A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 23: The Long Summer

Anastasia arched a brow. "And you're not?"

"Of course I am," he said smoothly. "Even I know when it's wise to play by the rules."

Regulus snorted softly, but he didn't join in the banter. He seemed more preoccupied with the thought of summer, his gaze distant and troubled.

"Regulus," Anastasia said softly, her voice pulling him back. "What's wrong?"

He hesitated, glancing at Lucius before lowering his voice. "Nothing. Just... not looking forward to the usual."

Anastasia understood immediately. The pressures, the expectations, the constant scrutiny—they loomed over all of them like a storm cloud, but for Regulus, they seemed even heavier. She gave his knee a gentle squeeze before withdrawing her hand.

The rest of the ride passed in relative silence, save for the occasional remark from Lucius or the faint hum of the train beneath them. Anastasia's thoughts drifted again and again to the platform waiting at the other end of the line. She could picture it vividly—the gleaming black carriages, the sharp suit, and the figure who would be standing there, waiting with that ever-calm, ever-calculated smile.

Her hands clenched briefly in her lap before she forced herself to relax, her expression remaining cool and composed. Whatever awaited her at King's Cross, she would face it, just as she always did.

As the train began to slow, the bustling noise of the station growing louder, Lucius stood and adjusted his robes. "Well," he said, his tone light but edged with finality, "here we go. Another summer, another gauntlet."

Regulus glanced at Anastasia, his expression almost apologetic. "Will you be alright?" he asked quietly.

She gave him a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course," she replied smoothly. "Always."

But as the train pulled into the station, and she caught sight of the tall, imposing figure waiting just beyond the crowd, her stomach twisted.

Tom Riddle was waiting.

***

The Riddle Estate loomed like a spectre over the countryside, its towering facade unyielding and cold against the green of the hills. Anastasia Gaunt had known the weight of her engagement would be oppressive, but living under its shadow proved heavier than even her darkest imaginings. The estate was grand, immaculate, and filled with the kind of silence that made every sound—her heels on the marble floors, the faint rustle of the heavy drapes—feel intrusive. It was a silence that swallowed her whole.

Each morning began with the same oppressive rhythm. A house-elf appeared in her quarters at the first light of dawn, laying out her robes and preparing the room for her day. She rose mechanically, her movements measured as though conserving energy for an unseen battle. Her steps down the grand staircase echoed ominously in the empty house, and when she reached the dining room, Tom was always waiting for her.

He sat at the head of the table, his posture perfect, his dark eyes scanning letters and documents as though nothing in the world could possibly disrupt his focus. His greetings were polite, his words smooth, as though they were any other couple having breakfast in a stately home.

"Good morning, my dear," he would say, folding a parchment with care.

"Good morning," she would reply, her voice devoid of any emotion, knowing he preferred it that way.

Breakfasts were quiet, suffocatingly so. Tom would sip his tea and occasionally glance at her, his gaze sharp and assessing. She barely touched her plate, her stomach too heavy with dread to eat.