.
Framed & Fractured
- Antediluvian Poet -
Chapter Four
III
"I believe an introduction has been long overdue."
The Room's air tightened as Tom approached the painting, slicing through seized tension with ease.
"My name is Tom Riddle."
The boy in the painting looked up from his fallen position on old floorboards and paled. His chest heaved up and down in exaggerated shifts, a reminder it was not a still portrait.
Riddle stepped closer.
Then a hoarse voice spoke from within the canvas. "Stay away from me."
The painted boy detangled his limbs and shuffled back in haste, movements stilted and strained, a cunning imitation of pain.
It's threatened. Subdue it.
He took a composed step back and slid his wand within the confines of his robes. Then with arms hidden behind his back, Tom inspected the painting before him.
The frame was an aged and defeated gold, muddy in contrast to Hogwarts' illustrious frames. Darkness shrouded the painted study, concealed its colours and presented the impression of a monotonous and dim palette.
There was no careful symmetry, no wise composition or alluring brilliance. The artist had failed to establish presence, had failed to arouse and evoke. But then he caught movement, and his gaze sharpened once more upon the huddled boy within.
The other's hair merged with the dark. Odd styled clothing wore tears, soot and suspicious burns. Round spectacles encircled alert eyes.
The painted figure shifted under his scrutiny, and dragged itself away in a desperate and pitiful manner.
In every essence, the painting was mediocre, lacking everything and evoking nothing. He would not have spared it a second glance—
Had there not been a wand grasped tight in the painting's hand.
And in that moment, Tom remembered a time he wasn't so impartial, a time he was evoked—he remembered the watercolour painting hung in Wool's Orphanage:
A painting of children playing and smiling beside a seaside.
The matrons and staff were so proud of owning such fine art, as if its mere existence and presence elevated the orphanages' dismal standards.
But it didn't.
All it did was mock, mislead and deceive.
Because the painting promised happiness, acceptance, love. It promised a false childhood bathed in golden sunlight and laughter. It promised a distorted and dishonest reality, a life different to the misery which awaited him with every forced return. For all the paintings supposed prestige, it failed to erase the stench of rotting wood, sate perpetual hunger or mute the cries of cold children.
The promise was a lie.
But then he came to Hogwarts.
And the sheer potential of magic—the unlimited realities and opportunities—were illustrated within every magical frame and portrait. Here in the castle, the paintings promised something grander, greater than happiness or love.
They promised Power and Knowledge.
Tom looked back to the painting in front of him, to the painting which held no beauty, no grandeur, yet still pulled his senses. He scrutinised the painted boy in tattered and dirtied clothing, at the wand held within the others hand.
What is your promise?
But even as curious potential presented itself, caution and weariness drilled into his bones like an old friend.
Because despite its betrayal, the painting hung in Wool's Orphanage had taught him one vital lesson, exposed a truth which embedded deep within his subconscious:
Promises were empty lies till delivered true.
"You attacked me." Not an accusation, but a statement.
The painted boy tensed, but replied low and direct. "I don't like being stared at."
Tom's tone was light. "Forgive me—I was under the impression all paintings enjoyed being admired, and seeing as your painting is the only one in this room," even after I requested you gone, "you've drawn my attention."
A plethora of emotions—too quick to categorise—flickered across the paintings face. It looked at its surroundings as if something had shifted, as if his words unveiled a revelation.
The Slytherin continued, words selective and tone neutral. "How did you come by this room?" Intrusive. "There's never been another painting here before yours."
The painted figure grabbed the desk beside it, and stood. Shoulders and legs widened.
"I fell in."
Tom stored the information away. "Are you lost?"
Silence.
So with velvet politeness, he delivered his next lines.
"Would it be possible for you to occupy a different frame? As a Prefect here at Hogwarts, I could help you find another area in the castle more to your liking."
An offer. A test.
Painted eyes shifted behind to a closed door within its own study, then frowned.
Tom edged closer in its moment of distraction.
But then spectacled eyes darted back, glare too personal in its dislike. "No thanks."
A decline.
Tom levelled his gaze, but his words remained courteous."Should you change your mind, please don't hesitate to ask for assistance."
But before turning, he asked one more question:
"Do you have a name?"
The painted boy blinked, blank-stared as if caught off guard by the mundane question. Eyes flickered, then it answered.
"No."
It lies.
So he leaned in slow, watched how the painting tensed—how shoulders braced—yet refused to retreat. He smiled slow, his next words a promise:
"Well then, I look forward to becoming better acquainted."
Tom turned away from the painting, wand back in his hand as he made his way toward his desk, aware of the others piercing gaze slicing his back.
You should have left when you had the chance.
III
Harry's knuckles bruised white, his grip on the desk bone tight.
Don't show any signs of weakness.
Legs and shoulders remained defensive and locked as he tracked Riddle's retreating form.
Only after Riddle was no longer in sight—when the threat screaming in his pulse lessened—did he allow his legs to collapse from the brutal shards of pain pain pain blazing through his body.
Knees hit the ground.
Small seizures vibrated through his bones and tremored up his spine.
A wetness dripped from his nose and coated his lips.
Harry swiped the moisture away, only to find his palm smeared with his own blood, the red a flare against monotones.
The 'Expelliarmus' triggered this.
This was the price of pushing the room's magical boundaries, the consequence of casting an offensive spell within its confines, and through the fourth wall—
No.
From within a painting.
...'Do you have a name?'
And Voldemort didn't know him, didn't recognise him. The other couldn't be a horcrux, or a ghost, but somehow just Tom Riddle.
'Come here … come with me...' A hand beckoning him into a canvas of black nothingness as the Room of Requirements burned.
…'Are you lost?'
Where had the painting taken him? What if it had been a dangerous relic, hidden away in the Room of Lost and Hidden Things for a reason.
I didn't have a choice. Not amongst the Fiendfyre and smoke and certain death.
Tick Tock. Tick Tock.
The dead pocket watch, only it was no longer dead.
With pain-tremored hands, Harry pulled the brass body from his pocket.
Ticks pulsed through his palm, rhythm smooth and steadied. With each beat, his unease untwined and loosened as he allowed himself to savour the sensation of true measurement—of real time—instead of the rooms distorted mockery of it.
It's too dark. Find light.
Harry limped towards the candle on the desk.
Once reached, and with the candles' restless light shifting over the pocket watch, Harry pressed down on a knob—click—then watched as it opened.
Thin hands moved to a normal tempo.
Elegant numbers—poised and black—filled its face, but something struck Harry as off.
Its numbers appeared misaligned, shifted by the tiniest margin, pushed closer into a tighter circle.
He counted.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve...
Resting on his blood-stained palm, the pocket watch did not display twelve hours on its face—
But thirteen.
And as a new trickle of blood ran from his nose—as it dripped and smeared onto the dishonest glass face—Harry could only watch as thin hands stalked its black-numbered path, till it finally struck one o'clock—
Then stopped.
III
The fireplace crackled with heat, spitting angered shards of ember into the air.
Tom remained seated in front of the Room's conjured mahogany desk, quill in hand, nib hovering over a page in his diary.
A droplet of ink loomed heavy from the quill's black-tipped mouth—threatening to fall—but Riddle's gaze remained transfixed upon old inked words on the parchment below, upon another stolen promise.
House of Gaunt.
One of the Sacred-Twenty Eight. A pure-blood lineage. Direct descendants to Salazar Slytherin himself.
But even as old magical blood surged through his veins—his Parseltongue a testament of his true line—he was barred his birthright, denied full sanction into wizarding society; all because he lacked a pure-blood name. It wasn't enough that his weak mother denounced herself with a muggle, but to be allotted a pathetic muggle's name, one with no power, no influence, no legacy—
Burdened ink fell heavy from the quill's mouth.
The drop bled across House of Gaunt, mutating old inked words until it surrendered, until the old House name blackened and extinguished beneath merciless ink.
If a great future lied within a name, then he'd construct a new identity, a grand moniker, one to supersede all legacies and lineages, one never to be misconceived as anything but great.
Find the Chamber of Secrets. Eliminate the weak. Declare your power.
Behind him, a chair scraped, the sound sudden and rude. Metal reverberated against wooden floorboards he knew weren't from his Room.
Tom clenched his jaw, placed his quill down beside his wand on the desk, then turned to his uninvited guest.
Is it a threat?
Despite possessing a wand and the ability to cast magic, the painting had failed to cause true damage.
And even when he'd edged closer to the painting—a provoke through measured proximity—the painted boy hadn't attacked again despite the palpable distress bleeding from the canvas.
Weak. Timid. Anxious. A recluse.
However, no matter how strange it behaved, or despite its possession of a magically imbued wand, its ultimate refusal to leave its current frame confined it within the Room.
And the Room of Requirement was his domain, a knowledge he'd deciphered and kept hidden. As long as the painting chose to stay, the matter was contained and his to study in private.
Quill still thirsty with ink, he wrote one reminder in his diary:
'Gargoyle: Tomorrow Night'.
He glanced back at the occupant in the painting.
Spectacled eyes no longer followed him, but instead remained focused on a small object lying near its feet.
Is it a threat?
No.
True threat was ignorance.
III
The pocket watch dropped from Harry's hand, brass clinking and echoing across the study's painted floor.
It's just a watch—it can't hurt you.
The silent 'yet' which shadowed his thought only intensified his apprehension, but still, Harry bent down and retrieved the fallen brass body.
Inanimate. Cold. Dead.
Even as it laid innocent on his palm—silent once more—the brass felt tainted with memories of hurried ticks across its deceiving face, of its thirteen hours and hand frozen on one o'clock.
What triggered it? What does it mean?
Harry felt foolish. He shouldn't have felt betrayed by the small timepiece, shouldn't have hoped it was immune to the room's trickery. Because from the beginning, the room remained faithful to its own laws, played games to rules he didn't know.
Don't let your guard down again.
No longer comfortable, Harry relinquished the watch and placed it beside the candle, unwilling to disturb its sleep, afraid to awaken it from its slumber—
And then the candle stopped flickering, the fourth wall sealed and the room darkened.
Riddle had left.
'...you've drawn my attention…I look forward to becoming better acquainted.'
Harry had to leave.
But using his magic had inflicted unforeseeable injuries, leaving him vulnerable and powerless. And the door remained stubborn, remained locked.
Wait.
He turned to the door.
The keyhole hadn't disappeared.
A keyhole. A key. Search the room.
Harry kneeled in front of the bed hugging the safest wall.
He stretched his fingers under the bed frame, skin tingling with exposure as he brushed against cold floorboards, waiting for something to reach out, to pull him under into shadows—
But it remained bare.
He searched the desk next; behind, within and under. Yet it yielded no more secrets.
He turned the next wooden body; the shelf.
Tall and slim, its shelves were unoccupied, carrying only dust. But before he turned away, the edges of spines—laid almost out of view—peeked from the highest ledge.
Harry reached.
The first book was thin and an aged brown.
There were no words within it, only lines; intricate and intersecting with one another, accompanied with sigils, runes and other markings. Hermione would probably know what these meant.
But she wasn't here.
Harry closed the book and placed it down on the desk.
The second book was a deep and wise green, its spine battered, so he opened it with care.
His eyes grew wide.
Coal-etched wings. Fortified scales. Razor-sharp talons.
The sketch seemed so vivid and life-like, that the creature didn't seem drawn, but instead ensnared within the page. And there were several more drawings; page after page of magical creatures, beasts and monsters Harry's mind could've never conjured into existence, and hoped weren't real.
Then a familiar creature caught his attention.
Harry's fingertips brushed over warm, flamed feathers and loyal eyes.
Fawkes.
Page left opened on the Phoenix, Harry made his way over to the shelf and reached for another hidden item.
The last book was royal blue, with remnants of gilded gold etched on its cover.
And within, its pages were hedged with scribbled notes, observations and thoughts; on spells, on potions, on magical theories.
Harry flicked through the pages, through unfamiliar topics and disciplines, till a word he hadn't seen since his first year at Hogwarts appeared.
Heading bold, written in scrawled penmanship, it read:
Alchemy.
And at the bottom of the page, almost lost and buried amongst symbols, was one misplaced drawing.
The back of Harry's neck sharpened with cold warning as he stared at the displaced sketch, as he scrutinised its tall familiar form, its engraved and closed doors.
He turned his head to the other side of the study—to the black void—and faced the last wooden body in the room.
The wardrobe.
I don't want to open it.
He didn't want to open it, didn't want to unleash anymore trickeries or expose himself to more hidden abnormalities the room might still have. Because unlike the locked door, the wardrobe was a choice, a door he chose to leave unexplored.
But here it was, drawn in a book it had no reason to be in, unclear whether it was a warning, or—
A clue. A key. A way out.
Legs reluctant but mind resolved, Harry moved towards the unwelcoming wardrobe, grabbed its cold handles—
Don't let your guard down.
—and pulled it open.
III
Headmaster Dippet's voice rang loud and clear over the clatter of forks and plates in the Great Hall.
"A reminder to all Fifth year students: in preparations to your upcoming OWLs, please arrange a meeting with your Head of House to receive counsel on Sixth and Seventh Year Electives and required N.E.W.T level classes relevant to your desired career paths."
Tom glanced up at the Potions Master.
It seemed he'd be paying Slughorn another visit.
III
After the student body gorged themselves in the Hall and retired to their Common rooms, Tom made his way to Slughorn's office.
But as he stepped onto the appropriate staircase, he spied two students in a corner overtaken by shadows.
One handed the other a vial, and the sound of coins followed.
And as the staircase swivelled him away from the scene, Tom frowned as he caught a glimpse of something gold flicker into the air above them.
III
"Sorry Tom, but now is not a good time for a chat—papers to mark and all!"
Liar.
Slughorn may have greeted him in his usual manner, but Riddle didn't miss the nervous sheen on the older man's forehead, or that the door to his study remained half-closed, an invitation absent.
"My apologies for interrupting. When would be a more appropriate time to discuss N.E.W.T electives with you?"
Fingers relaxed off the door frame. "Oh right! Yes of course—come in!"
Something sweet and thick dominated the study's usual scent of rosemary and thyme.
On a mantle behind Slughorn's desk, a new golden clock ticked.
"Would you like some cinnamon and honey tea?" Slughorn offered as he poured more into his own cup.
RTom eyed the brew, and as wisps of steam rose and swirled from the pot, so did an old memory:
Of the staff at the orphanage. Of a sweet-scented brew with clung to their tongues as they lied, as they served him bittered and watered-down imitations of the brew they hoarded in secret and deemed too good for a freak like him—
The memory pervaded the scent, evaporating all desire to consume the same drink as them, to partake in their self-indulgent greed and savoured selfishness.
Slughorn waited for a response.
Lie. Appease.
"Yes please."
Slughorn poured the saccharine brew into a second teacup.
The stench assaulted him.
"As you know, the results from your OWLs will heavily affect which electives you may pick up, drop or continue studying." The older man handed him his cup. "But with your current grades, I'm sure you'll have absolutely no trouble getting into your desired classes!"
Appeal to his ego.
"It's the teachers and their endless efforts I should be thanking."
His Head of House beamed. "You're too modest my boy! A brilliant mind, first in all your classes, and a Prefect." The Potions Master leaned forward. "The wizarding world will gain something great from such a promising individual! I only hope to help you get there."
Return the praise.
"You've given me more than you know sir."
Horcrux. Horcrux. Horcrux.
Slughorn glowed with the compliment. "So, were there any electives in particular you wished to discuss?"
"Just one."
Tom held the teacup within his palms and traced the porcelain's rim. "There's a rather...elusive elective I came across in the library, an elective I wasn't aware had been taught in Hogwarts' academic past."
"Oh?"
The golden clock ticked louder.
"Alchemy."
"Ah yes—a fascinating subject! From my knowledge, it has only been taught three times in Hogwarts' history."
The fireplace glowed eager and bright. "Can it still be taken as an elective?"
Slughorn nodded. "It is possible..."
Knowledge.
Endless possibilities.
Transformation—
"—but highly unlikely."
The porcelain in Tom's hands grew cold. "I don't understand sir."
"Alchemy is not an open elective you see. It requires an invitation."
Tom leaned forward. "What does one need to do to receive an invitation?"
Slughorn clasped his hands together.
"Achieve 'Oustanding' in all their OWL exams. Only the brightest students are granted an official invite."
Effortless. Attainable.
"—something I have no doubt you can achieve Tom, but there must be a minimum of seven students in your year group to have also achieved the required grades—and accept the invitation—in order for the elective to exist."
Persuade.
Tom pushed with logic. "Wouldn't be preferable to teach a dedicated few, small as it may be, rather than fixate on how many students take a class? Other electives have been known to carry less numbers."
Slughorn nodded.
"It would be simpler, yes, but Alchemy is also an exclusive elective. This means the school must hire a Master Alchemist to teach as a guest professor, and without the required number of students, Hogwarts simply cannot fund it."
The fireplace grew restless, its flames urgent, but Tom continued with calm purpose, words careful.
"May I study it in my own free time, if given relevant textbooks? The theory alone would be compelling."
Slughorn downed the rest of his tea, then frowned in genuine sympathy.
"I'm afraid the textbooks are only given by the Alchemist himself, and even then, students are monitored to ensure knowledge isn't abused." Then Slughorn turned to the fireplace, expression deep. "Terrible things have been achieved in the past with its knowledge."
Denied. Barred. Knowledge wasted—
"—but there is someone in the castle you can appeal to, a past student out of the three year groups to have been mentored by Nicholas Flammel himself."
"Who, sir?"
"Professor Dumbledore."
The golden clock laughed in mockery.
"—and I'm sure he'll be pleased to share his knowledge with a brilliant student such as yourself."
Tom sipped from the porcelain's cold rim and swallowed the sweet brew which burnt and bittered his throat.
A quiet grinding filled the air.
He looked above Slughorn's fireplace and found the source of the sound; a magical painting of an old Potions Master in his workshop.
Tom watched the painted man add mortar-crushed rose petals into his cauldron.
"Can he hear us? Does he listen?"
Slughorn looked back at the forgotten painting in his study. "Oh, I suppose he could, but frankly, he's more absorbed in his work." Then his Head of House leaned in, eyes filled with mirth. "But between you and I, he's been working on the same project for decades."
Tom tilted his head. "Can they not progress forward?"
Slughorn poured a third serving for himself. "Not quite. They mainly socialise, but only as shades of their former selves—detailed reflections, yes—but a fraction of who their originals were."
Tom's eyes bore into the scene within the frame, to the old man's painted wand.
"And what are the limits to their magic?"
The potions master hummed into his cup as he drank. "Simple spells, nothing too complex, though it has been observed that the more powerful they were when alive does seem to expand their magical capabilities."
Tom followed the border of the old man's frame, the fireplace underneath casting inflamed colours onto its ornate ridges.
"And this magic, can it leave their frames? Materialise within our own realm?"
Slughorn frowned.
"I'm afraid that's impossible. The very nature of their preservation is magically infused to their canvas. It cannot be transferred out." Then the potions master laughed. "Could you imagine the chaos if they could!"
The golden clock ticked closer to its next hour as Slughorn continued.
"Even if it were possible, no magic can duplicate true life, or its greatest instinct—the will to survive."
Both student and teacher looked up at the painting.
Then the golden clock began to chime.
"Essentially, they have no soul."
III
With a slow and sinister creak, the wardrobe spread its doors wide open.
A torrent of blood raced through Harry's veins, feeding his heart a rapid beat as he readied himself for more trickeries, more illusions.
Don't let your guard down!
Harry shot his arm up and aimed the letter opener towards the dark interior ahead.
...And that's when he found something lurking within the shadows.
Arms.
Shoulders.
A torso.
Harry struck first—
But it attacked back with a surge of dust which dried the moisture down his throat, seared his lungs and set off a coughing fit.
Keep fighting! Harry lunged at the entity once more and stabbed.
...And then a stale stench crawled out from within the wardrobe's depth.
Blade still raised, Harry struck one last time, but the shadowed stranger didn't scream, didn't fight back. Instead, the entity swayed, passive and unflinching through the veil of dust which surrendered and fell around it.
Not a person.
A hung robe.
The sound of his own harsh breaths filled his ears. His body remained on high alert, tensed and distrustful.
Search the wardrobe.
Eyes tracking the still-swaying robe—could still be a trick, could still be dangerous—Harry rushed his search of the wardrobe's interiors, of its dark sides and deep corners.
Empty. No key.
Aside for the robe—
Wait.
Harry edged closer to the stale stench, to the dust-ridden robe hung like a battered and blackened corpse.
Then with cautious hands, he ransacked its pockets till the remains yielded a small item. Once seized, he snatched it from the wardrobe's clutch and carried it to the desk where the candle waited.
Wooden and plain, the size of two palms, the box gave little away to what it hid inside.
A key? A way out?
Harry unclasped its latch, lifted its lid, and opened another piece from the deceptive room.
The contents stared up at him.
Small parchments, aged and rolled, piled on top of one another within the box.
Scrolls.
He picked up one thin scroll, held it close to the candle's frozen yet eager light, and unrolled the delicate paper:
They fear my power, fear what I can do.
They fear who I am, so I hide in this room.
Beyond these walls, lurk my demons embalmed.
My will is my power, I cannot be harmed.
Energy stirred across the inscribed words, thrumming with remnants of an ancient power. The hair on his arms grew taunt and tall, skin blistered with chills from the scrolls aura.
'They fear my power, fear what I can do...'
His pulse hammered loud in his ears.
'They fear who I am, so I hide in this room...'
Harry's face drained of colour as he looked up from the old parchment, and as the words hollowed deep in his mind.
...I hide in this room.
Someone—
Or something—
Was here.
Harry hunted his surrounding space with wide eyes; at the frozen shadows and dark corners, at the safe bed he'd stuck his hand beneath only minutes ago, at the still-gaping wardrobe—spread wide and open—and at its corpse-like robe staring back at him.
Close the doors!
He ran to the wardrobe and slammed its doors shut—sealing it once more—but it didn't dampen the dread rushing through him. Then slowly, he faced the door on the other side of the room, the door which locked him in, the door which kept him imprisoned.
'Beyond these walls, lurk my demons embalmed...'
Or kept something out.
Harry backed away from both doors and slammed into the desk, knocking down one book to the floor. He knew the painting was empty. He'd been isolated within it for days, but how long till that changed?
There's no one here, there's no one here there's no one here—
Except for Tom Riddle.
'...you've drawn my attention…I look forward to becoming better acquainted.'
The small parchment remained crumpled and cold within his fist, its quiet energy breathing against his chilled skin.
And then the black wall lightened—like curtains on a stage—and the candle flickered and bowed, as the painting performed its dictated play once more.
Riddle was coming back.
Instead of protecting himself, he'd gained Riddle's intrigue and suspicion, but could no longer hide, could no longer feign insignificance.
He had failed to find a key; a key to a door he wasn't sure he wanted to unlock anymore, unsure whether it would lead him home, or lead him to more trickeries, to more illusions—
To monsters.
And he had no other weapon aside from a letter opener, no form of protection from a young Dark Lord, or from the promised treacheries waiting beyond the locked door.
What do I do?
The candle danced and casted its light; over the slumbering pocket watch, over the aged brown book of intricate lines, over the emerald book with a battered spine—page still opened on a sketch of a Phoenix with flamed feathers and kind eyes—and onto the floorboards, over the fallen royal blue book filled with magical notes and experiments.
The fourth wall grew transparent.
On the other side appeared a familiar room, a familiar crackling of a fireplace and the creaking of an opening door.
What do I do?
He needed his magic, now more than ever.
Figure out the painting's magical limits. Find another way out.
Footsteps entered the other room.
...'Are you lost?'
Harry may be lost, but he hadn't lost his mind yet, and he needed to keep it that way, needed to find a stronger focus than the darkness, uncertainty and fear encircling him within the room.
Behind him, controlled footsteps grew closer, but he remained focused, remained calm.
No more running. No more hiding.
Anchor found, Harry turned to face the stretch of wall above the desk, the wall which could now be marred, scathed and hurt. He raised the letter opener—
And carved a promise of his own.
III
Frustration fueled Tom's steps as he returned to the seventh floor.
Behind him, one by one, the torches lining the hallway extinguished with a flick of his wand, till nothing but night sunk in his wake.
His chance to pursue Alchemy was now tarnished through his unambitious peers and their trivial pursuits. And his only alternative laid with someone who regarded him with neutral indifference, yet eyed him with quiet judgement.
But Dumbledore would find nothing. His mask was seamless.
A stone door appeared at the end of the hall, beckoning him with promise of reprieve from mundane duties, from the trite minds who flanked his every path. For now, there were more pressing matters to attend to.
'Gargoyle: Tomorrow night.'
But as Tom entered his conjured study, the sound of carving filled the air, grating his ears and deepening his displeasure.
He was in no mood to entertain.
Tom hunted down the irritant noise, expecting the boy in the painting to cower in his presence.
Yet the other remained where it stood, pressing something sharp against the wall in its study, unaware of his closing proximity. However the lines of other's back were tense—it knows I'm here—yet it didn't stop in its ministrations, didn't turn around, didn't hide or behave in its previous skittish manner.
Instead, the other continued to dig curved lines into its wall.
Tom peered closer, taking the opportunity to observe the occupant under the painted study's dimly offered light.
Books laid on its desk, along with a small opened box.
Then the small blade held within the other's hand changed its motion, the carving growing harsh, no longer curved and careful, but straight and sharp.
As the other continued to carve in a determined and almost manic manner, Tom experienced a slow tightening in his limbs, a stiffness in his neck and a coldness polluting his veins. Unexplainable sensations.
Then the hideous sound of slices and gashes came to a halt.
The painted boy moved back, blade still clutched in his hand, and stared up at its deed as if it held an invisible power.
Tom stepped closer.
Behind the boy, on a stretch of wall enshrined by a small candles' light, were seven etched circles.
Spectacled eyed turned and faced him, gaze unflinching and solid.
What is your promise?
Four circles were crossed out.
.
.
.
Author's Note:
Greetings to my new readers, and welcome back to my old readers! Thank you so much for your patience and kind support :) I hope this chapter has made up for my absence!
There is also new fanart!
LAS-T from deviantart has created another masterpiece for this story, which can be found on my tumblr - antediluvian-poet. Follow me for story updates/progress reports, new fanart and sneak peeks ;) Feel free to nudge me into updating if I'm taking to long!
And once again, many thanks to my beta-reader ~CADEL.
So what did you think of the chapter lovely readers? Looking forward to your thoughts!
~A.D Poet