A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 41: Dancing with the Devil

Chapter 41: Dancing with the Devil

Tom Riddle prided himself on his ability to see through people.

He could unravel a lie in seconds, trace deception through the flicker of an eyelash, the twitch of a mouth. He had spent years studying power—not just in books, not just in magic, but in people. In the way they moved, spoke, felt.

But Anastasia Gaunt had always been an enigma.

She had followed. Obeyed. Played her role to near perfection.

She was poised, calculating, distant. Unshakable in a way that both intrigued and infuriated him. She was unlike her family, her own peers—those who fawned, who sought his favour with eager, desperate eyes, who mistook admiration for loyalty. Anastasia did not worship at his feet, did not seek to impress him with flattery or blind devotion. She had never looked at him with subservience, nor with the foolish awe of those too weak to comprehend him.

She was too controlled to let it slip entirely—but Tom was no fool. For all her grace, for all her perfect composure, he had seen it.

A flicker of annoyance when he made a spectacle of his power. The faintest press of her lips when his methods veered toward cruelty rather than precision. A moment—so quick, so subtle—when hesitation had crossed her features.

He had watched her closely since the day she was placed before him like an offering, another product of the Black's careful, foolish ambitions. He had known her since they were only children, since she had sat across from him at long, stifling dinners, her expression schooled into a mask of cold politeness. She had always been measured, careful with her words. Always watching.

But he had seen her.

He had seen the way her fingers twitched slightly when forced into obedience, how she spoke only when necessary, how she calculated the weight of every word before she let it pass her lips. He had seen the way she carried herself at Hogwarts—detached, untouchable, the perfect image of a Slytherin. But he had also seen the way she pulled away when her housemates spoke of bloodshed with too much enthusiasm. How, despite her reserved nature, she had never truly surrounded herself with his followers.

He had seen her, even when she had convinced herself she was unreadable.

And now, this.

Her touch was light, absent-minded, as if she had done this a hundred times before, as if it were natural—but Tom knew better.

She was always too careful around him. Too calculating. And he enjoyed it. There was something deeply satisfying about knowing she never moved without reason, that every glance, every word, every touch was measured.

A deliberate choice.

Because wasn't that proof that they were the same?

That beneath all her resistance, beneath all the soft-spoken defiance and barely concealed reluctance, she understood him in a way no one else did?

She saw the world as he did—an endless game of positioning, of power shifting hands, of careful manoeuvring to ensure survival.

Even with him—especially with him—she never let herself be thoughtless.

But now, he felt the way her fingers traced along his collarbone, slow and unhurried, her touch featherlight. The way she let herself linger against him without any clear purpose.

Like it was real.

Like she meant it.

He could sense it—his own mind shifting, adjusting, trying to place this, to define it.