I'm a fool, to confuse this with goodness. I am not good. I know too much to be good. I know myself. I know myself to be vengeful, greedy, secretive and sly.

Margaret Atwood, Cat's Eye

The day Jenny found out, she collapsed inwards on herself, folding her limbs together and settling into a tight ball, her body becoming her finest origami creation. She'd picked the tightest niche in the back garden against the hollow greenhouse, a portion was shaded by a tall maple tree where the ferns had overrun, in this patch there was a bald spot of only cool soil. The fern fronds brushed against her arms collecting fat tears as they plopped from her chin. She willed herself to sink beneath the soil, under the cool tree and remain in the quiet, eerie garden forever, never having to politely smile or nod along with anyone's suggestions, never having to listen to another voice, never having to do anything she didn't want to. Maybe in a few days or weeks or years, she'd emerge from the soil like a butterfly from a chrysalis, who she thought she was and who she knew she actually is, fully reconciled and working in harmony. She couldn't help but think it was unfair caterpillars could recreate themselves in privacy, but every other creature had to undergo the transformation in front of anyone curious enough to look.

The weather soured the longer she stayed pressed against the greenhouse. Water began misting from the sky, catching in the wind and blowing harshly against her cheeks. Her toes, fingers, nose, and heart felt like ice. An hour passed, and she only looked up when the splatter of shoes breaching puddles alerted her of someone's presence. Tom towered overhead like the maple tree, dwarfing Jenny and the ferns.

She couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze, her eyes slid past him to settle on the vibrant moss on the maple tree. The green padding around the trunk had come to life under the rain, making Jenny lonesome for Wool's wishing pitifully that they'd spent the summer in London, with her own garden that she could water and tend to.

"What's happened?" Tom's voice was sharp and out of place in the soggy garden among the soft foliage.

"Nothing," her voice sounded distant, like a stranger's. It frightened her.

"Obviously, it isn't 'nothing'." There was silence, and Jenny took this moment to try forcing her eyes on him again. This time they stuck, but landed on his chin, not inching high enough to see the frown pull at his lips, but it was evident in his voice when he asked, "Have you been crying?"

This question surprised Jenny, she thought she was still crying. She shook her head no, not trusting her voice.

"Did someone do something to you?"

His anger was growing, and for Lestrange's sake, she spoke this time to put a quick end to this train of thought, "No one did anything to me." Her voice sounded hoarse like she'd been screaming, and she wouldn't have been surprised if she had, if nothing else, then to match the volume her mind was screaming at.

"Is this about me being a prefect?" His voice was patronizing now, all previous concerns evaporating from his tone.

Her eyes flashed to his, and she lied, "Yes."

It felt so long ago now, it had escaped her mind he'd been given his prefect badge only that morning. Lestrange, Tom, and Jenny had all been seated around the table eating breakfast when an owl swooped in with three envelopes tied to its leg. Jenny and Lestrange received thin identical letters, but Tom's letter was different.

Tom pulled the badge from the envelope, and the shimmering golden metal caught Lestrange's eye first, "Brilliant!"

This drew Jenny's attention from the supply list she'd been studying dully. She gasped, "Are you bloody joking?"

Tom smirked and gave a small shrug like he'd known all along he was going to be a prefect. "I just hope my duties don't keep me too busy from my extracurriculars."

With a snigger, Lestrange warned Jenny, "Better not go out after hours anymore, he can hunt you down himself now."

She rolled her eyes and poked at a sausage on her plate, skewering the middle and taking a large bite. After she swallowed, she said, "I wonder who the girl prefect is." She had hoped the bite would give her enough time to quell her frustration, but her voice wasn't as casual as she'd anticipated.

"Jealous?" Tom purred, self-satisfaction was rolling off him in waves that made her nauseous.

"No," her tone sounded too firm to lend itself to the lie.

Lestrange spoke quietly from behind his large cup of coffee, "Prefect isn't a suitable role for you, Endall. It's meant to be a protector position, something dangerous, not for the gentler sex."

He wasn't trying to make her mad, she knew this, he was only trying to keep the peace and act as the host, but her temper flared. "Dangerous? At Hogwarts?" She punctuated her words with a scornful laugh. "I don't even want to be a prefect, it's a fake title for gits to strut around with and play pretend. That being said, there are two prefects, a boy, and a girl, so the role is obviously for the 'gentler sex'—"

"Not pureblood ladies," Tom chastised, speaking over her rant.

"I wasn't talking to you," Jenny snapped, then stormed from the dining room with angry tears welling in her eyes.

It had been the last time she'd seen Tom and Lestrange that day, so it was an easy, believable lie.

"You don't need to be a prefect," Tom assured her, snapping her back to the present. "I thought it didn't impress you that much anyway."

"You're right," she stood, taking the hand Tom offered and tried to balance on her shaky legs. "It's stupid to get bent out of shape about."

He nodded noncommittally and suggested, "You should take a shower, you're filthy."

Jenny looked down and blinked unsurprised at the leaves and grass that stuck to her ankles. She agreed with a small bob of the head, the hair stuck to her cheeks moved with her.

At Wool's, there was always someone in a rush to get in the bathroom or no hot water. At Hogwarts, the bathrooms felt too communal. She relished in the private moments the Lestrange guest bathroom lent her. She turned the hot water all the way up, and steam pooled in the shower almost immediately. The water pelted her in hot beads until her fingertips turned to soft prunes.

Once out of the shower and wrapped in a thick snow-white towel, she lingered in the bathroom, standing in front of the fogged-over mirror tracing patterns. Each loop revealing a portion of face, or arm, or hair, until finally fully revealing a soggy girl, wrapped in a white towel. Jenny moved her hand to a hairbrush, and the girl copied the action. The two girls stared at each other and brushed their damp hair in silence.

The sound of bristles threading through now nearly-dry hair was interrupted when a knock echoed through the bathroom. Jenny placed the brush down, pulled her towel tighter around her body, then cracked the door open, "Yes?"

"You've been in there a while." The 'What were you doing?' Or 'Are you okay?' That would typically preface or follow the statement was left unspoken between them as Tom stared her down.

"I was merely enjoying my privacy. It's rare."

"Are you still upset about not being a prefect?"

"No, I'm upset you won't allow me to shower in private."

He rolled his eyes and pushed away from the door frame to the bathroom he'd been leaning on. "I'm still going to find time for you."

That was a concern she had before, when the day was still young. The prickly worry filled her stomach again, and it was a welcomed distraction.

"You barely saw me before, when it was just your Knights of Walpurgis club."

"But, I still managed to make time for you, and I'm a competent person, Jenny." His smugness dripped from every word.

If she didn't feel so emotionally drained, she would like to imagine her reply would have been biting and sarcastic. Instead, the words that plopped from her tongue echoed her most recent concerns. "What do you think happens when a person kills someone?" Her voice sounded numb as she forced the emotion from her face.

"Where's this question coming from?"

She stared at Tom's face, but his expression was blank, giving her nothing to work with, so she just shrugged, "I don't know, it's just something I've been wondering."

"Most people wonder what happens when they die," Tom commented, a spark of dry humor in his words.

"I guess. It's just," Jenny tried desperately to sound like she didn't care, "are they the same afterward?"

"I'd imagine so. It's not like they are altering themselves, only someone else."

"Do you think that's really it?"

It seemed unlikely, she felt like she was marred or sullied, even though she hadn't actually known until now. Similar to when you notice a scratch on a mirror or a unique freckle on someone's face for the first time, it couldn't be unseen. And like eyes automatically tracing a jagged line across the mirror face, her mind automatically traced the memory of what she had done.

She had stormed off and immediately felt childish as she quickly swiped at her teary eyes with her wrist. The manor was large with corridors that ran into each other and doubled back. Tom or Lestrange usually lead her through them, she'd tried to get her bearing, but the halls were all too uniform. The quest for the library was fruitless. In desperation, she began opening random doors and peering in, hoping to be greeted by the familiar aroma of old books and leather.

The eleventh door Jenny opened had bookcases jammed with worn, ragged books. She breathed a sigh of relief and felt a little proud that she'd found the library without help, although it was a different entrance than what she was used to, making the layout of the library a bit unfamiliar looking. It didn't occur to her that this room might not be the library until she came to a dead end. A back corner of the room had a large desk, sacked with dishes and books. The desk was facing a wall, or rather a blanket hooked to the wall where some light was streaming out from under, leading Jenny to assume a window was being concealed behind it. Hooking over the desk was a man, his hair drooping loosely to the book he was hunched over.

An audible gasp came from Jenny's parted lips as she realized this was Lestrange's father's study. Mr. Lestrange craned his neck to look at her, his eyes sunken and bruised with bags.

"I'm sorry!" Jenny stuttered out apologetically. "I thought this was the library. I'll leave."

She'd turned to flee, but his voice was soft, almost a whisper as he stopped her. "It's alright, it's alright. Ms. Endall, was it?"

"Yes, sir," she tried with wide eyes to convey she'd made an honest mistake.

"Have a seat," he pulled a wooden stool forward, the books piled on top swayed dangerously with the movement. With a quick swoop of his wand, they levitated onto the floor next to the desk.

Jenny sat beside him obediently, mumbling a quick thank you, not wanting to offend the host more than she already had.

"It's been a long time since I've had company in here," his voice was warm with fond reminiscence. Age beyond his years wrinkled his brow with thought, "You're the last of the Endall family."

It wasn't a question, but she politely smiled and nodded, throwing in a, "Unfortunately, sir."

"I knew your parents, you and your siblings too, before the fire." He shook his head, freeing himself of whatever thoughts had accompanied that sentence. "You're parents— your mother was very unconventional; she rubbed off on your father. I swear, every time I had them over for dinner or a holiday, it was like they were speaking in their own coded language. Half the conversations were unspoken between them, they left everyone else to catch up." His voice was low and ragged as he spoke about holidays, dinners, and events that he had seen and met with her parents before she even existed. For a moment, she saw a smiling, large family lingering in the blacks of his eyes and all of the lives she could've led and the moments she had lost played like a movie on a burnt roll of film.

When he changed topics, it was abrupt, and she knew what he was going to start speaking about, his voice cracked as he said, "Julia— My wife— was a fan of your parents. She always had a large heart for the eccentric types. She was heartbroken the day she found out about the fire, I was the first to tell her. I worked at the Ministry at the time. I still do."

"Heartbroken," he repeated this like he was re-centering his thoughts. "The whole situation tore her apart. The Ministry had to come down and put out the fire. Muggles didn't know what hit them. It was too strong, too powerful. They launched an investigation afterward to figure out why there was a fiendfyre. We thought someone was out to get your parents or your family. The investigation came up fruitless, whoever caused that fire didn't face their day in court, and I'm sorry about that."

"Did you ever get any leads," she choked out.

"No, no," he answered. "In the end, it was concluded to be a case of accidental magic. They figured your mum or dad likely did it in their sleep; it was too advanced for your brother or sister. A real shame."

Jenny was sitting stiff, udder horror wracked through her in small shivers down her spine as the pieces fell into place. If it had shown on her face, he didn't pay any mind as he continued speaking in the same soft, monotonous voice about the Ministry. Even with the disgust and hatred she felt towards herself, one bitter thought still surfaced at the forefront of her mind: Tom was so worried about the muggles taking her away when he should really be concerned about the Ministry. She mulled over the odds that they would lock her away if they ever realized it was her. Sure it had merely been a case of accidental magic, but it was accidental magic that killed her entire family. Then a darker thought entered her head as she remembered it wasn't accidental magic though, there were a few things she was sure about from the night she lost her parents: it was Christmas Eve, she snuck out of bed, lit the fire, and then she was sent to Wools indefinitely.

So, was it really true that she wasn't any different than someone who hadn't kill their whole family?

"Of course, Jenny," Tom huffed, starting to sound annoyed. "What's this even about?"

She could feel hot, frothy bile inching up her throat. She didn't mean to kill her family, but she had caused them to die. A part of her always thought it was just how her brain handled the survivor's guilt. Now she'd hide information about that night because this indeed was more than survivor's guilt. She was guilty.

"It's about nothing. I was just thinking out loud."

"Thinking out loud?" He repeated skeptically.

"Yes, I just wanted your opinion on it, but now I can see that it was foolish. Silly me!" She shoved him lightly, pushing the center of his chest with the hand that wasn't clutching the towel to her body. "Get out."

He regarded her with an expression of confused horror, as though he thought she'd completely lost her mind. "Jenny, I—"

"Tom Riddle, get out of this room!" She demanded again, considering for a moment if her mind had snapped under the strain of this new information.

"Not until you explain what's going on," he looked furious now. Likely because he's not used to being the one getting bossed around and pushed.

"I want to change out of this sodding towel."

He looked down, and his normally ashen face flared into a light pink as he realized for the first time that she was still wrapped in a towel from her shower. Jenny looked down too and her sternum heated to a bright red. Her blush crawled up her neck and covered her face, embarrassment donning on both of them.

Tom recovered first, his face was pale again and Jenny wondered briefly if the pink tint had merely been a reflection of color from her own skin. "Get some clothes on. This conversation isn't finished."

She slammed the door behind him and dressed quickly, shoving her arms and legs in the first article of clothing her fingers caught. Unable to bear another look into the mirror at her family's killer, she bolted from the guest wing of the manor. The only care she had was avoiding Tom, he could read her expressions so well, it was almost unnerving.

She was standing in the foyer, still utterly vexed by the layout of the house. This time, rather than wandering aimlessly, she gritted back her discomfort and called out, "Madky?"

There was a crack, and the small house-elf appeared in front of her, already plunging into a deep bow. "Madky is here, miss."

"Right," she hesitated as the house elf's bulging marbles of eyes watched her dutifully. "Er— the library." Its eyes lit up and nodded. With the small notion of encouragement, she continued more confidently, "Yes, the library, take me there."

She should have been more precise because the house-elf bounded over to her cheerfully and grabbing her wrist. "Yes, miss!"

The immediate protest she began was cut off as the elf apparated them both to the center of the library. Her stomach swirled at the suddenness, and she was grateful that the last meal she'd eaten was so long ago because the brief nausea was overwhelming.

"No, no, no," she snapped angrily, "I meant walk me here. Honestly! At any rate, a little forewarning would have been nice."

Madky whimpered a little apology, then a grand wail tore from his throat as he fled the room. "Foolish Madky, useless Madky," echoed down the hall.

"Oops," she breathed, remembering Lestrange's warning about Madky's criticism issues.

She let her fingers trail along the book spines as she skimmed them. The library was filled with heaps upon heaps of knowledge, ranging from potions to arithmancy to history. Still, her frustration grew, and she looked over the final shelving of books.

"Bloody rubbish," her foot swung out and kicked the trimming along the bottom of the bookcase. A dull thud and a shudder of dust paired the outburst.

"Looking for anything in particular?" She started at the sound of Lestrange's voice.

"I didn't realize anyone else was here. I thought you would be with Tom," her question remained unspoken as she glanced around Lestrange.

He shrugged and offered, "I think he's holed up in his room. Said not to bother him."

Jenny nodded and slid her gaze back to the spines of books. The last section she had to comb over was a Herbology section, and she knew what she wanted wasn't in there, but she pretended to look it over.

The flooring creaked as he came to stand beside her, and he mirrored her actions, staring at the books with interest. He leaned back on the balls of his feet and said, "I could help if you'll let me."

She glanced at him. The apprehension must have been evident on her face because he gave her a small smile, different from the usual arrogant ones that were customarily fixed on his lips.

"I don't know."

"It's only logical. I grew up with this library. I can save you a headache."

"Fine." She bit her lip, still unsure if her question could give her away. "I was looking for old newspaper articles or clippings."

His brow furrowed with thought, "How old?"

"From when my parent's estate was burned down," she set her shoulders and kept her voice stiff, not wanting to give any hint of emotion.

Lestrange looked a little lost in thought, "Father keeps most news articles in his study, but he should have some clipping about it. Mum was apparently torn up about your parents. I don't really remember, too young." He hesitated for a moment then said, "I could talk to him, to see if I can borrow them for you."

Her heart thudded, the last thing she needed was Mr. Lestrange to figure out what she'd done. "No, no. That's alright, I'll wait until we go back to school. Hogwarts will probably have a more complete collection anyway."

The tension on Lestrange's face visibly lessened when Jenny rejected his offer. He nodded and said halfheartedly, still playing host, "Are you sure? It's not a problem at all."

"I'm sure. Really, it's not even that long of a wait anymore."

He nodded, and they stood awkwardly in the middle of the library useless Herbology books sitting in front of them like a monument to defeat.

"Lestrange?" She began, unsure of herself.

"Yes?" He answered.

"Remember when we got mead from your dad's cellar?" He nodded, and Jenny continued, "Do you think he'd noticed if a few more bottles went missing?"

Lestrange appeared younger, as the years of polished, pureblood, discipline broke, "I don't think so."

He led them to the cellar. It was a cool, damp, dim room, with shelves of wine racks and barrels of aged beer and mead. They eventually found themselves in a stupor at the foot of a wine rack, giggling as Lestrange explained how he'd accidentally offended an uptight man at an event his mother and father had hosted years ago. Jenny took another swig of her wine bottle, feeling reminisce of a pirate and wondering briefly if building sandcastles was actually something she'd be interested in. The tangy bitter bite at the back of her throat made her mind float into the middle of a tranquil ocean. She thought for a moment about her parents- her brother- her sister, but before she could feel bad for herself, or guilty, or ashamed, her mind bobbed into a comfortable empty space, creating a small ripple and making her crave another pirate-y swig. The cycle continued until there was the telltale thud of feet along the wooden stairs to the cellar.

"Is that your father?" Jenny asked Lestrange in a panic, her voice was too loud to be a whisper, and it reverberated through the cellar, making the slur in her words more pronounced.

"Bloody hell, I don't know," Lestrange said with panic growing in his voice. His normally posh accent had melted into something thicker, almost cockney. Jenny giggled at his voice, in spite of the situation.

The hollow thud of shoes against wood transformed into a muted thump, whoever it was, was approaching quickly and was now walking on the stone flooring that lined the cellar.

"We can ask the house-elf to take us away," she looked to Lestrange for approval, but he was gathering empty bottles in a panic. "He's very good at that," she noted bitterly, remembering the house elf's surprise apparition. Then with a shudder, as that memory reminded her of even more unpleasant things from that day, she quickly brought the wine bottle up to her mouth again.

Her gulp was cut short as Lestrange plucked the bottle from her hands. She gasped and sputtered indignantly, "I'm not done with that!"

"Yes, you are."

Her heart sank when the voice that answered her wasn't Lestrange or his father, but, "Tom," Jenny began, desperately searching for an excuse.

But it wasn't her Tom was looking for answers from. His glare was lethal and only for Lestrange as he said in almost a whisper, "Explain."

There was silence. Not exactly silence. Jenny could hear bellow Lestrange's panicked stutters the sound of water plopping into some distant, hidden puddle. If she strained, she could hear the sound of a fire crackling. She desperately longed for a fireplace to warm her fingers on, the cellar was freezing.

"I said, explain. Not babble incoherently." Tom snapped, pulling Jenny's mind back from the center of her own personal ocean.

"My Lord, I'm sorry I don't know how this happened. She wanted to and I—"

"What did I say about using that in front of her."

"I— I'm sorry, m- Tom. I'm sorry, Tom."

"I asked him to let us drink a little. Stop being a git and be mad at me if you want someone to be mad at," Jenny cut in, her voice was nearing a whine.

"I am mad at you, too, but he should know better." Tom lunged forward, grabbing Jenny by the wrist and pulling her up off the floor. He released her wrist then took two calculated steps towards Lestrange and pointed an accusing finger at him, "We'll discuss this later."

"Come off it. It was just a bit of fun," she tried to sound nonchalant.

As Tom whipped around to glare at Jenny, the room spun and made her reach out for balance. Unfortunately, her hands grabbed a stool and the handle to a broom. The broom clattered to the ground quickly, leaving her off balance. She toppled the same direction the broom fell and ended up on the ground, the stool getting dragged down alongside her with a loud crash.

"Merlin," Tom groaned.

"Oops."

"Madky," Lestrange finally called.

The house-elf appeared with a crack, and it's innocent eyes widened at horror at the mess. "Yes, young master?"

"Assist Endall to bed."

"Right away." Madky pranced towards her, and she immediately began moaning in protest.

"Madky, no." Tom interjected, stepping between the house-elf and Jenny, "She won't be needing your help."

The house-elf left out a small dejected whimper, and Lestrange suggested quietly, "Why don't you help me clean up down here instead, Madky?"

Jenny stared at the house elf's tilted form as it perked up from the suggestion. Her cheek was press to the chilled floor, and she felt secure. Briefly, she wondered if this was how a caterpillar felt within a chrysalis. Hands-on her upper arms hoisted her up, her eyes snapped over to the owner of the hands, and she saw Tom, his brows furrowed with anger, and his mouth set in a discontent grimace.

He'd pulled her nearly upright, and she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, causing them both to sway from the sudden change in weight. "I'm sorry," she muttered into his neck.

"You're not the only one at fault," he said stiffly, and his hand found the small of her back, patting her in a way that would have been awkward if she was sober, but she didn't care.

She pulled away from him as quickly as she hugged him. "I'm cold," a small shiver jumped through her spine as though to emphasize her point.

Tom didn't say anything as he began towing her out of the cellar by her wrist. When they breached the door and entered the bright kitchen, she would have sworn she her him tut under his breath, "Can't even turn my back for a second."

Jenny didn't comment on this instead, she pointed towards the small fireplace in the kitchen, "Let's sit by the fire."

"There's a bigger fire going in the parlor, come along," he gave her arm a sharp tug towards a door, and she stumbled alongside him passively.

The parlor was large and had a thick rug separating old, sun-bleached couches from the marble flooring. The room glowed in orange light, and Jenny realized that it was night.

She spoke to Tom in a startled whisper, "We forgot about the blackout!"

"We don't have to worry about that here. Remember? They have a disillusionment charm around the manor. Besides, it's a muggle worry, something we won't have to think twice about when we're older."

"Mrs. Cole says that the war will be over soon, then we won't have to worry."

His voice was dark, "Mrs. Cole says a lot of things that you shouldn't take seriously."

Jenny shook her head at Tom absent-mindedly, "I think you have a problem with authority figures."

"Forgive me for not taking your words into consideration when you smell like a winery."

Silence settled between them, the crackle of the fire was the only noise that filled the parlor, and Jenny sat on the hearth dangerously close to the grate that held back dancing flames.

"I killed them."

With amusement, Tom asked, "Who?"

"My parents. My family. I killed them."

"I believe we went over this already when we first introduced ourselves," his voice was patronizing now.

"I always thought it was my fault, but it never really clicked until—" she broke off, tears thick in her throat. Swallowing back a sob, she focused her gaze on the glowing embers at the base of the flames and whispered, "Merlin, Tom, I really killed them."

"Until what?" His voice was commanding and full of suspicion now. "Does this have something to do with why I found you by the greenhouse this afternoon?"

"I went into Mr. Lestrange's study by mistake. He was there. He told me— he said—" Hot tears began burning tracks along her face.

Tom was no longer a voice seated behind her, he'd moved into a crouch next to her, "What did he say?"

"The Ministry had to put out the fire. It was a fiendfyre. They launched an investigation and couldn't find anyone. What if one day they figure out it was me?"

"How do you know it was you?"

"I thought it was just a dream or something like survivors guilt manifesting itself in a weird way, but I lit the candles on the Christmas tree."

"I don't—"

Jenny cut off Tom's dismissal, "It was Christmas Eve, no one else would have lit them. How else would an out of control fire start? From a fireplace? I've been sitting on this hearth for how long? The fire has popped at least a dozen times, and not a single ember has touched me. My parent's manor would've had enchanted fireplaces too. What did you say earlier, the blackout is a muggle worry. I bet if we ask any wizard, they would agree a house fire is a muggle worry!" Sobriety was crashing down on her as the panic began to mount.

"Maybe it was you. So what."

"So what?" Her panic was replaced with confusion, and she felt nauseous.

"My being born killed my mother. Maybe it's just in our nature."

She liked that. Tom grouping them together. It felt like so long since they had been considered as a whole. A unit. Ever since they got older, there was always something dividing them: him being a prefect, her being a lady, them both being different, yet Tom still being more special than her.

"In our nature," she echoed sounding like a hollow cavernous cave spitting words back out without thought.

He must've taken this as confirmation that she agreed, because he patted her arm and suggested, "Will you get off the floor now?"

She nodded dumbly, because what else was there to do. "I feel ill."

"You should. You drank too much."

She wanted to disagree, say that it wasn't the wine, but she nodded again like she'd become possessed by an agreeable ghost.

He walked them to the guest wing, with Jenny clinging to his arm like a lifeline. Opening the door to her bedroom, he watched as she crawled into bed, still wearing her day clothes. Before he pulled the door closed, he said, "Oh, and Jenny?"

There was a sleepy hum, to show she was listening.

"Let's keep this between you and me."

She wasn't sure if he meant the drinking or her past, but either way, she answered with a soft, "Okay."

AN: Howdy folks! It's been a second since the last update. I've had this is written for a while, but only now got around to getting it edited. My absence this month is due to Nanowrimo, this fanfiction was placed on a back burner temporarily while I worked on that. My nanowrimo this year a Twilight mafia AU fanfiction that will start getting published sometime in January or February (depending on how long the editing gets delayed).

This fanfiction will resume its normal bi-weekly update schedule on either Dec 6th or 20th (depending on life)