A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 23: The Long Summer

"Eat," he said one morning, his voice soft but unyielding. "I'll not have you wasting away under my roof."

Her fork hesitated mid-air. She swallowed her instinctive defiance and forced herself to take a bite.

After breakfast, Tom left for the Ministry, and she was left alone in the vast, echoing halls of the estate. The hours dragged endlessly. She would wander the library, her fingers trailing along the spines of ancient tomes filled with dark magic. Sometimes she tried to read, hoping to lose herself in the dense, archaic language. But the words blurred together, meaningless against the cacophony in her mind.

Occasionally, Tom's followers would visit. Their presence seeped into the house like poison, their laughter echoing down the corridors, low and conspiratorial. Anastasia avoided them whenever possible, retreating to her room or the furthest reaches of the house. But the weight of their presence was suffocating, a constant reminder of the world she had tethered herself to.

The nights were the worst. After dinner, Tom would accompany her to her quarters, his demeanour calm but his intent unmistakable. He would sit beside her on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing her arm or resting lightly on her waist. His gaze never wavered, and when he kissed her, it was always with the same mix of control and possession that left her feeling like a chess piece, moved expertly into place.

Some nights, he stayed. She would lie stiffly beside him, staring at the ceiling as his presence filled the room like a physical weight. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself anywhere else, but even her dreams offered no reprieve.

One august night, she was jolted awake by the echoes of curdled screams. They were sharp, raw, inhuman sounds that made her blood run cold. At first, she tried to ignore them, burying herself under the blankets as though that might block out the noise. But curiosity—and a growing sense of dread—got the better of her.

She crept down the corridor, her bare feet silent on the cold marble floors. The screams grew louder as she approached the drawing room, her heart pounding with each step. She stopped outside the door, pressing herself against the wall as she peered through the crack.

Inside, Tom stood at the centre of the room, his wand raised, his expression serene. Around him, his followers watched with rapt attention, their faces alight with a sickening mix of awe and sadistic pleasure.

On the floor, a young man writhed in agony, his body convulsing under the weight of the Cruciatus Curse.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat.

The smell of blood hung thick in the air.

It should have made her stomach churn.

Instead, a strange, involuntary shiver ran through her, something curling deep within her chest, something she couldn't quite place.

Her hands clenched at her sides.

She wasn't horrified—she had long since learned to stomach violence.

But this—this was different.

It wasn't war, it wasn't self-defense, it wasn't even necessary.

It was entertainment.

The man's choked screams, the laughter that rippled through the room, the way Tom stood so still, so composed, barely exerting any effort at all—it was nothing but a show.

Anastasia had seen Tom Riddle do many things.

She had never seen this.

Her stomach twisted. She had to leave.