with another sigh, a dry grimace. "He came to my family estate after nine months abroad traveling for Borgin. I suppose he went straight to speak with my Dad and ask for my hand in marriage, but my father denied him," Florence explains dryly, as if rattling off a list of ingredients and nothing more. "Tom was enraged, and he came to my home next, to ask me to run away with him – elope without my family's blessing – but I'd already received word from my father by the time Tom reached me, and I also said no. In a fit he burned several mature acres of my land to the ground," Florence explains, and closing her eyes she can feel a phantom of heat pass across her face as she recalls the wall of blue fire that had destroyed her trees. "That was the last time I saw or heard from him."
Opening her eyes once more, she sees a distinct twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes, but then he blinks and it is gone, his fingertips tapping against each other as he digests her words. Florence waits in silence, knowing that the questioning was far from over, weighing how much more to say.
"Upon what grounds did your father reject Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore asks, and from the gravel in his tone, Florence knows that Dumbledore already has several theories that he's looking to her to confirm. The swinging door opens wider in her mind, and from deep within the folds of her memory, a high, cold laugh echoes. She shivers, and then grits her teeth.
"Clifford had been aware for some years that Tom had removed bits of his soul, fracturing it by murdering people and then imbedding those fragments in inanimate objects," Florence says, and each word that passes her lips becomes lighter, as if voicing the secret she'd carried all these years was releasing her from some long-held, self-inflicted curse. "He'd offered Tom an ultimatum – he would consent to our marriage if he never again attempted to split his soul in pursuit of immortality. It was kindness on my behalf, but Tom ignored this in the end." Florence sets her glass of wine on the carpet, wrapping her arms around her torso and hunching forward slightly, her eyes squeezed tight. She can feel her pulse in her ears, the slippery whispering of a velvet voice asking her if she could live with herself – nightmares that had not troubled her for years flashing before her eyes once more.
"I think," she says, and her words crack as she tries to continue, shattering upon the upwelling of grief that stems from nowhere. "I think he'd killed someone just earlier that day when he asked me to marry him."
Florence opens her eyes to see that Dumbledore is on his feet, a white handkerchief with lace trimmings extended out towards her. She takes it without question, dabbing at the corners of her eyes before reaching for her glass of wine and draining it in one gulp. His face hovers in the fringes of her memory, beautiful even now, midnight eyes flickering to red. She has not thought about him in so long, and she doesn't know if she's horrified by the thundering in her heart, or resigned to the fact that even now, the mention of just his name seems to move her in some way that is inexplicable beyond understanding that it is magic.
"Florence," Dumbledore says after he has regained his seat. "Tom Riddle was many things – many of them good – but considerate was not one. Leaving you with the burden of this knowledge is perhaps the greatest unkindness he ever paid you." Florence nods, catching her breath before speaking again.
"My father sent me a letter explaining what he knew, and when Tom came to ask for my hand, I confronted him about it," Florence continues after her tears have dried. Confronted she knows is a strong word – she'd been bullied into having a conversation she'd avoided for nearly four years of their relationship, but in the end they had spoken. "He told me her life was inconsequential in the end – I guess he was talking about whatever woman he'd killed that day – and he told me he'd killed his father and Myrtle Warren. And then he told me he would live forever and that I would become nothing."
"I think we can both safely attest that whatever else has elapsed after the termination of your relationship, you have not become nothing, Florence," Dumbledore says kindly, peering at her over half-moon spectacles. "Did your father ever explain to you how he knew of Tom's choice to split his soul."
Florence nods.
"He could sense it with my great-grandmother's magic, in the same way I can sense the spirit in the fire right there or the air around us. I was never able to notice it because… well…" Florence blushes, recalling her conversation with Illini regarding Tom. "I don't know if this is a definitive source, but Illini this old Piasa that lives on the Allman estate told me that Tom was unconsciously using the love and attention he gained from me to fill the emptiness inside of him. To me, he would have never felt unwhole because to me he wasn't unwhole."
Dumbledore's piercing stare becomes soft, and with a flick of his finger Florence's wine glass refills itself. She smiles despite the tremors that wrack her body.
"Love is, in my humble opinion, the greatest and yet strangest magic of all, Florence," Dumbledore murmurs. "It is a failing of Tom's – not yours – to never understand this. He believes it to be a weakness, but as you have just made clear to me, it was Love that saved Tom from madness for many years."
"I didn't save Tom," Florence says, her voice somewhat subdued.
"No, perhaps not in the end," Dumbledore agrees. "But I think you gave him a glimpse of what might have been possible, had he chosen love as a child, had he ever received any before splitting his soul apart. I think the agony of what he lost eats at him daily and he does not even understand why."
Florence snorts at this, but she considers again Lizzie's silence. Maybe, somewhere across the ocean, she truly was protecting her – providing distance between Florence and Pyrrhus' master. Maybe somewhere in England, Tom's choices did truly eat away at him, but if they did, they were no longer a concern of Florence. With a smile to no one in particular, her gaze falls upon a framed photo of herself and Forsythe upon the mantle, and a semblance of peace falls within her.
"Do you have any other questions, Professor?"
"Only a few," he admits with a thin smile. "Did your father ever explain to you why he did not go to the authorities?"
"He said that native magic wouldn't hold up in a court of law – it is not a nationally recognized form of magic because each of the Native Tribes of America had their own customs and practices, and therefore his testimony would be insufficient evidence."
"And you had no other evidence?"
"I had a ring once," Florence admits, recalling the stone that once weighed upon her finger like a shard of ice. "I didn't understand at the time – I think it held a piece of his soul – but I gave it back to him when we parted."
"Unfortunate, but understandable," Dumbledore murmurs, nodding his head. Florence wracks her brain for anything else that could be used as evidence of Tom Riddle's crimes. Memories could be altered, and therefore his admittance to the murders of Myrtle Warren and his father in her own mind was worthless. Her father's magic was inconclusive, there was mention of a ring that had no physical evidence of, and the word of a Piasa – a magical creature of lore whose testimony, like memory or native magic, would not hold up in court.
"My last request is of a more personal nature," Dumbledore says, and Florence feels her eyes widen. More personal than what has already been said? "As I'm sure you understand, while I believe your word on good faith, it is of the utmost importance that I collect evidence of Tom Riddle's quest for immortality. Having definitive answers in regards to Tom's actions as a young man, can, I believe, save the wizarding world from great harm – now, or in the future. I have set myself on a long and arduous course of tracking down any and everyone who may have any relation to Tom in order to piece together what has happened to the young man we once knew."
"I don't have any hard evidence, Professor, I'm sorry," Florence says with a small frown. "I even burned the letter my father sent me that afternoon. I tried to erase him."
"It is to be expected, Florence. However, you would do me a great service by providing me with the memory of your last conversation, and any other memories you may wish to include."
"What if I can't remember all of the words?"
"Memory is a fickle friend, but I often find that once removed from the mind, more details have been preserved that originally thought," Dumbledore says evasively. Florence considers his request, a strange fear settling on her shoulders.
"Will you be able to hear my thoughts – in the memories?" She asks, unbothered by the petulance in the question. Dumbledore smiles, as if he knows the truth of her words. Will you know I loved him? Will you know I wished to accept him despite what he was?
"No, my dear. Your thoughts, now and forever, will remain your own."
With this assertion, Florence agrees to allow the memories to be pulled from her mind. She gives him the memory of their breaking first, beginning with Florence receiving her dad's letter and ending with her final sight of Tom vanishing in a whirl of smoke from her property. The tip of Dumbledore's wand is cold against her temple, and the silver thread pulls slowly as if the memory is stiff and disjointed from lack of use, but at last it is finished and stored within a small glass vial Dumbledore conjured from thin air.
Florence thinks long and hard about the other memory she might give to Dumbledore. So many place her in a physically compromising situation, and so many others seem trivial – except to her. She cannot explain why she feels defensive of the memories, why she wants to protect the man Tom had been from Dumbledore's prying eyes, but without question she does – like a vulture hatching that would one day grow into something grotesque, her recollections of a young Tom seemed innocent, far removed from what he had become.
In the end, she settles upon the night she woke up in the hospital wing after receiving news of her father's disappearance. The memory glides from her skull bit by bit, the fluttering of her vision as she awakes to see him sleeping in the chair beside her, his hand closing around hers, his unflappability in the face of her agony, I will destroy anyone that hurts you, Florence. She cuts off the thread of remembrance as she falls back asleep in her memory, Tom's narrow form curled around her upon the hospital bed.
The second memory leaves Florence nauseous and sweating, incapable of drawing in sufficient oxygen. I will destroy anyone that hurts you he'd told her– but he'd been the one to hurt her, and the long forgotten welling of self-loathing pulses within her for letting herself be hurt. For at one time giving her heart to someone who was incapable of cherishing it, for thinking he could have ever understood. Perhaps he will destroy himself she thinks, a vindictive surge passing through her that fades at last into exhaustion. Florence presses the cold glass of wine to her temple, wishing not for the first time since Dumbledore arrived for Forsythe.
"You have done the wizarding word a great service, Florence," Dumbledore says after finishing off the last of his tea. "Thank you."
"And he's the one causing all of this unrest?" Florence asks, getting to her feet. Her legs feel shaky, and she grimaces slightly at the fluttering in her pulse.
"Tom goes by a new name now, but to those of us who have kept an eye on him since a young age, we know that the two identities are one," Dumbledore confirms, standing and following Florence down the hall.
"Lord Voldemort," she whispers. "Can you stop him? You stopped Grindelwald all those years ago."
"The fight between Gellert and I was not, forgive me, so similar to this circumstance as you may believe," Dumbledore says, and Florence peers at his lined face as they step out onto the front porch, scrutinizing the change in his voice.
"You and Grindelwald were like me and Tom – weren't you," she says at last, comprehension dawning over her. She recalls their conversations from years ago, how Dumbledore had suggested they may have more in common, in the end.
"Involved?"
"Infatuated, enamored, obsessive to the point of blindness," she counters. Dumbledore's face is passive, but there is a flash somewhere in the depths of his pale blue eyes, and she knows she is correct. The realization does nothing to lift her mood, instead pity stirring somewhere in her navel for the old man before her.
"I did fear that you would be subjected to a similar fate as my own," Dumbledore says, his hands slipping deep in his pockets. "But it seems you have made more of yourself that I ever did. It is our choices, after all, Mrs. Blount." Dumbledore lifts one hand and gestures to the home, as if congratulating her on the life she had built. Florence feels the first genuine smile since the topic of Tom had been broached spread across her face because yes, I built something from the ashes.
"I'm sorry you can't stay to meet Forsythe," Florence says, but she isn't truly. Already her chest feels warm thinking of the moment he will return home, of the embrace he will give her, of the way his pale green eyes will gleam with wonder as she comes down the stairs even though he's seen her a thousand times.
"As am I – he seems to be a fine gentleman," Dumbledore says with a deep bow and another smile.
"He's marvelous."
They say their farewells, and Florence watches as the somewhat stooped old wizard begins to make his way down the front stairs and up the long drive towards the apparition point just outside the property wards. His purple robes and hat seem to meld into the azaleas that line the drive, and quiet without thinking, Florence finds herself calling out after him.
"Professor!" She shouts, and Dumbledore turns, x-raying her once more through half-moon spectacles.
"Yes, Mrs. Blount?"
"Did you ever-" she blushes, aware that her question is wildly invasive, but throwing caution to the wind in favor of the more blunt truth she was seeking. "Did you ever feel like a monster yourself? For loving someone like that?"
Dumbledore surveys her for a moment before his gaze turns to trace the horizon. He is too far away for Florence to glean any information from his expression, so she waits, wondering if he will deem to answer her query.
"Perhaps for a time," he admits after several long moments have passed. "But with time and age, I learned that the only monstrous thing had been loving without hope of being loved in return. There are so many people worth loving in this world, Mrs. Blount, and I think you can agree that it works best on a two way street."
Florence feels herself break into an enormous smile, and with a final wave, she turns and re-enters her home, thoughts of Tom nothing more than a passing shadow already nestled once more at the back of her mind – perhaps not gone, but no longer driving her mad.
.
.
.
"You know, it's unfair to all the other men here," Florence murmurs under her breath as Forsythe helps slide off her fur coat and passes it to the door check – a large, burly wizard with a red velvet eyepatch. They were behind schedule, having been distracted by each other's appearance in the foyer of their own home, and were now arriving only a few minutes before the show was set to begin, perhaps slightly more flushed that was publicly acceptable. Florence shivers slightly as her arms and back are exposed to the cool air, soothed only by the return of Forsythe's arm to her waist as he guides her into the main lobby.
"What's unfair?" He asks with his signature, easy smile spread across his face. Florence notices that the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes are slightly deeper – the only sign that her husband has aged at all. Sometimes she wonders if the two of them are swimming through amber while everyone else flies through air, but she doesn't let the thought over worry her. In the end, she is the one who reaps the benefits of whatever magic holds them.
"That you look like that in a tuxedo, and everyone else has to look as painfully average as they do."
"I could take it off?" Forsythe suggests, leaning down slightly so that his breath will warm the side of her face just enough to make her blush. Florence's places a hand over the one curled around her waist and squeezes.
"No, that won't be necessary," she says with faux importance. "That is my job."
Forsythe laughs, but doesn't stop moving as he hands their tickets to the doorman. The NoMaj clicks on his funny little flashlight and leads them up the carpeted steps and around the corner into a private balcony where a bottle of red wine waits for them. Forsythe helps Florence into her seat before taking the one beside her, at once lifting the armrest between them so that he can pull her flush against his frame. Florence's eyes flicker closed for the briefest moment as the floral scent of azalea washes over her, the subtler hint of honey trailing afterwards that informs her that he'd spent the afternoon in their fields. She smiles, resting a hand on his thigh, sinking into his warmth without a thought.
"What production are we watching?" She asks, accepting the glass of wine he hands her.
"Some ballet," he whispers, fishing in his pocket for the tickets. "The Nutcracker? No, Swan Lake," he corrects, reading off the tiny slip of paper before jamming it back into his jacket.
"This is a long one," Florence muses, letting her thumb move across his leg.
"We can leave whenever you'd like," Forsythe agrees, his free arm draping around her shoulders. The hall grows dark only seconds later, and with the electrical whirling of NoMaj machinery, the lights flicker on and the curtains open.
They watch as several figures prance out onto the stage, every muscle in their legs defined and traceable within their tights, movements fluid and graceful. The music wafts upward from the orchestra pit, a familiar tune that Florence plays often when reading in the upstairs library, but tonight it brings no solace. An itching sensation stirs within her as the dancers progress, and every few seconds it seems she has the urge to adjust her position, unable to find comfort. Forsythe is unmovable in the face of her restlessness, a careless hand running up and down the exposed expanse of her arm with all the steadiness of a river.
"Forsythe," Florence says at last, setting down her untouched glass of wine and turning to face him. Her hand sinks into his thigh, and blinking slightly, she flushes at the expression etched onto his gentle features.
"Yes, Florence?" He murmurs, and his voice is like the first few lines of a childhood story, the opening note to her favorite symphony – a promise and an answer and more moving than anything happening below her on the stage. She pulls him down for a kiss, uncaring that they might be a bit too old for this – even if they don't look it – certain only that he is more than whatever she could dream of gleaning from the production behind her. Forsythe's lips are soft against hers, his stubble a comfortable scratch upon her cheeks, and his tongue probing but gentle in a dance they have mastered through the years.
"Can we go home? I don't want to be here – around others I mean," she whispers, suddenly flustered by his hand on her back, his taste in her mouth. He doesn't ask why, nor does he tell her that the tickets were expensive and the wine specifically selected. Instead, in one fluid motion he lifts her from the seat, interlacing her hand in his much larger, and heading back out the way they came. In mere moments they have collected their coats, stepped into the Floo, and disappeared in a rush of green flames.
"Thank you for the tickets," Florence whispers against Forsythe's lips as they stumble out of the fireplace, their hands already intent upon the task of divesting one another of their clothes. She can feel him smiling, even in the dark, and the thought makes something hot and soothing ooze within her chest.
"This is a better idea anyways," he chuckles, and her gown falls to the floor, Forsythe's jacket and pants soon after it.
They leave a trail of garments and accessories through the house, laughing like misbehaving teenagers when they hit the carpet at the top of the stairs, unable to make it even another hundred feet to their bedroom.
"Thank god your family doesn't live here anymore," Florence pants as their bodies become one, one hand smoothing down the ripples of Forsythe's back. He laughs into her neck, moving with a steady pace that leaves her breathless, her mind hovering in a hazy state of bliss.
"Mhmm, love you," is all he murmurs in response, and everything within Florence shatters.
"I know."
*rubs hands nervously together for warmth*
So yeah, lots of time skipping in this chapter cause i needed things to move faster. Also, I reworked the Dumbledore conversation so many times and I'm still grumbly about it. It was really important to me that she share what she knew because the knowledge put a lot of people at risk, but as you guys can tell I've tried to stay pretty cannon compliant so far, so that was a funky thing to balance. And, even though I find Dumbledore questionable in the OG series, I think he and Florence have an interesting parallel that made this conversation worth/important to have.
seriously in the words of Harry Styles, I'd walk through fire for you, my dear readers!
ALSO, are you KIDDING ME PEOPLE! over 13,000 views? over 90 followers, over 70 favorites? I AM SPEECHLESS WITH GRATITUDE SENDING SO MANY AIR HUGS!
