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.
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.