"ꜰᴏʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ
ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜱʜᴜꜰꜰʟᴇᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟ ᴄᴏɪʟ,
ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱ ᴘᴀᴜꜱᴇ: ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ
ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴄᴀʟᴀᴍɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ʟɪꜰᴇ."
― ꜱʜᴀᴋᴇꜱᴘᴇᴀʀᴇ, ʜᴀᴍʟᴇᴛ
Chapter Thirty-Five: Paradise Lost (You Are Nothing But a Memory)
-June, 1943-
Although they did not come with a cause attached and nor did they have anything to do with his performance in class, Tom thought his now tri-weekly meetings with Dumbledore had crossed the line into detention. Dumbledore had even begun to assign him work while he was with him, although tending to Fawkes, visits to the Forbidden Forest, and helping Dumbledore on the numerous case studies that were sent to him weekly was hardly the sort of tedious work one would expect of detention.
Still, Tom supposed, Dumbledore had to keep him occupied (and exhausted) somehow.
Yet, the attacks did not stop. Tom was relentless; if it was a battle of wills between him and Dumbledore, he was determined to win. As a result of his diligence and Salazar's urging, only a fraction of Mudbloods remained at Hogwarts, and of that fraction, most were Petrified.
The remaining few were in terror of their lives. The school was in utter chaos, and even half-bloods were getting scared now, afraid that once all the Muggle-born students were gone, they'd be next.
All because of him. He, the so-called Mudblood Riddle, had brought the whole school to its knees in a matter of months and under the esteemed professors' noses at that. And just as he had planned, no one suspected that a basilisk could be the weapon or that Tom Riddle could be the Heir of Slytherin.
What Tom was most surprised by was Dumbledore's total lack of attempts at Legilimency; the professor, to his knowledge, had never attempted to use the skill on him since the first day in Transfiguration, even now that he was under suspicion.
He wondered why. Surely, Dumbledore did not trust him. In fact, he at least suspected Tom of wrong-doing.
After all, mightn't Dumbledore know? Was this a sign? If he could discover his connection to Marvolo Gaunt and Marvolo Gaunt's connection to Salazar Slytherin...
But Dumbledore, like everyone else, was sure Tom was a Mudblood, regardless of Tom's constant reminders (witch mother, Muggle father).
That assumption, as much as he hated it, would keep him safer than anything else. The Heir of Slytherin could not possibly come from a Muggle orphanage.
And, of course, there was the fact that perhaps Dumbledore trusted him.
I must confess I was quite disturbed, Tom, though I hoped and believed that it was possible that you felt sorry for what you had done, for you to grow up to be a decent young man.
Tom was loath to admit it and most definitely would not if asked, but he was growing fond of Fawkes, even petting the bird's head as he fed it a steady stream of flame from his wand, taking care not to scorch the desk while he was at it. Meanwhile, Dumbledore was writing a reply to one of the Healers at St. Mungo's, who was treating a witch who had her liver swapped with that of a kiwi bird's.
Dumbledore signed the letter, folded it, and looked up at Tom.
"I am worried about you," he said, for probably the seven-hundredth time this year.
"It's only O.W.L.s, sir," said Tom. "I'll be fine once they're over."
Dumbledore sighed, giving Tom an unimpressed look.
"I am not talking about exams, Tom. I am talking about you."
"Well, I'm fine, Professor Dumbledore."
"Tom," said Dumbledore in a warning tone. He pressed his lips together, displeased. "You know what I speak of. One man cannot be an island."
"I have friends in Slytherin."
"Do you confide in them?"
Tom's hand shook; the flames nearly became out of control. He wasn't sure if he was being questioned or goaded at this point.
Of course I don't! Who could he possibly imagine I would trust? Duplicitous Rosier? Weak-minded Avery? Scheming Lestrange? Bloodthirsty Nott? Foolish Mulciber?
What for? So I can reveal my weaknesses, and they can strike me down where I'm vulnerable? Find out my fears and hold them against me ― in fact, if they were any smarter, they would have used my Boggart against me by now.
Yes, a fantastic group of confidantes they'd make: the weak, the ambitious, and the thuggish only united in their hatred of Muggles and those of lesser blood and their wealth and privilege. Maybe if things were different, they could have worked for me. If I was one of them. A fool in a clever man's hands is the deadliest of weapons.
He could not help but think of his first few hours at Hogwarts. Yes, if everything had gone smoothly, if he had come as the scion of the long-lost, though looked down upon Gaunts rather than an effectively nameless 'Mudblood,' things might have been different. Not better, perhaps... but... If only there was a way to made them believe that it was so.
The Gaunts weren't the only families who claimed descendency from Salazar Slytherin. (There's the Selwyns, for a start, he thought, reaching for the ouroboros ring in his pocket). It might not be enough to incriminate him. But still, it might be perhaps dangerous.
"No, sir. Not really."
"So they are not friends. How do you mean to survive in the world with no one by your side? I have watched you. You do not even try, Tom."
"Well, I've managed sixteen years, and I s'pose I'll manage the next sixteen the same way."
Tom thought that was a very sensible way to think, but the professor didn't seem to appreciate his impeccable logic.
Dumbledore gazed past him; he seemed to be far away.
"To live without love is a weary existence, Tom. To lose it forever is miserable indeed, but to live wholly without it..." He took in Tom's half-amused, half-incredulous look, sighed once more, and continued. "To live wholly without it is an empty experience. A doomed experience."
So this was one of their philosophical debates. He extinguished the flame, to Fawkes's chagrin, and sat down opposite Dumbledore.
"Isn't death the ultimate doom, sir?"
Something ancient and serious came over Dumbledore's expression.
"Do not pity the dead, Tom. Pity the living and, above all, those who live without love. It is the futile things that make life worth living."
"Isn't life itself worth it?"
"Not if the only difference between life and death is simply a beating heart."
"That's your opinion, sir."
"Is that so?" asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised far above his glasses. "How would you like to live and experience nothing?"
"I'd prefer it to death," he fired back. "Who knows what happens then?"
"One day," said Dumbledore sternly, "it may be too late. So I suggest that you try now, Tom, before you find yourself incapable."
Perhaps Dumbledore was right about him reaching some sort of precipice from which the only way was down. He felt hollowed out inside from the underuse of some vital part of himself, like a rotten log. The pieces inside of him that were meant to fix together were jagged and torn and probably unusable.
Inside, Tom knew he wasn't pretty to look at.
A soul that only a mother could love.
Too bad she didn't want me even when it was unblemished.
It was a wonder he was able to feel anything at all.
But the numbness, for Tom, was but a mere fact of existence.
Besides, Tom Riddle could not go on existing much longer.
Lord Voldemort would not be plagued by such forlorn human needs.
"I'll try," he lied, which seemed to placate Dumbledore, at least for now.
Tom wondered when lying had become so easy; it must have been earlier than his memory stretched back, or else second nature.
Perhaps he'd gotten it from his mother, he thought darkly.
Of course, it was most likely for him to inherit his duplicity from his betraying witch mother.
He was still pondering this during patrols. Minerva, thankfully, was silent, and he could think quietly and without interruption. The corridors were almost peaceful nowadays; on most nights, they never ran into a soul.
But by far, the greatest of the small mercies bestowed on him was that he'd finally figured out how to break the Trace. Tom had done it over last weekend, and as far as he could tell, he had already recovered completely.
Is it a good idea to tamper with my own magic so soon before the Horcrux ritual?
Probably not. What's done is done.
Come to think of it, he had not been making an excess of good choices lately.
"Tom," said Minerva in a strangely clear, halting voice. "I've― I've noticed something. It might have to do with the attacks."
"What?" he asked, without turning around. Tom did not think he could look her in the eyes and keep his composure. "Well, what have you noticed?"
"Well, it sounds silly; I thought it couldn't've been." Minerva's voice went quiet. "But it's been bothering me for such a long time. What were you doing in the corridor during Walpurgis Night? You looked so guilty, lurking around like that, and afterwards, I found poor Richard Petrified in the middle of the hallway."
"You don't think I had anything to do with it?"
Minerva did not answer immediately, and Tom felt sick to his stomach. He finally turned towards her, crossing his arms defensively.
Is this where it ends? How it ends?
I'll be expelled for a start.
They'll have my wand for this, without a doubt.
Tom hadn't thought much of the risks of opening the Chamber of Secrets at first; but now he was acutely aware of the threat of imprisonment in the famed wizard prison, Azkaban, a place to rival Hell itself, and getting the entirety of his soul sucked out by a Dementor once he turned seventeen.
And then, after that, I'll have no desire to do anything, including live, and die of thirst, exhaustion, exposure or starvation, whichever kills me first.
His blood ran cold; the icy touch of the Reaper was within reach.
Minerva placed a hand on his shoulder; the unwanted touch jolted him back into reality, and Tom fought down the urge to remove her hand lest it seem suspicious.
"Well, you've not been yourself all year and especially this term, Tom. At first, I thought it might have been O.W.L.s, but I know a few people are doing ten or eleven, and they don't look nearly as stressed as you do. You've been so upset, and just ― just off somehow. Poppy thinks so too... And then Lestrange, of all people, told me you've been mumbling in your sleep, and I couldn't help―"
She paled, her eyes bright and uncharacteristically afraid.
"I couldn't help but think you might have a guilty conscience!" she managed to stammer out. "You've just been so odd and irritable, and I simply can't understand why you looked so guilty and secretive that day in Gryffindor Tower. There's nothing you have to be ashamed of, is there? You'd better just tell the truth and have it come out quickly instead of dragging it out because things whispered in the dark always come to light anyway," continued Minerva, her jaw set and her gaze determined.
Was she serious? Did she really see through him so easily?
No. If Dumbledore didn't, there was no way that she could. She was simply paranoid, like everyone else.
Instinctively, the hand that she could not see went to his wand, fingers grasping the handle. A simple Obliviate and Minerva would not remember the conversation, but he would also have to pick through her memories and figure out how to erase her suspicion in case she went to Dumbledore next, and that would take time and great care.
But, remembering how much her appearance and behaviour towards him had changed recently, not to mention her mind, Tom realised there was a much simpler way to get out of this situation.
He even found himself thankful for his pounding heartbeat and trembling voice; he didn't have to feign the nervousness that was already there. The fear of being caught could easily be mistaken for the throes of romantic passion.
"The thing is," said Tom, hoping that he sounded convincing. "The thing is, I do. Have something to be ashamed of, I mean."
Other than my dirty Muggle blood.
He lifted his head, looked Minerva in the eyes, and swallowed, taking in her confused expression.
"It's you ― well, sorry, of course, it's not you I'm ashamed of, but―"
"Tom!" said Minerva, looking angry. "Stop stammering!"
"Sorry," he said once more. "It's pathetic, I know, to think I even have a chance, but the truth is, Minerva, I..." He glanced at the wall as if flustered (which, to be honest, wasn't far from the truth because he felt utterly ridiculous), then turned back to her.
What was he supposed to say? How should one broach such a subject in a convincing fashion? She was staring at him expectantly.
"Minerva, you, I mean, I, I fancy you."
"Oh, Tom!" she said, as if in some un-Minerva-like, exquisite rapture. Her hands were even clasped under her chin like some kind of medieval saint in heavenly ecstasy. "I hoped, but I'd never've dreamed, or is it the other way around?"
"And," he continued, unimpressed, "the reason I was in Gryffindor Tower was because I was going to tell you, on Walpurgis Night, but I couldn't find the courage to."
"Oh!"
He longed to have the annoying, sensible Minerva back; this one was driving him up the wall. But on the other hand, at least silly, lovesick Minerva was easily fooled.
"It's so dreadfully silly," Minerva went on, "because I thought the same, you know, Tom. At times I said to myself I should be a proper Gryffindor and just tell you, but then I thought, how pointless it is, that you could have any girl you liked before little old me. And I feel so ridiculous, now, even suggesting it was the other thing!"
"Right."
Thankfully, they had drawn close to Gryffindor Tower, and Minerva departed with an air of walking on clouds.
Tom, for his part, was primarily relieved but somewhat worried. They would both be busy with their O.W.L.s over the coming weeks, but he might have to keep up the charade next year.
That was a problem for future Tom, he decided.
And besides, tomorrow cannot be sloppy. It has to be unemotional. Planned. Perfect.
If but one thing was to go wrong...
Now, with a glance behind him to ensure that he was not followed, he made his way back to the Chamber of Secrets. Mounting paranoia told him that the natural noises of the castle creaking and groaning were, in fact, footsteps, and he took the most circuitous path to avoid his imaginary pursuers.
"How goes it?" asked Salazar, regarding Tom with his intense stone gaze.
"Fine," said Tom, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "It happens tomorrow. Everything."
"It gladdens my heart to hear it."
If he had been someone else completely, Tom might have revelled in the wonder and glory of being wholly himself, of the Tom-Riddle-ness about him, but he was not, and he did not have qualms about the diminishment of Tom Riddle, no matter how drastic. His mind would still be as quick, and his magic as powerful, so Tom could not bring himself to care about the possible consequences.
"And will I finally be fed?" asked the basilisk, her dragon's pupils dilating with pure gluttony.
"No," said Tom sharply. "Her body must remain untouched. It's the only way to avoid suspicion. Then, you see, she might have seen the monster, slipped out of fright and hit her head on the floor. Or been poisoned. They'll expect a basilisk to savage or eat the girl."
"It is a clever plan," said Salazar, and Tom swelled with pride. "A good plan."
The basilisk hissed, her pupils narrowing to slits. She glowered at Tom, then evidently remembered that her gaze could not kill him.
"I long for the taste of human flesh."
"Well, tough. You're not getting it," said Tom. He turned back to Salazar. "The diary's been prepared. Everything's ready for tomorrow; I think it'd be best for me to get some proper sleep."
"That sounds wise," said Salazar, quirking a stone eyebrow. "And?"
Tom cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said. "For everything. You know. Helping me with the Horcrux, and―" He tried to think of something clever and memorable to say but could not.
"Thank you for everything," he repeated. "In case anything goes wrong tomorrow. Which it won't, of course." A nervous laugh bubbled up in his throat, escaping before he could suppress it. "I've checked my calculations so often that I could recite the whole thing in my sleep."
Salazar looked displeased.
"Do not."
There was no use waiting around for a proper goodbye, so, with an awkward half-nod, half-bow, he turned and left the Chamber.
Mulciber congratulated him on his decision to have an early night, the first in ages.
As he watched the other boy putter about, fluffing pillows and putting socks on, Tom decided that there was no way he could sleep tonight without help, not with possibly the most important day of his life hanging over him. He was likely to vomit as soon as he laid down.
Meanwhile, Mulciber blissfully continued to go about his business. Tom checked, and rechecked that the diary was in his bag, hidden amongst his schoolbooks.
The murder, the Horcrux... there was so much room for error. So much that could go wrong.
To commemorate, he poured out a capful (which was all he could afford) of Dreamless Sleep Potion. He watched Mulciber, swirling the purple liquid somewhat ruefully, then downed the lot, pulled the curtains shut, and the covers over his head.
But dreams did come. It must have been a bad batch.
It was unlucky Friday the Thirteenth — June 1943. Today was the day. The day everything came together, the day he made an attempt at the darkest of all magics, the day he finally completed Salazar Slytherin's noble work.
The day, thought Tom as he groggily got dressed, buttoning his shirt up wrong and having to do it all over again, where freedom comes.
Then why does it feel like a funeral? Or an execution?
He glanced at the bed. Tonight, the dreams would not come. Boggarts and black curtains would not frighten him.
What he had done with the basilisk before had been child's play in comparison to this — aiming to scare, not kill. Already, about half of the Muggle-born students had been pulled out of school, so as far as Tom was concerned, a job well-done, even if it hadn't been completed.
He wasn't looking forward to it. But the sooner the whole business was over with, the sooner he could go back to studying for his O.W.L.s, putting the tiresome basilisk back where it belonged for the time being, and not having to keep looking over his shoulder all the damn time.
Everything hinged on his plan going completely smoothly today.
Needless to say, Tom Riddle was feeling very anxious that morning.
Tom Riddle, soon to be Lord Voldemort.
When do I stop being me and start being him? Once I rip my soul, or once it is cleaved completely?
He stood in front of the floor-length mirror in the fifth-year boys' dormitory, staring at the golden filigree on the top and trying desperately to quell the queasy feeling that had started up as soon as he'd attempted to go to sleep last night and had just begun again.
Which was why he was doing the Horcrux ritual directly after it. Less room to consider what he had done and more to revel in it. Less time to think.
Tom looked up as the door swung open.
"Morning, Riddle."
"Piss off, Mulciber," he muttered, massaging his temples as the boy strolled into the dormitory, looking quite pleased with himself.
When did he wake up? It's only seven or so.
"Where've you been?" asked Rosier, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes.
Mulciber launched himself onto the bed. "With a lady," he said, grinning.
Tom had no intention of dealing with their antics today. What he had to do was too delicate, too important. He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, though it was still twenty minutes before breakfast in the Great Hall. Maybe he'd go to the library first. Clear his head.
"Leaving so soon, Riddle?"
Ignoring the boys' taunts, he slipped a pack of cigarettes into the pocket of his robes with a well-practised sleight-of-hand, disappearing into the hallway. As he ascended the stairs, he saw that the common room was empty, as was usual early in the morning. Tom thought of staying there and attempting to get some sleep while it was still quiet, but it was pointless.
He was itching with irritation, from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers. Tom tugged his hand through his hair and bit down on his bottom lip, letting the pain steady him slightly.
God, he couldn't get through today like this. He felt sick and dizzy and tired. He would be barely able to concentrate in class today.
Tom reached a hand into his pocket. Later.
Thankfully, his first class that morning was with Slughorn, his favorite professor. The subject was (in Tom's opinion) a mind-numbingly boring introduction to love potions, as if he himself hadn't been a near-victim of them nearly every other week this year, the most recent being some fourth-year Gryffindor spiking his tea last Saturday when he wasn't looking. It was in fact one of the few times Eustace Mulciber had ever proved himself useful, by pointing this out.
The problem had been such a pressing one that Tom had taken it upon himself to research the ingredients of love potions in order to brew a crude antidote, which he always had on hand in case anything slipped past his notice.
"And who can tell me what this is?" asked Slughorn, pointing to a silver cauldron filled nearly to the brim with a shimmering potion from which rose spirals of delicate steam.
Tom raised his hand.
"Yes, m'boy?" asked Slughorn, smiling proudly.
"Amortentia, sir," said Tom. He heard a few girls giggle, and Eustace snigger beside him. "It's the most potent love potion in existence, eliciting a powerful obsession or infatuation in the drinker towards the person who administers the potion."
And don't get any ideas, thought Tom.
"Excellent!" cried Slughorn. "Ten points to Slytherin. Now, who can tell me the great peculiarity of this potion — Tom?"
He put his hand down. "It has a unique aroma for each person, depending on the things that they find most attractive. I believe the number of scents per person averages to be about three, although it may vary."
"Excellent, excellent. Ten more points to Slytherin. Now…"
After the class ended, people began to cluster around the cauldron of Amortentia to indulge their curiosities.
Slughorn, being Slughorn, only encouraged and indulged them.
"I smell mint, and rain, and oooh, is that aftershave?"
Tom couldn't be less interested, but Mulciber grabbed him by the elbow as he attempted to slip out of the door, despite his protests, and drew him over to the cauldron.
"Go on, then," said Mulciber excitedly. "Have a go."
"Must I?" asked Tom, trying to extricate himself from Mulciber's grip. He was acutely aware of everyone staring at him. "I'd rather not, we need to get to Charms anyway—"
Mulciber shoved him closer — he was getting hexed for that tonight — and now Tom stood directly in front of the cauldron, the spirals of steam wafting delicately around him.
Sighing, he leaned over the cauldron, and sniffed. Once, twice, three times.
"Nothing," said Tom. Why won't people leave me alone today?
He spun on his heel, about to walk out of the room. His temper was beginning to wear thin.
"You're bluffing," he heard someone say behind him.
"Yeah, very funny, Riddle!" someone else called.
Was it that hard to believe that nothing attracted him? Nothing, but getting this awful day over with.
Tom's foul mood continued into Charms and grew even fouler during Transfiguration, where Dumbledore was having them practice turning owls to opera glasses.
Tom hated animals, and now, one was sitting on the edge of his desk, twitching and screaming in absolute fury and shedding its disgusting feathers everywhere as its gigantic eyebrows wobbled to-and-fro.
He couldn't concentrate like this. The sound was going right through his skull.
"Silencio!" he muttered, hoping Dumbledore wouldn't notice. At least, the stupid owl had shut up, its beak still moving frantically, but the screaming was muffled.
"Having some trouble there, Tom?"
He turned, biting back a groan. "Hello, sir. Not at all."
To prove this statement, Tom moved his wand in the pattern that Dumbledore had demonstrated, saying 'Strigiforma,' and the owl became something even more useless. A pair of brown opera glasses lay on the desk.
Dumbledore straightened up. "Excellent. I hope to see you in my office tonight, Tom, and continue our discussion. There is much that I would like you to think about, once you return home for the holidays."
Home. Tom stifled a laugh. My home is here, not Wool's Orphanage.
But he drew on all his resolve, arranged his features into something approximating pleasantness, and smiled at the professor.
"Of course, Professor Dumbledore. Five o'clock, before I meet, um—"
Oh God, what was the girl's name again? He'd filed it in his head as 'that irritating Gryffindor bint,' but that certainly wasn't her real name.
"Emma," prompted Dumbledore, smiling and looking too much like the cat who got the cream for comfort. "Before you meet Emma for tutoring."
"Emma," repeated Tom, smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt. "Of course, sir. Looking forward to it."
Finally, Dumbledore walked off to assess someone else's progress. Tom sighed in relief, but he wasn't out of the frying-pan yet.
One hour to the unspeakable act.
Tom had had enough. Losing all resolve, he slipped out of the Great Hall, making excuses to his classmates and striding into the empty courtyard.
He had probably about fifteen minutes. Enough for a quick smoke.
Tom needed it so much. It was almost embarrassing, though no one was there to see how his hands shook as he fumbled with the cigarette, trembling with desperation to get the smoke into his lungs and dispel the shaky, queasy feeling of not being certain about wanting to do it that had him in its grip.
But if you want to be free, you must.
He had to be certain. He must be certain. He was certain.
Murder, it's just murder. Tom bit back a laugh, shaking his head as he shoved the cigarette between his teeth.
It's not even someone who matters to the world. It's just a Mudblood, just a nobody with no real talent or intelligence or skill… It's what Salazar Slytherin wants; he wouldn't have put a basilisk under the school. I wouldn't be able to control it if I wasn't meant to use it for this.
He lit the other end of the cigarette with mere will, inhaling greedily and with practised skill, and his hands stopped shaking.
There's no such thing as right and wrong. Just good and evil. And this, this isn't what evil looks like. I'm not evil, I just… Noble, isn't it? The noble work of Salazar Slytherin?
It's all right, it's all right. It's fine. It's going to happen. I'm going to do this.
Nothing will go wrong.
He fought down everything screaming at him to stop until all that was left was resignation, anticipation, the ever-present dregs of fear, and an empty, sickening excitement.
He felt giddy. Off-balance.
The closest thing to it was hanging Billy's rabbit.
It was like tasting euphoria.
Nothing will go wrong. You are in control of the situation. You have been through this several times.
It's going to happen.
She is nothing. She is simply a means to an end. A worthy end.
She is going to die, and it was meant to be. I am no more than an agent of destiny.
He was in control.
Tom pulled the cigarette out from between his teeth, letting smoke trail from the fingers of his left hand…
Endnotes:
So now the wheel has come full circle; Tom is about to enter the abyss, Voldemort has the Philosopher's Stone, and Dumbledore knows that Harry is an Obscurial.
The first arc is now over, but of course, the (mis)adventures continue in Part II (Three Can Keep A Secret). Which will be about half as long as this arc (on the order of 15-17 chapters, still moving some scenes around), since there is now a single timeframe (1992 on).
Three Can Keep A Secret will be posted right here (FFN) or in the Running From My Destiny Series (AO3).
Thanks for reading! Chapter I of Three Can Keep A Secret will be up on Saturday!