1st November, 1895 — All Saints Day Harvest Celebration, Hogsmeade

He had, by chance, met a woman whilst having lunch in the Leaky Cauldron earlier in the week – and they had gotten chatting, only casually for a while over soup and sandwiches, but she had been good-looking and charming and pleasant to talk to, and unusually interested in him. She had brought up the Plunkett farm’s harvest festivities in Hogsmeade this weekend, and it had sounded like a lark; and when she asked if she would see him there, it had sounded to him altogether like an invitation. Flattered and intrigued, Florian had assured her she would see him there, and had been looking forward to their next encounter here at the All Saints’ Day celebrations, where he had found her –

And she had at once introduced him to her husband, Mr. Woodcroft, and their daughter. Hm. Florian was beginning to think he might have misread the situation.

“Oh, yes, I –” suppose so, Florian had been going to say, caught off-guard by the introductions (or re-introductions, rather – for the Miss Woodcroft he remembered from school must be one and the same as this Miss Woodcroft). But he could scarcely finish his sentence before Mrs. Woodcroft had said now why don’t the young people go on a hayride and then meet us back here for dinner? in a pleasant tone that felt really more like a command than a suggestion... and, like a dolt, Florian had not, in that first instant, grasped at a polite enough way to protest.

So here they were, he and Miss Woodcroft: having obediently traipsed over to the hayride together (Florian had shot a glance or two over his shoulder to see whether it was truly necessary to commit to this activity, but Mr. and Mrs. Woodcroft still seemed to be watching them intently) and now having been ushered onto the back of a farmer’s horse and cart. To make matters more awkward, the pair of them were the only poor souls on this hay wagon, both trapped on their hay bales as the wagon trundled off to tour the farm. At the underwhelming pace of a lethargic snail. (What a thrill indeed.)

Florian half-suspected the dullness of the chosen activity was part of the point, as if to drive them better into making conversation, or whatever more than a quarter hour of idle small talk her parents expected them to be securing from this connection. But perhaps he was reading the situation quite wrongly? He shot a quick look at Miss Woodcroft, trying to decide how much say she had had in this ambush – had she been an accomplice in it, or a victim just the same? (He was being dramatic, of course – he probably could have fled if he had wanted.)

“Well,” Florian said, in a wry tone. “This is great fun, isn’t it?” He could only hope Miss Woodcroft was more interesting than this hayride.

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Effie May Woodcroft

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   Effie May Woodcroft

Effie May Woodcroft

Effie May had thought it rather suspicious how persistent her mother had been that they all have a ‘family outing’ (pointedly not mentioning her black sheep of a brother), and enjoy the nice autumn weather at the harvest celebration.

Whilst she’d rather have been doing anything else–catching up on paperwork even–it was impossible for her to deny her mother anything. Especially since the woman had made guilt-tripping her daughter into an art form. So here they all were, stood together (for now, until her father ran off to find drink), when she noticed that her mother appeared to be looking for someone. Her dark brown eyes had been darting from face to face in what was clearly expectation.

And then her face had lit up into a smile, she’d strode off into the crowd (leaving Effie alone with her father, who decide it was the opportune time to begin complaining about how ridiculous all the festivities were), and then she’d returned with a man in tow. One that she recognized from school, though they hadn’t been anything close to friends. They’d both been seekers for their respective houses - he for Ravenclaw, and she for Gryffindor. They’d played plenty of games against one other.

Before she knew it, she’d been shuttled off on a hayride with Mr. Bashar. The hay bale poked at her through the fabric of her clothing, and no matter how she tried to adjust her position, there was no getting comfortable. It was a perfect physical example of how she felt about the situation. It would seem Mr. Bashar would agree, given his body language. (His body language was all she knew about him really, having spent many a game keeping an eye on him for any clues he'd seen the snitch before she had.)

"I’m having the time of my life.” She said dryly. Her mother had been pressuring her to court for years now, but this was the first time she'd actually taken it upon herself to make it happen. And then, because Effie May was Effie May, she asked point blank, "How did my mother trick you into this?”

  

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Most beautiful amazing set by the talented Gin! • plot with me