the devil's redemption [tom r.]

44|| Disenchanted Tragedies.

"All right then, I think we should get going," she smiled at Tom gratefully when he offered her a hand as she struggled to get up.

Rosalind tied her blonde curls into a neat low bun, wearing her black fascinator afterwards. She tried smoothing down the wrinkles on her black dress, politely giving Tom back his cloak with a slight blush.

"You can keep it if you're cold," she knew he wasn't trying to be romantic, but his awkward attempt at a kind gesture left her biting back a smile as she shook her head.

"I'll be fine. Goodbye Thesty," she patted the creature one last time before heading towards the pavement, in hopes of finding the cemetery Willow would be buried in. Rosalind shivered at the sound of her last thought. She never expected thinking about something like that before.

She sighed, but Tom didn't seem to mind her as they walked. The latter was consumed in his thoughts as well, probably dark ones.

"I'm scared, Tom," she muttered, not expecting to admit that to him ever. She'd always been fierce, wearing a stone facade so that no one could know her true feelings. But this time, things were going out of her hand.

"Why?"

"It seems like I'm heading to hell willingly. What if-" she looked around, making sure no one was around to hear their conversation. Tom understood what she was doing, and nonverbally casted the Muffliato spell in case someone was watching. "What if they were able to connect the clues? What if Zhelyazko Vandalov contacted the Ministry and told them that I have an incentive to kill Samantha? And much worse, what if they blamed me for Willow's murder?" She knew she was rambling. And although her voice was below a whisper, Tom was concentrating on every syllable she uttered.

"Listen, Rosalind, I heard this muggle expression once: the murderer always shows up to the funeral to throw off the cops. And I know this is Willow's funeral, not Samantha's, but no one would suspect a pretty sixteen year old teenager that was the victim's best friend," he explained in a whisper, "besides, I assure you, that if Vandalov wanted to tell the Ministry anything, he would've done so since you killed her, I'm pretty sure her disappearance three months ago didn't go unnoticed by Grindelwald and his forces.

"And you know it wouldn't be an advantage for them if they said anything about you, Vandalov will have to say where he got this information from and how," he added, leaving her startled at his logical ability to analyse everything so reasonably. He always had a solution for everything, and that really made her appreciate him.

She liked how she had such a powerful person to lean onto. He was someone she could definitely rely on, all while being strong and independent herself. She liked the feeling of someone like him miraculously caring for her and willingly helping her out. But then again, she wouldn't have been in such a situation if it wasn't for him.

They were too busy talking to notice how far they'd walked. Rosalind stopped in her tracks, "Wait, where exactly in Yorkshire are we?"

"I think we should ask," Tom led her to a small flower shop on the other side of the street, that seemed to be almost deserted. Bells tinkled as they opened the door, grabbing the florist's attention.

"Good morning ma'am," Tom greeted when they walked in, using his usual charming smile and polite words. Rosalind almost scoffed when she noticed the concealed disgust laced in his words as he interacted with a muggle.

"Oh, hello dears," an elder woman -possibly in her late eighties- looked up from her cross words game upon their entrance. She was short and wrinkled, bespectacled yet still squinting to see them properly. She was just a typical grandmother.

The shop was packed with all types of flowers and roses, all shades of colours and all kinds of aromas. Some of the plants Rosalind had never even seen before. The whole place greatly reminded her of the Herbology professor, Herbert Beery.