Thank you thank you thank you for all of the incredible feedback I have been getting recently! I am currently working on chapter 42, it's looking like this will be around 50 chapters? I haven't exactly mapped it out but I do know where it is going, so just a little guess, but I'm so excited to finally get pen to paper about the conclusion of this story. Well, the final buildup to the conclusion. We've come to far, and yet still so far to go! Also, it could absolutely be more than 50 chapters that is just my low ball rough estimate.

Big shoutout to MrsLolita and Nicoccia for two incredibly kind comments! Just wanted you both to know how much your words meant to me!

You readers are wonderful. I hope that wherever you are, you continue to stay safe during Covid! Thanks for being here and happy reading Xx


Chapter 39

"All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I've said before, bugs in amber."
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five


Florence's final months at Hogwarts were marred by the looming arrival of N.E.W.T.s, each of the seventh years burrowing within their respective common rooms or public study spaces to read through the goblin wars of the sixteenth century until their eyes ran, or to examine detailed drawings of various potions ingredients. She would have liked to say that the intense work ethic she was continuously surrounded by inspired Florence to aim higher, achieve more in her classes, but Florence felt a waning interest in what her lessons could bring as she attempted to repay the kindness her friends had afforded her during her father's absence.

For Lizzie – who largely wanted to be left alone – it meant buying her the perfume she had mentioned wanting several months ago from Witch Weekly. She cried when Florence gave it to her, although Florence reasoned it was most likely a result of no sleep instead of true sentiment. Elizabeth Greengrass was never one to bend to her emotions.

Radella had only one N.E.W.T. in Transfiguration, and so Florence often found herself strolling the grounds during spare hours of the day quizzing her on pronunciation or the most effective methods to transfigure dust mites or change the color of flower petals. More often, they fell into conversations about Owen. Radella carried every letter he'd ever written her in her school bag – a stack of parchment that seemed to be growing at such an exponential rate that finally Florence broke down and asked how much they weighed.

"Did you see his new publication in U.S. Transfiguration Weekly?" Radella gushed, her emerald eyes roving over a page of Owen's uniform handwriting at such speed that Florence was convinced she'd memorized it.

"No, I can't say that I did," she said with a smirk. "Most of Owen's research goes over my head."

"You have to read it, Florence!" Radella's mouth fell open, aghast. "You're his sister!"

"I am aware."

"He would read it if you'd written something," Radella encouraged.

"Yeah, he would. But seeing as I won't be publishing anything, it's a bit of a moot point."

"You sound like Albion," Radella accused, and this made Florence's head roll back with laughter.

"I'm horrified."

Unlike Lizzie and Radella, Philip seemed to find that he was most successful when he worked in a group. Uncommitted as she was towards her own studies, Florence became his unofficial tutor, drilling him on the finer points of herb lore and correcting his translations into late hours of the morning. It was perhaps the first time since she had met him that Philip's smile came less readily, as if the upcoming examinations physically prevented his usually cheerful demeanor from surfacing.

"It's a shame you're only good at half our subjects. I could use help with Defense," Philip moaned late one night in the library. Lizzie glared at him from across the table, as if any form of disturbance was a personal affront. Florence shivered under the cool gaze.

"Thank you for that delightful reminder," Florence hissed, her face burning slightly as the acrid taste of burnt pride resurfaced across the back of her tongue.

"S'not a lie though," he said through a yawn, checking his watch to see that it was nearing closing time. "You'd think after an entire year of private lessons with Riddle you'd be useful."

"I'm not going to make up for six missed years in a few months, idiot," Florence snapped, but she felt herself smiling at his teasing tone nonetheless. She did not bother to tell him that the other day she had cast a flawless impedimenta jinx for the first time, certain that it would bring further ridicule down upon herself. Tom had locked the doors and taken her across the desk afterward, making her Charms lesson the next day uncomfortably arousing as the memory of his delicate features pinched in pleasured hovered in the back of her mind.

Even Tom, who had informed Florence himself that he would achieve nothing less than twelve Outstanding's, was less available, his time devoted to patrolling the library for noise-makers and burying himself in his carefully crafted notes from the past two years. Florence often found herself sound asleep in one of the chairs in his quarters as he meticulously moved through his work, shaken awake just before curfew to be sent back to the Ravenclaw Common Room.

"Bed," he would command, raking a hand through her hair, rousing her from dreams she could not remember.

"Walk with me?"

"I have further studying to do," he would counter.

"You're the best student in this hemisphere, I think you can afford to take ten minutes to escort me to my common room," Florence would groan, snatching his hand from her hair and holding him with an exaggerated grip as if to prove her possession over him. Tom's face would flush, leaving Florence to decide if he cared more for her compliment or her desire. Most of the time she thought it was both.

When he could be convinced to separate himself from his books, he was at Florence's side – walking her to class, strolling the grounds, showing her the hidden secrets of the castle. His face would glow softly at the revelation of every hidden passage, each crevasse that he had discovered during his years in the school, the idea that he possessed knowledge others were not privy too intoxicating upon his regal features.

"Show me something else," Florence would ask, and without further prodding Tom would take her hand, pulling her to the Astronomy tower at night to point out the constellations she could not see from America, or he would go the kitchens, tickling the pear in the painting and requesting an entire platter of tea and biscuits. Florence ate so many chocolate eclairs that she'd almost thrown up, and Tom had laughed at her as she lay across his bed, bemoaning the ache in her stomach. And sometimes he would not take her anywhere special at all, pulling her into an unused classroom or darkened alcove with a look that could burn cities and remind Florence again of the magic that they shared, of the enchantment of his lips against hers, of the way he could make her say his name like it was every blessing known to mankind.

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"I have purchased a flat in London," Tom says one day while they are sitting in the library. It is a mild Wednesday afternoon, sunlight streaming through the window so that Tom's pale skin seems to be emitting light of its own, his eyes all the more dark for it. Florence looks up from the Charms essay she has been struggling over for the past two hours, meeting his midnight gaze across the table.

"I thought you were going to ask Dippet if you could teach at Hogwarts?"

Florence does not ask where he got the money. Just like the diamond necklace he had given her, she had a sinking suspicion that had something to do with the Slytherin purebloods that were always fawning over him, and she opted for ignorance.

"That is my wish," he agrees. "But many of the teachers do not live on the premises – they Floo in from Hogsmeade or other wizarding villages. I could have rooms both here and in London – a space to return to on holidays."

"Do you think Dippet will give you the job?" Florence asks, leaning forward slightly.

"There is no one more capable."

Florence has to agree with this. Only last night he'd snuck her from her common room after curfew had set in to show her a spell he had read about in the restricted section, a spell that turned the entire top layer of the black lake to ice with the barest flick. He'd taken her walking out on the floats afterward, listening as it cracked beneath their feet, cold seeping slowly upwards through their bodies. It had been his first attempt at the spell, but of course it had been flawless, of course he had understood the theory without question.

"Can I come see it?" Florence asks, returning to the present. "The flat? Before I head home, that is." She wants to know what a space that is entirely Tom looked like. His quarters here, while spartan in a way that reminded Florence of his no-nonsense mannerisms, were those of a boy pretending to be a man, furnished by Hogwarts to meet the barest needs of an only recently of age youth. What would an apartment that he had chosen look like?

Tom's face is perfectly smooth – faultless with skin that is alabaster and taught, like the finest carvings of marble brought to life. He does not say anything, but it is no matter. Florence has keys to some of his masks – although not all – and she knows what the widening of his pupils implies, the whitening of his knuckles upon his quill. Sometimes, she thinks, great men should be taken at face value – appraised as the humans they are.

Florence offers him her largest smile.

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When Florence does have a rare moment to herself between Tom's insatiable hands or the worried minds of her friends, she remembers that she is supposed to be learning to fly. Tom has not mentioned the competition since the day he issued it, a sure sign that he was working tirelessly upon the task when they were apart, desperate to defeat her as he would everyone in the castle when it came time for examinations. This was the only test they would share, and Tom did not like losing.

She doesn't go to the library to learn. That is Tom's domain, and there is no point in trying to glean information from textbooks whose theories would tie her thoughts into knots and exhaust her eyes to the point of tears. For Tom, flying will mean wresting power from the skies, stealing the strength of the wind to be his own. For Florence, it will mean melting, lifting off the ground like dried leaves or fledgling blue jays caught in a stray breeze. She does not wish to claim flight – she does not truly wish to fly at all, but she craves the burn in Tom's gaze like it is oxygen, the rare compliments that will fall from aristocratic lips as she soars above him.

On many afternoons she makes her way down to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, leaning against the trunk of some massive tree, watching Thestrals and thrushes, fairies and finches, owls swooping low across the grass, and even once she convinces herself there are Hippogriffs living upon the grounds as she watches what she assumes to be a herd of them amongst the clouds. She studies their wings, their propulsion, the way they bob and dip upon currents Florence cannot see.

In the hallways she studies the ghosts, watching as they float upon the air or nothingness itself. More than once Tom catches her staring, a knowing look upon his features that makes Florence blush before once more turning to watch her quarry. Even Peeves is worth examining – loop-de-loops and corkscrews and zig-zagging patterns that showcase mastery of flight beyond Florence's wildest imagination.

When it is too dark for her to see the creatures that take to the air, Florence treks up to the Astronomy tower on nights when there aren't classes. She sings with the wind, rustling with the trees, howling through the turrets of the castle until her voice is raw and the night has chilled her to the bone. The breeze seems to know her desire, pushing and pulling simultaneously, beckoning her to step off the edge and plummet into darkness, to spiral amongst the currents of warm and cold air as free as a feather.

One night Tom tracks her to the tower, watching from the doorway unbeknownst to Florence as her arms outstretch into the void, her hair whips and crackles in the gale she has conjured. Wind, Florence is learning as the spirits of the land spill from her mouth, is what it means to be indefinable. Present and not, cold and warm, terrible and gentle, breaker of trees and rustler of grasses. Should she ask to be weightless, or to compact the air beneath her feet and walk across the skies like walking upon land? Does she want to be carried, or direct herself across the horizon as Apollo in his chariot of old?

"You were rattling the windows in my bedroom," Tom's roiling voice calls when Florence at last falls silent, too drained to question the ways of the wind any longer. She turns to see him leaning against the stone wall, wan skin pinkening under the gusts.

"You're cheating," Florence pants, leaning against the turret beside her, strands of caramel hair falling across her face, small flickers of electricity still dancing in her waves.

"I cannot speak Cherokee, Florence."

"I think you knew what I was intending regardless."

"Have you heard back from your father?" Tom asks, stepping forward at last to join her upon the edge of the tower. Florence had written to him asking for an official position on the estate, a surprisingly nerve-wracking request that had resulted in Tom being forced to listen as she read aloud her letter no less than a hundred times.

"Yes," Florence says through a weak smile, watching as he draws closer. Something about him is luminous in the moonlight, as if Tom glows brighter in darkness.

"And?"

"He is going to start me in the greenhouses when I get home. If I show promise in management, he'll move me out into the fields."

She thought her heart might burst with the words. The greenhouses were the most fragile stage – plants no more than wispy stalks that at any moment could succumb to starvation or poor nutrients or just plain bad luck. It was a symbol of Clifford's trust in her that she would be overseeing teams of growers in this early phase before life had even grounded itself.

"And then," Tom murmurs, and Florence finds her back pressed to the stone wall behind her like a block of ice seeping through her layers. His body is an inferno, somehow still warm despite the windstorm that has sapped all of Florence's strength. "You will return to England. To me."

There is a gleam in his eye that she cannot place, his delicate, porcelain features hard with an expression Florence does not recall. Something akin to insecurity, but more desperate, leaving him shrouded in mysteries Florence has spent the better part of a year trying to understand. His hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing over her mouth, his head falling to the side as he surveys her.

"Maybe after all of your travels and learning, you will discover it is America you like best."

Tom's hand hardens around her jaw, forcing her gaze to his.

"You swore you would follow me, to the ends of the Earth," he reminds her, and his face is dangerously close, the clinical smell of him overriding her senses until her brain is frantic.

"Of course I'll move to England when it's over. Albion and Owen will get the farm and the business, and I will have nothing. There is not a world in Georgia for me, but you will be here, you will be my world."

Tom kisses her at these words, and it's frightening how hard it is, like being struck with a battering ram and leaving her senses scattered across the field far below. Florence reaches for him, her arms – despite their exhaustion – bereft without the feel of Tom beneath her fingerprints, eager for the silk-like feel of his curls in her hands. He kisses her like he is angry, like he could summon a storm, his magic a deafening whirl to Florence's already sensitive native magic.

"I could be your world now, I am everything you will ever need," Tom hisses into her neck, his hands reaching for her skirt, pushing the fabric up. Florence's head falls back against the turret as she grasps his shoulders, lifting her legs to wrap around his hips. Her body is in shock, energized by the cold around her, the heat of Tom's fingers digging into her waist, her thighs, her back. Robes fall from her shoulders and from his, and Florence's mind somewhere in its daze bemoans the layers of fabric between them. Her fingers reach for his belt, tugging at it until she hears the now familiar sound of its release. Tom's fingers make quick work of her knickers, the sudden blast of cold air between her legs an agony that only he can mend.

"Say it," he demands, and Florence's eyes close as she feels him pressed against her sex, poised to take her, to remind her for the millionth time of the magic only they can create. "Say it, Florence."

"I love you," she tells him, and he pushes inside of her.

Florence's back arches, her mouth open in a silent scream because despite the fact that they have committed this act in what feels like every corner of the castle, she is never prepared for the way having Tom inside of her makes a piece of her feel whole, like watercolors come to life, the unfurling of Spring, shooting stars flying across the line between sunset and night. When he moves, she loses all rational thought, her fingers digging into his shoulders, clawing at his sweater.

"You said it was everything," Tom hisses, and he moves with each word, every thrust harder, bordering on painful. "I am everything. I can be all that you need."

Florence is too close to the edge, to falling into nothingness to respond. Perhaps sensing this, Tom's hand slides between their bodies, his thumb finding that place that makes her crack and time cease to exist.

This time when she falls, she opens her eyes, his name upon her lips, the molten steel of his gaze the final fact that sends her over. She is too astounded by the feeling to notice that her coming undone is what sends Tom falling after her, as if even in pleasure she could not be separate from him. The idea that they must share this too amongst everything else.

When their breathing has returned and Florence's feet are set once more upon the ground, Tom casts a cleaning spell and tucks himself back into his trousers. Florence can feel his eyes upon her face, tracing the lines of her profile as if he has never seen her before, learning her features anew. Still staring out across the grounds, she reaches for him, begging for his embrace to complete her. Too often after coupling Tom is distant, is if processing what has occurred between the two of them and thus incapable of being present with Florence. She wonders if it is a product of his upbringing, as if the idea of sharing something of yourself with another is like poison to his mind. Sometimes she asks him what he is thinking, but each answer is as vague and uncertain as the last, if he answers at all, and she has stopped questioning at this point. Tom finally complies, one arm snaking around her waist, the other cradling her head to his chest.

"We have the rest of our lives, Tom. A few years apart will be miserable, but inconsequential in the end," Florence whispers into his collarbone.

Tom's hands tighten around her, but she does not know if it is an act of agreement or possession. She does not know which she wants it to be.

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"Where's Riddle," Lizzie asks one afternoon as they take a seat at their regular table in the library alcove of the Ravenclaw common room. It is one week before final examinations, and the tension throughout the castle has reached an almost unbearable level.

"Studying I'm sure," Florence says, pulling out a book Tom has ordered her to read for their lessons – lessons he has insisted upon continuing despite the fact that N.E.W.T.s are drawing closer. "Why?"

"Because he's always around, isn't he?" Philip says, dropping his own textbook onto the table with an uncomfortably loud bang.

"Must you, Burke?" Lizzie drawls, her usual cool look gracing her features.

"I must, Greengrass. If it bothers you, go find Avery and the rest of the snakes and study with them."

"It's just because I'm going back to America in a month, that's all," Florence defends, infuriated with her body's natural reaction to flush in embarrassment. Lizzie snorts, a very unladylike sound that under normal circumstances she would never make, but her exhaustion has lowered her inhibitions to the point of uncaring.

"You know, I'd hoped that with him agreeing to go to your debut and things becoming more official between the two of you, that Riddle would stop staring at you like a suckling pig, but I think it's only gotten worse."

Florence's face changes from pink to ruddy red in a moment. There is no denying this. Since her debut, Tom has been incessantly around like there is an invisible thread tying Florence too him. The only saving grace was that Tom saved their most intimate interactions for when they were alone, but there was no stopping the wandering hands that found her own or tugged at her hair or traced her spine whenever they discovered themselves seated at a meal or in the library. He had even spelled the stairs to the girls dormitory to stop them from turning into a slide in order to kiss Florence goodnight on more than one occasion. Lizzie and the rest of the seventh years had laughed and laughed at Florence's expense until she'd set one of their bed draping's on fire in her annoyance.

"And what about you and Pyrrhus getting engaged in front of the entire school?" Florence throws back at Lizzie. This earned her an eye roll.

"That was pre-arranged. It's different then you two strolling around campus together. You look like you've been hit by a hippogriff, and he looks like he wants to rip you apart limb by limb. It's one part disgusting, another horrifying."

"Thank you for your hard earned support, Lizzie dear," Florence scoffs.

"I heard some very put out seventh year Slytherin girls discussing in my Charms lesson the other day what love potion they thought you'd given him," Philip smirks. "I turned and told them you were too stupid to hoodwink Riddle, and that they were even stupider for thinking you could."

"I mean honestly," Florence says, her mouth open in indignation as she glanced between the two of them. "You two are terrible!"

"We're just teasing you, darling," Lizzie soothes at once, reaching across the table and taking Florence's hand.

"Truth is, no one has ever seen Riddle show as much as a winks worth of interest in anyone during his seven years here, and no offense Florence, but you're much too happy-go-lucky for Mr. Head Boy. We all thought he'd choose some dour, pureblood crone."

Florence's head tips back in laughter, unable to deny that she herself could picture this. Her laughter, however, only grows when a fourth voice joins the conversation.

"Is that me you are speculating over, Burke?"

Tom Riddle takes the seat beside Florence, his perfect brow raised as he surveys Philip across the table. Florence releases another giggle as Philip's face turns pale, his eyes at once returning to the book before him. Florence does not notice the guarded look that settles upon Lizzie's face.

"Riddle," he mutters by way of greeting. Tom ignores this and turns to face Florence, his hand reaching for her face, pinching her chin between his finger and thumb before pulling her in for a chaste kiss. Having thus established himself at the table, Tom releases her and settles back into his chair.

"Why Burke," he murmurs, his voice like a cool mountain stream, words rolling over polished boulders. "Would I want a 'dour, pureblood crone' as you so aptly put it, when I could have an outspoken, American?"

"Charming, Tom," Florence scowls. He smirks at her, his eyes alight with the cold humor he gets from embarrassing her.

"If your goal was outspoken, you've got it," Philip says, offering Florence one of his easy, freckled smiles that she was going to miss to the point of pain when she returned home to Georgia. "Just today she was informing me that if I didn't want to work for my father, I should just tellhim. As if that was how the world turned."

Tom's smirk widens.

"Yes, her American sensibilities and independence do cloud her judgement," he agrees, stretching one hand out to drape it across the back of her chair.

"I am right here," Florence quips.

"What is the job your father has for you?" Tom asks, ignoring Florence's comment.

"He wants me working in the store," Philip admits, his simple face marred by a frown. "Dad's too ugly and Herbert is too mean, so he wants me to go out and sweat talk all the old ladies across Wizarding England into giving over the priceless family heirlooms. Sounds like hell, aye?"

"Potentially. Are these magical artifacts?"

"Most of them, some of them not too nice either," Philip admits, his frown deepening.

"Interesting," Tom concedes, but his face is blank and Florence does not know what he is thinking. She remembers Tom admitting to searching for his own family heirloom – maybe he thinks he could find it in Philip's shop? It is a logical conclusion.

"Florence, I forgot to tell you," Lizzie begins after a moment. "My family is hosting a party to celebrate my formal engagement after school lets out. I've just been assuming you'll be there so I hadn't mentioned it, but my mother has already written to yours – the whole family is invited."

"That sounds lovely, Lizzie," Florence gushes, reaching for her friend's hand to grasp in her own. "You won't be able to flirt with Albion though, not with Pyrrhus around."

"It'll do your brother good to see how handsome my fiancé is I think," Lizzie smirks, a spark of flint in her summer blue eyes.

"And of course, you're invited too, Riddle," Lizzie adds, her gaze flickering to Tom's. "I know you'd hate for Florence to arrive unescorted."

"Generous of you, Greengrass."

"That's an extra week in England," Florence murmurs under her breath when they have all returned to their separate studying. Tom's eagle feather quill pauses in its incessant scratching, midnight eyes turning to fixature upon hers, his stare burning its way slowly through her flesh to her pulse. There is a stirring of magic between them, and her heart shudders under the weight of it.

"One week is not enough to satisfy me, Florence."

"It is better than nothing at all."

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Exams are a particularly dull time for Florence. She is the only seventh year within the castle nottaking N.E.W.T.s having not taken her O.W.L.s, and therefore she finds herself outcast amidst the sea of anxiety and frantic note shuffling and organizing and reviewing. Most days she takes to wandering through the Forbidden Forest, each stroll carrying her deeper and deeper into the woods until it feels like night in the middle of the day and she must ignite the tip of her wand to see by.

It is an old forest, the trees spaced out yards apart, trunks thick and creaking with words so slow and ancient even she cannot comprehend them. What spirits live here she thinks with wonder, pressing her palm against the oak closest to her, feeling the magic beneath its bark churn slowly, like slowly drying amber. On some level she is shocked that it took her months to discover the wonders of the forest, on others she is not surprised in the least. Tom, for all his devotion to Florence, had no interest in Herbology or the finer points of plant lore. Of all the hidden secrets within the castle, the Forest would be the least interesting to the young man who made rooms appear from blank walls or revealed hidden passages behind stone gargoyles.

It is on the last day of exams that Florence meets someone within the woods. Rounding the trunk of a particularly massive oak, she turns to find herself face to face with the end of a crossbow – a crossbow the size of her wingspan – the man holding it larger than a house.

"Students aren't to be in here," he growls as Florence stumbles back, lifting her hands before her in what she hopes is a placating manner. Within her chest, her heart thunders, her brain kicking into overdrive as she considers her foolishness. You should have been listening to more than the trees she reprimands herself.

"I'm so sorry. I was just listening to the trees," she murmurs, noting that the giant man has already lowered his crossbow to his side, releasing his finger from the trigger. He has a wild mane of scraggly black hair that makes him appear older, but his black eyes are youthful, if not tired, his face already twisted into a half smile that leaves Florence reeling.

"Listen' aye? Never heard that one before."

"I'm Florence," she says, feeling somewhat stupid as she cranes her neck to look up at him.

"Hagrid," he says gruffly.

"It's nice to meet you, Hagrid."

The name feels unfamiliar under her tongue, harsh and guttural for the giant-young man who's body is angled slightly away from her, as if in embarrassment.

"It'd be a lot nicer if we were meetin' somewhere you were allowed to be. I'll get in trouble I will if you're caught in the forest," he says, scratching the back of his head with a hand the size of a trash can lid. Florence smiles at his uncertainty.

"I didn't realize – I'm happy to walk back with you now if you're headed that way."

Despite being fairly tall in her own opinion, Florence has to move at a brisk trot to keep up with Hagrid's lumbering strides, two of her own matching only one of his. Now that they are moving out of the forest, she remembers that she has seen him before on the periphery of her Care of Magical Creatures classes or on the way to Herbology. He was the Hogwarts grounds man, but she'd never realized how young he was.

"What were ya doin' in here anyways?" He asks again.

"I told you, listening to the trees," Florence repeats. She can't be annoyed, aware as she is how strange it must sound.

"I can't say I knows what that means," he mutters, refusing to look down at Florence, almost as if he's embarrassed that he must escort her from the inner depths of the forest.

"I don't really have time to explain," Florence pants as she jogs along beside him. "But the spirits within all living things, they have voices of a sort. The ones in this forest are very old and very powerful."

"Sounds like nonsense Professor Dumbledore would say," he grunts. "Thouh' you were him din I, but then I remembered he's not at Hogwarts and I pulled me crossbow." Florence turns to look up at him at the mention of Dumbledore. Now that Hagrid had mentioned it, she hadn't seen the Transfiguration professor in a few days. "Sorry 'bout that by the way. Din mean to scare ya."

"That's alright," Florence says genially. "Where's Professor Dumbledore?"

"Not sure, gone innit he?" Hagrid said with a poor imitation of airiness. Florence feels her face break into a smile, deciding not to press him. It's odd, she considers, that he is so large and yet so cowed. A gentle giant.

At last they reach the edge of the forest, the trees thinning until once more they are standing upon the grass. Up at the caste students are streaming from the oaken front doors, a sign that the History of Magic N.E.W.T. has just let out. Sure enough, Florence spots one lone figure break away from the crowd, his black cloak like a shadow clinging to his towering form, Tom's chocolate waves defined even at this distance. Hagrid bids her a hasty farewell, and then Florence finds herself running up the slope and into Tom's arms, leaping into his grasp so that he must brace himself to catch her.

"What were you doing in the forest," he asks, his eyes focused upon Hagrid's retreating figure before returning to her face. She allows him to wrap an arm around her shoulder, steering Florence towards the edge of the lake where several of his gang of petty Slytherin friends have gathered.

"Listening," she tells him.

"And what did your trees tell you?"

"It was hard to follow, they were very tired voices," she admits, her pride flaming along the back of her neck. Tom gives her a knowing look. "How was your exam?"

"Simple." His smirk is undeniable, and Florence has to resist slapping the expression off of his features. It does not help that he looks unbearably handsome, that his magic is radiating off of him in slow, easy waves like some form of Amortentia meant only for her.

"Dad's said that I can stay in the manor out in Somerset for the next few weeks if I want," Florence tells Tom, her hand diving into her robe pocket where it closes around the letter from Clifford. "He's back home for the next month helping the Blounts with their seeding."

"Hmm," Tom comments noncommittally.

"But," Florence continues, her hand around his torso tightening. "It seems like the perfect time for me to come inspect your new flat. Make sure that you haven't decorated it drastically macabre."

"I have excellent taste, Florence."

"I'll take that as a compliment, considering your taste implies myself," she smirks, and even Tom for all of his austerity cannot stop the dilation in his pupils, the rush of color to his cheeks.

"You are very bold," he whispers, and his voice has dropped to a timbre so deep she can feel it in her veins, her skin suddenly too warm with his insinuation.

"I've already signed up for the Hogwarts express, Tom," she says at last. "I'm going with you whether you'd like for me too or not."

"I did not say that I did not want you there," he murmurs, and his gaze is sharp as a knife, like facets of crystal that reflect the sun. His mouth opens again, but they are both broken away from the moment by the brash tones of Pyrrhus Avery yelling across the grounds.

"Riddle, Allman, you'll never believe it," he shouts, and Florence laughs at the way Tom's expression grows murderous at the interruption. "Grindelwald has been captured!"


Was this a happy chapter? Was this a sad chapter? Honestly a little bit of both. There is still so much between them they need to work out, but don't worry, I promise it will come up:) Also, next chapter is the last one at Hogwarts. I cannot believe we made it through to the end of seventh year, but we did! Thank you so much for all of your support you lovely humans you!

ALSO... the playlist:) I have made it, and I have a fun little graphic that I'm dying to share with you all, but it's loosely chronological and I really don't want to spoil where this is going in the end so instead I'm going to copy and past the first half of the playlist here. I wanted to be able to share a Spotify link with you guys, but I use my friend's Spotify since I don't have my own, and I didn't feel comfortable sharing a link to her account. If anyone wants to make a playlist that has sharing capabilities, I'd love that, but of course no pressure. If you do make one, feel free to send me the link and I'll put it in my next chapter updates! Hope some of you listen and enjoy - again this only coincides with everything up till this point. All of the classical music pieces are actually songs referenced in Limited, with the Chopin being what Tom and Florence danced too at Samhain, Dvorak the symphony they attended, and Moonlight Serenade what they danced too at her debut. The rest of it is more mood pieces, but if you have questions about why I chose certain songs just lMK!:)

Ok ok that was such a long AN. You guys are seriously the best ever I am the luckiest author!

1. Rainbow Connection - Pomplamoose
2. Softly - Clairo
3. Can't Help Falling in Love - Beck
4. Cringe (Stripped) - Matt Maeson
5. Watlz in A Minor, Op. Posth., B. 150 - Frédéric Chopin
6. Used to be Lonely - Whitney
7. Pluto Projector - Rex Orange County
8. Symphony No. 9 in E Minor, Op. 95 "From the New World" : II. Largo - Antonín Dvorák
9. Fools Rush In - Jo Stafford
10. I've Got You Under My Skin - Frank Sinatra
11. Don't Leave Me Lonely (ft. James Francies), Acoustic Version - Mark Ronson, Yebba
12. Moonlight Serenade - Glenn Miller
13. Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic - Sleeping At Last