________

August 1944

The library in the Grays' summer estate was a place of quiet and secret, a refuge for the strange and forbidden. The room, despite the August heat, remained cool, its towering bookshelves casting long shadows over the polished wood floors. In the light that passed through the high windows, dust motes danced lazily under the weight of long-lost knowledge and the heaviness of time.

Keira Gray often considered this room a reflection of herself: dark, quiet, and far too full of secrets.

She lounged by the window, her long legs stretched out, a book lying open but unread on her lap. Her gaze, however, was elsewhere. Across from her, Tom Riddle sat hunched at the central table, his fingers tracing over the edges of a fragile piece of parchment as though it were a religious scripture. The flames of the fireplace touched his pointed features, making the lines of his cheekbones hollow and deepening the shadows beneath his long lashes.

He looked otherworldly in moments like these; unreal, as if he were something summoned rather than born.

Tom's eyes, dark and unpenetrable, flicked over the pages rapidly, absorbing, swallowing it whole. Keira had always been fascinated by the way Tom read as if he weren't merely studying the words but breaking them apart, twisting them, bending them into something entirely his own. His expression was calm, almost serene; but there was a restless energy about him.

Six years had passed since their first encounter on the Hogwarts Express, and from the first moment Keira had known Tom was different; he was not just intelligent, but calculating, and driven in ways that set him apart from everyone else; They had been drawn to each other, a perfect match, two shattered pieces, both outsiders, burdened by a darkness they didn't fully understand. And Tom's darkness had grown deeper, over the years, consuming him in ways Keira couldn't ignore.

It had been three years since Tom had begun spending his summers here, avoiding the orphanage he detested. At first, it had been thrilling. Poring over old texts in this very room, uncovering forgotten knowledge in the darkest corners of the wizarding world. But then he had found the book.

An unpretentious, simple book, tucked away on the highest shelf and waiting.

A book on immortality. On Horcruxes.

Keira remembered the way his expression had shifted after reading it, not excitement, not curiosity, but something colder, something hungrier. His ambition, once just a quiet, burning ember, had become something else entirely, something sharp, something terrifying.

And she had let him.

Keira was not the hero of her own story, and she knew it; she had seen the storm brewing within Tom for years, and instead of turning away, she had stayed, not because she agreed with him, not at all.

It was simply because she hadn't cared enough to stop him.

She had always been too detached, too selfish to get involved in the chaos of the outside world, Grindelwald's war wasn't interesting to her, the Wizarding world's politics were tedious. And as for Tom's dark ambitions?

She had chosen to stand by and watch, fascinated, as though watching a flame quickly consume everything in its path.

And now, now he was something else. He was colder, more distant, more dangerous.

And she had failed to stop him.

The sound of a turning page broke the silence.

"You're awfully quiet today," Tom said suddenly, in a smooth, measured tone, with perfect control over every word. He didn't look up from his book.

"I'm always quiet," she replied, her tone light but laced with sarcasm, "my most endearing quality."

Tom's lips curved, but it wasn't a smile, just the ghost of a smile.

"That and your unparalleled ability to criticize my reading tastes." he said in measured tones.

Keira leaned her back against the window and chuckled softly "It's not every day, that someone claims my library as his own."

"Our library," he corrected, finally looking up.

His gaze met hers, steady, unreadable; he seemed to be tearing apart her thoughts piece by piece. There was a challenge in his eyes; he was silently daring her to keep up and go on.

That was the thing with Tom. He didn't ask for loyalty, for devotion. He demanded it. Neither with rhetoric nor with power, but with a simple, unshakeable conviction.

Keira broke the stare first, and her eyes turned to the window, surveying the grounds below. The estate stretched endlessly beyond the window, the well-trimmed lawns gleaming under the summer sun, but past them, the thick forest formed a grim border, dark and untamed.

It was beautiful, but oppressive.

Much like Tom Riddle himself.

She had never loved the magical world. Not in the way she was supposed to.

Magic itself had never been the problem.

With her first spell, she had felt an intoxicating thrill, an uncontainable awe as the power surged through her wand. Her love for magic had been true, complete, ravenous. She had spent hours in the Gray library, absorbing every scrap of knowledge she could find there, fascinated by forgotten magic, fascinated (perhaps a little too much) by the darker arts.

Magic, in all its forms, was a boundless force, beautiful, dangerous, untamed.

It was freedom.

But then, the world that had grown up around it; the traditions of the pure blood society, the rigid hierarchy, the suffocating expectations?

That was a cage.

The social code of the pure blood demanded obedience: to be a good daughter, to be a perfect Gray, to marry well, to bring forth another generation of heirs.

Keira had never been good at following rules.

She had never cared about bloodline and alliances and the wearisome game of social climb. She could not stand her peers, the children of other pure-blood families who seemed to revel in their own narrow-minded arrogance, wearing their high bloodline like armor, using it as a shield to bar anything and everything that didn't fit their carefully groomed image.

They all wanted power, but their view of power was limited and petty. Tom understood and that was why she had stayed with him, because he saw the world as it was, cracked and broken and ripe for the taking.

But Tom wasn't the only one who had ever made her feel seen.

Owen.

The only time Keira had ever truly felt free was with her childhood friend, Owen, because he was a Muggle and therefore completely ignorant of her world.

She didn't have to pretend; she didn't have to carry the burden of her name, the weight of expectations.

He didn't care about family legacies or pure-blood customs. He cared about her, and only her.

Keira, not the heir to the Gray line, not the girl shrouded in shadows and secrets.

Just Keira.

He had been her escape, her anchor in a world where nothing was predetermined.

While children in her world were being taught ambition and manipulation, he had taught her something simpler: laughter and freedom, the joy of chasing fireflies in the summer dusk.

Tom was control, and Owen was possibility.

And she had loved them both in different ways.

One she had been drawn to like a moth to a flame, dangerous, hypnotic, all-consuming; the other, she had clung to like a lifeline.

She had never told him the truth about her world. It was not just the law of secrecy that prevented her; it was fear that he would look at her differently. She could not bear the thought of losing the only pure and untainted connection with which she had been blessed; therefore, she kept her secret.

Owen was her secret, her escape, and Tom loathed him for it.

"You're thinking of him," Tom said, a bitter sound that cut through her thoughts like a knife. Keira looked back at him, maintaining a neutral expression. "Am I not allowed to think?"

Tom's gaze darkened, his jaw tightening. "I don't see the appeal. He's a Muggle. Weak. Ignorant. Why waste your time on someone like that?"

"Not all of us have to be useful, Tom," she said softly. She saw that he did not reply, but the look in his eyes said enough. To Tom, weakness was beyond comprehension; he forgave none of it; and to him, Owen's life seemed to be nothing more than a nuisance.

Her eyes lingered over the untouched book, in her lap, the ornate script faded to an indistinct plait of lines. And now her eyes rested on the tattered words, the cumbrous written pages breaking to confused fragments of anguish.

She closed her eyes, and in a moment the memory of him, his honest laughing smile, his kind, sunny eyes, drove her back to the past.

~

It was one of those glorious summer afternoons, an endless afternoon that smelled of fresh grass and sun-warmed earth. Keira and Owen sat on the slope of the river bank, their fingers dangling in the cool water, and he asked his first question.

"Do you think they'll notice if I'm staying here forever?" asked Owen, his voice muffled against the soft moss, and Keira turned to look at him, her ash blonde hair fanning against the earth like a halo. "Who's they?"

"My parents. School. Anyone who wants me to grow up and stop being..." And he gestured, with a sheepish grin "Me."

Keira chuckled softly, though the sound held an edge of bitterness. "Growing up's overrated," she said, her gaze drifting to the leaves above them. "It just means doing things you don't want to do and pretending to be someone you're not."

"It sounds as though you're speaking from experience." And, leaning on one elbow, Owen studied her. "What kind of things don't you want to do?" he pressed in a light but curious tone.

Keira hesitated, her fingers plucking the grass beside her, unable to tell him the truth, not about the rigid expectations of her pureblood family, not about the legacy of dark magic that hung like a curse over her. "You wouldn't understand," she said quietly, "It's complicated."

They were silent for a while, and the sound of the stream filled the space between them; Keira's chest was tight, as she looked at him, so unburdened, so free in ways she would never be; he did not have to bear the burden of secrets, of a family legacy steeped in shadows, he knew not what it was like to be haunted by expectations that seemed impossible to escape. 'You're lucky,' she said softly, breaking the silence.

"Lucky?" Owen gave her a quizzical look. "Me?"

"Yes, you," replied Keira, turning on her side to face him. "You don't have to live up to anything. You just ... get to be you."

"I wouldn't call 'just me' all that lucky," said Owen, snorting. "My dad thinks I'm lazy, my teachers think I daydream too much, and my mother thinks I need to take life more seriously."

Keira shook her head, and her smile became sadder: "But you don't have to pretend. You don't have to hide who you are."

Owen tilted his head, his brown eyes searching hers. "And you do?"

She stopped for a moment. And for a moment, she considered telling him about her family, everything, but the thought of seeing his face change, of seeing that carefree smile of his fade into fear or disbelief, was enough to stop her. "Sometimes," she answered, barely above a whisper. "But not with you."

"Good. Because whatever you are, whatever you're hiding, I would still choose you as my best friend." He softened his gaze and reached out for her hand, in the power of his touch she found a firmness of presence.

Keira swallowed the lump in her throat, squeezing his hand in return. "Thanks, Owen."

"At all times," said he with a smile, "but come on now, let's go to the stream, before you get a little too sentimental." Keira's laugh squeezed his hand back; and she gave him a playful push, and they both started to run to the water's edge, like children who think the summer will never end.

~

There was a dense, electric hum in the air. The forest around them was dense and quiet, and the trees loomed in long shadows under the moonlight. The sun had long since set, and now there was nothing but the flickering glow of spells to illuminate the clearing where Keira and Tom stood, with their wands raised.

Keira exhaled slowly, watching as dark energy coiled at the tip of Tom's wand, twisting unnaturally and dissolving into the night like smoke. He had discovered the spell earlier that afternoon, hidden away in one of her family's oldest tomes, it was a piece of ancient, intricate magic, not the sort of thing most wizards would dare to attempt. But Tom Riddle wasn't like most wizards.

He twisted his wrist with ease, and the spell appeared again, black tentacles reaching out like unseen hands before disappearing into the night. It was hypnotic.

Tom wielded magic like an extension of himself, raw, measured, and controlled at the same time. The precision, the effortlessness, the silent certainty of his every movement, it was impossible not to be captivated by it. He didn't just cast spells, he commanded them.

Keira had always loved magic. The raw power of it, how it could bend reality, achieve the impossible. But the world around magic, its rigid laws, the suffocating expectations of pureblood society—all this had left her disillusioned. Magic was meant to be liberating; yet all she had known of it had been a cage.

But Tom had never accepted limits. He never saw barriers, but obstacles to be broken through; and as she watched him now, dangerous, untamed, she felt something darkly exhilarating flicker in her chest.

Admiration. And unease.

He lowered his wand and then turned to her, with his dark eyes reflecting the moonlight.

"Now it's your turn," he said smoothly, stepping aside for her to take his place. Keira hesitated, but her fingers clutched her wand.

"What does it do?" she asked evenly, albeit with a hint of doubt in her voice.

Tom raised his head slightly, and his lips curled into a half-amused, half-calculating smile.

"You will see." These words were no reassurance, they were a challenge. Keira swallowed. She was not a girl to shy from a challenge, but something about this spell, about Tom tonight, made her hesitate.

And then, before she could lift her wand, a rustling in the trees shattered the moment.

She turns around sharply, and Owen came into sight.

Keira's heart pounded in her chest as Tom turned slowly and deliberately toward Owen. The dark light of his spell still lingered like a shadow in the clearing, dispersing in the night.

Owen froze at the edge of the forest, his gaze shifting back and forth between them, confusion rapidly shifting to terror. The air around them felt charged, as if the forest itself had a presentiment that something unnatural was about to happen. The sight of Tom, his wand lifted, the remnants of dark magic curling at his fingertips, was a sight which he could not understand, but instinctively feared.

"Keira," Owen said, his voice uncertain "what's going on? What are you doing here? Who is he?"

Keira took a hasty step forward, in the midst of a rising panic. "Owen, you shouldn't be here," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "you have to go, immediately."

But he didn't move; his eyes fell on the strange, lingering energy, still twisting around Tom's wand, and something in his expression changed. Now his voice was harsh and nervous: "Keira, who is this?" he asked, in a higher and more desperate tone: "What ... what the hell is this?"

"It's not what you think. Just go. Please." Keira swallowed hard.

Tom, exhaled hard, amused but impatient, and moved forward with a slow, predatory step, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "Your little friend has stumbled into something far beyond his understanding," he said in a conversational, almost pitying tone, "And that's a problem, isn't it? He's seen too much."

His eyes flickered over the young man, and in that moment Keira saw that same cold, dismissive look he gave to anything he considered beneath him. Tom didn't see a person in Owen, but an obstacle.

Keira had always known that Tom despised weakness. It was something he could never abide, never tolerate. But with Owen, it had always been different, it has been personal. Ever since they were children, Tom had loathed the fact that she even wanted to know him, to laugh with him, to care about him. It annoyed Tom, left him puzzled in a way that even he couldn't grasp. Owen was nothing, a Muggle, insignificant; so why had she always let him matter?

However, the idea of Keira wasting away (his Keira) her potential on this feeble, frail waste of a man, was unacceptable.

Muggles were beneath him. But Owen? Owen was worse.

He had tethered her to weakness, to something outside the power that was to be hers, if only she would let go. She belonged to a greater cause. She belonged to him. He had given her time and years to see, but the moment had come to sever the final ties.

Keira had also sensed the change in him; her stomach twisted. "Tom," she said, firmly, stepping in his path, "he knows nothing; he's no danger to you."

Tom tipped his head slightly, observing her with a vague amusement. "Not a threat?" he repeated softly, in a low, almost gentle voice, and then his voice dropped and ice entered into his tone. "Weakness is always a threat. It lingers, rots, grows, and eventually consumes everything it touches."

She clenched her fists. "He's not weak," she snapped. "He's kind. He's good, something you'll never understand."

There was something sharp and cold in Tom's expression. He took another step forward.

"I understand perfectly well," he murmured, "I understand that you waste too much of yourself on trivial things," His eyes darted back to Owen, his lips just smirking "and I understand that you will not see the truth unless I force you."

"Tom..." Keira's pulse was beating against her ribs.

He was already there before she could react.

"No!" Keira cried, and she reached for her wand.

But it was already too late.

Tom's spell struck him before she could stop it. A black surge of light rushed from the tip of his wand and enveloped him in an instant. He drew a short breath, then fell into the grass, lifeless.

Silence.

The night itself seemed to recoil, swallowing the clearing in eerie stillness. Too still, too quiet. Keira's knees hit the ground beside the body of the dead man, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared at him, motionless.

The realization crashed down on her all at once, knocking the breath from her lungs.

She barely registered her own whisper. "You've killed him." The words wavered, breaking apart. "You've killed him!"

Tom stood over them, his face unreadable. "That wasn't supposed to happen." he said, as though he had weighed her words, his face was blank, but his voice was unfailingly smooth. It was just as if discussing an unfortunate mistake or a minor inconvenience rather than the loss of a life.

Her fingers clenched into fists, her head snapped up, and her pale green eyes burned with rage.

'"Not supposed to happen?" she repeated, in a