February 28th, 1894 (#RoundOne); Evening — Manwaring House, London

His hands had shaken as he had poured the whiskey into the crystal glass, no doubt an heirloom of some sort, and brought it to his lips. There had been few times in his life at which Julius Scrimgeour had felt as though he needed a drink, and after the afternoon he had endured, well, he had earned it.  A window breaking during the night had been inconvenient. All attempts to repair it magically failing had been concerning.

The storm that had formed as quick as a blink in the dining room during luncehon, in spite of the sunlight reflecting on the snow outside the broken window, had nearly proved lethal. Indeed, as the winds had buffetted him, chilling him to the bone, any efforts to reach the door to the room and escape the small tempest had proved futile. He was grateful the footman had managed to make it out, to find help in the form of Araminta, but by the time the anomally had quelled enoguh for it to be safe for anyone to enter the room, Julius had been frozen half to death and was, rather oddly, floating in the air.

Blankets. So many blankets, and the wizard cocooned within them by the fire.  Given the state of the world, there could be no attempt to send for a healer, and so there was no one to argue with the wizard when he had insisted he was fine some hours later.

He had always thought it silly, when others spoke of a clarity that came when one brushed fingertips with death. Now, he had a new perspective.

A new objective.

With all that had been endured that day, there was no way in hell Julius was going to attempt to apparate and risk giving Death another chance to get its fingers upon him, and so the only options the wizard could see were to wait or to take the Floo network. The former was, frankly, untenable now that he saw so clearly what he must do; he would have paced the floors of his study to the point of wearing them through. The latter was riskier, but statistically unlikely to be dangerous (not like apparition or portkeys, of which he had far more understanding than he cared to). It was also a bit rude, when one thought about it, but—

No, he was talking himself out of it now.

Actions. Conviction.

A fistfull of Floo Powder into the large hearth was followed by Julius himself, the words said clearly and with no hint of the weakness he had felt only moments ago, and when he stepped out of the fireplace, it was to quite a startled looking footman.

"I must speak to Mrs. Manwaring."

Eloise Manwaring

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Eloise felt she had a decent amount of experience with blizzards. Linford's family was largely located north of the city, up in the mountains and forests where the temperatures frequently dipped in winter and blizzards blew easily. They had been trapped with his parents for nearly a month one winter when Philip was small, and subsequently it was among the worst months of her young adult life. Her mother-in-law was a nitpicking old bat, who saw nothing but Eloise's failures in guiding Philip's education. Never mind the fact that Philip wasn't even in long pants yet nor the fact that his governess was trapped back in the city — all that had mattered was that Philip hadn't yet mastered her native language.

Indeed, Eloise knew much about blizzards, which was how she knew when it was time to hunker down at home with only those she could tolerate for more than a hour at a time.

The house was eerily quiet.

Deciding the best way to break the silence was to practice her long dusty skills on the pianoforte, Eloise primly sat on the bench with the ivory keys displayed before her. One note bled into the other, her fingers only rarely tapping the wrong key, as she eased into her favorite forgotten hobby. The music drowned out the silence and frustrating memories until, rather suddenly, Mr. Jacobs, her young and in-training footman, stood on the peripherals of her vision.

Her reprimands were abruptly concluded when he fearfully mentioned the reason for his intrusion, "Mr. Scrimgeour is urgently requesting your presence."

Eloise was instantly in motion, stopping only an arm's reach away from her love. Weeks had passed since their last conversation and, much to her immense horror, he looked wretched. "Julius? Here, come with me." She instructed, taking his exhausted appearance as a need for privacy, she quickly led them into the sunny parlor and shot Jacobs a look that screamed disturb us and die. Then — and only then — she faced him again and asked in a soft tone full of concern, "what's happened? I thought the floo wasn't operational — did you come from home?"

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Julius Scrimgeour

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   Philomena Sprout

And there she was.

His heart swelled as he saw her, and Julius knew now, beyond any doubt, that this was the right course of action.

"It is—sort of—I did—" Julius moved his hands to clasp hers, the distance between them too little to be deemed appropriate by polite society and too great to be borne for longer than necessary.

"Eloise, I almost died today."

Eloise Manwaring

  

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He almost died.

There was nothing Julius could have said that would have terrified Eloise more. She gripped his hands tightly, realizing only seconds later how chilled they were still.

"What were you thinking being out in this?" Eloise was already looking about the room for blankets she might wrap around him. She would have summoned some if she thought either of them could stomach the lost of contact.

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The laugh—a clipped, sardonic Ha!—left him unbidden; perhaps, Julius thought, he was still rather in a bit of shock.

"It was in my own dining room, believe it or not," he reassured her, as much as declarations of near-death experiences could be reassuring. "A long story that I but half-remember, but that I shall be happy to recount for you later—but the point is, I nearly died. I am still here, and damned if I am not still as in love with you today, Eloise, as I was when we were eighteen years old."

Eloise Manwaring

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   Philomena Sprout

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Eloise wasn't quite following Julius' thinking, trapped as she was in her thoughts of how to keep him warm. Later, perhaps, she'd scold him for prioritizing his duties to the ministry over his safety and family —

Except — His dining room?

Demands of an explanation nearly fell out of her lips before he pressed on with the supposed reasoning of his visit. In love with her, she knew that already, though she did love to hear him say it. Eloise had figured they were merely waiting out her mourning period before allowing their relationship to progress. She hadn't yet approached Uncle Lucius about the plan, but Eloise would follow through with it this time regardless of her uncle's thoughts.

"I as well," she answered genuinely despite being obviously bewildered by the turn in conversation. "I've loved you since we were children pinning on our prefect badges." Longer than that even, since before she could even understand what love was. "But Julius — you nearly died this morning. You ought to be in bed, resting and healing." Not here professing truths she already knew, not at the risk of his own health. "I'll have a room made up for you, okay? You'll stay here until the storm passes."

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Julius Scrimgeour

  

She loved him, too. He knew that, of course, in the way one knew of the passage of time: a constant, a comfort. Hearing it, though, in her sweet voice, that was something altogether different. It was the reassurance that Julius needed after his brush with the grave.

"I don't need rest," he insisted, resolute. "I need you to marry me. Not eventually, when society deems it acceptable. There isn't.. there isn't always time to waste. Tomorrow, if the snows clear; the next day, if we must wait."

Eloise Manwaring

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   Philomena Sprout

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Oh.

Eloise had learned about the fragility of life countless times throughout her life — when her parents died, her sister, her husband — but she had never had an experience that might've spurred her into action. Not like Julius supposedly had this morning.

They'd stood here before with him processing marriage and her swallowing every proper impulse in order to voice her agreement. The pressure placed upon them then had ultimately won out, their goodbyes devastating. Eloise had no hesitations now — none other than the conversations had after with her uncle.

"There'll be talk," she answered, already smiling. "And you'll still have to rest until we're able to go." She wouldn't have a dead groom on the other end of the aisle.

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   Philomena Sprout

"Is that a yes, Miss Eloise?" Julius asked slyly, leaning in so that his nose was but a hairsbreadth from her own.

Eloise Manwaring

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   Philomena Sprout

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"Yes," she breathed before closing the remaining distance between them and kissing him.

Mrs. Eloise Scrimgeour — she could get used to that.

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