Chapter 1
Tom Riddle had always believed in superiority—his own above all, but also that of his blood, his lineage, his skin color. People of color did not fit his vision of perfection—they were imperfections, thus he had scorned them all.
Until her.
Hari Potter was everything he had never wanted to need. She had a bleeding heart of kindness, a strength that shone through every gentle gesture. It was something beautiful. Yet something terrifying.
He found himself captivated by the way her laughter echoed in rooms, how it seeped into the cracks of his carefully constructed walls. Her heart, so open and giving, was a thing of beauty—a mesmerizing, unbearable beauty. It was intoxicating, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. And yet, it was infuriating.
She disrupted his world—a world of perfect order—infusing it with a yearning he never wanted, an ache he didn’t recognize. He had spent his life avoiding weakness, stamping out desire, and yet he found himself wanting. Wanting her. Wanting her love.
It was intoxicating. It was infuriating. And before he even realized it, his world—so stark, so colorless—was bleeding into something new. Something terrifying. Something beautiful.
But love, if one could call it that, did not erase the past. It did not erase the years of hate, the prejudice he had built his life upon. And when that past came crashing back, it did so with a protest. One he had worked day and night for—a manifestation of his own darkness, roaring through the streets.
Tom had never been afraid before. But as the streets filled with voices—angry, desperate, demanding change—he felt Hari slipping away, her fingers loosening from his grasp.
Just as he had planned, just as he had always wanted, they were gone. People like Hari—they fled the country, driven away by the very forces he had unleashed. He had won.
And yet, why did it feel like he had lost?
Because with them, with her, a part of himself had been taken away. A part he hadn't realized he had given.
A part that left his world dull, empty, colorless once more.
…
Three months ago…
Had you told Tom Riddle that he would one day fall in love with a beautiful brown woman, he would have scoffed.
To him, beautiful and brown did not belong in the same sentence.
Not until he met her.
The night was chilly, the air crisp with the biting cold of an unforgiving city. His vision blurred as he stumbled, his body weak, his limbs trembling. He was running on low sugar—he had been stupid enough to forget to eat throughout the whole day, and now, it was coming back to bite him.
People passed him by without a second glance.
Tom Riddle—brilliant, handsome, untouchable—was leaned over on the pavement, quite frankly dying, but no one seemed to care.
Not on his bad day.
But she had.
Hari Potter.
She had a bleeding heart of kindness, something soft yet unyielding. She leaned down, her small figure hovering over him, warmth radiating from her even in the cold night air.
“Are you okay?”
Her voice was steady, but there was a sincerity in it—a genuine concern that made his skin prickle.
Three months ago, Tom had been stupid.
He had scoffed at the beautifully crafted accent that Hari’s voice carried so naturally.
Three months ago, he hadn’t realized that voice would soon become the very thing he was dying to hear again.
Back then, Hari had been oblivious to his ridicule.
She offered him her hand when he didn’t take it. Her frown deepened slightly.
Muttering something in a strange language, her words swirled around him, a melody he couldn’t understand. At that moment, he thought nothing more than "stupid immigrants," dismissing her even more. But now, after these three months, Tom would have stopped dead in his tracks just to savor the sound of Hari’s beautiful voice in Hindi.
As Tom continued to grovel on the dirty pavement, left in ruins after the war, Hari had stilled herself and gently pulled him up by the shoulder.
At that moment, Tom lost himself in the scent of Jasmine that radiated off the curve of her neck, so subtle yet comforting, drawing him in like he’d never experienced before.
“Do you need medication?” She asked, her English a bit off, but her concern unwavering. Despite the language barrier, there was a tenderness in her voice that he couldn’t ignore.
Frustrated, she poked him in the chest, pulling him out of his haze of stupidity.
“What?” Tom snapped, annoyed at the interruption.
“Your medication? Where?” she asked again, her eyes glittering with worry and pinched at the edge.
Tom let out an exasperated sigh, realizing how pitiful he must have looked. “I’m just running low on sugar,” he muttered, feeling a surge of frustration. “I need sugar—sweet stuff, chocolate, candy, anything.”
“You need sugar?”
Tom, even more annoyed, nodded sharply. “Yes. I need sugar.”
She blinked at him in confusion before responding in her broken English. “It’s at home. Sugar.”
Tom furrowed his eyebrows.Stupid immigrant, he rumbled in his head over and over again.
“Come home,” she said, offering a hand once more, her voice soft yet insistent.
“No! Are you insane? Let me go!” Tom snapped, struggling weakly against the hold of her soft firm hand, his body trembling as exhaustion took over. His mind was clouded, frustration rising as he realized just how much he needed rest, yet the girl in front of him seemed to be making everything worse.
“Are you feeling sicker?” she asked again, her concern deepening, her eyes wide with worry as she took a step closer to him.
“Let me go!” he repeated, his voice hoarse, nearly stumbling as the world swayed around him. His body felt like it was going to give up on the soft body he was leaning against.
“You got sicker,” she exclaimed, her voice high with concern, her hand still on his shoulder, steadying him.
“You have to come home,” she insisted, her voice almost pleading now.
“No, how many times do I have to tell you—you stupi—”
But then, just as the words were about to leave his lips, he looked up.
He was face to face with her, and in that moment, everything else seemed to fade away. Her face, bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight, appeared so perfect, so serene, that for a brief moment, Tom forgot his anger and the frustration of his body’s rebellion.
Her eyes held him captive, soft yet unyielding, her expression a mixture of concern and something else—something he couldn’t quite place. The moonlight cast a silver sheen on her features, making her look otherworldly, as if she belonged to a place far beyond his reach.
And in that moment, all the harsh words he’d planned to say,disappeared.
In a fit of utter stupidity, he found himself agreeing.