Chapter 2
It had been approximately twenty-three minutes since Tom Riddle was, for lack of a better term, kidnapped.
Four hellish minutes spent being dragged into a too-small, too-warm home belonging to the immigrant girl.
Six minutes watching her move about her kitchen, humming softly as she stirred something on the stove. Her waist was shorter than that of a British woman, yet the way it moved—fluid, deliberate—was distracting. Irritating.
And thirteen minutes of forcing down a bowl of sweet, milky noodles while trying to appear polite. The taste lingered on his tongue—soft, cloying, unwelcome.
Now, in the present—
“How is it?” The immigrant girl asked now sat across from him, eyes alight with anticipation.
“It’s sweet,” Tom said flatly, swallowing the strange dish that looked like spaghetti but tasted nothing like it.
“It is?” she asked, laughter in her voice, dimples deepening with her widening smile.
Tom should have known then. That smile—so full of mischief, so utterly hers—was dangerous. The kind of smile that led men down paths they were never meant to take. He should have stood up, should have left before he forgot himself. Before he forgot what he was supposed to stand for.
“It’s meethi seviyan,” she said proudly. “I made it myself.”
There was something almost reverent in the way she said it, as if the dish wasn’t just food but a piece of herself, carefully prepared and placed before him with unspoken trust.
Tom sat still, watching her. Her small frame, despite the tired slump of her shoulders, held an effortless grace—chest subtly pushed forward, as if she refused to be diminished. His gaze flickered downward. There was something infuriating about the way she carried herself, as if unaware of her status as an immigrant.
The dim lighting softened the sharp angles of her face, casting shadows that traced the slope of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone—then lower, to the gentle rise and fall of her chest. His breath hitched, just for a second, before he forced himself to look away. It was disgusting,she was disgusting. Her skin was a nasty dirty brown,and her clothes absurd.
And yet, somehow, she made it difficult to look away.
He should have looked away sooner.
A sudden knock at the door shattered the stillness. The rhythmic rapping sent a jolt through the room.
The dirty colored girl was on her feet in an instant, disappearing into the narrow hallway. Tom remained seated, something missing curling in his stomach.
Then she returned, but she was no longer alone.
Tom stiffened instinctively, fingers tightening around the edge of the table as two figures stepped inside. The resemblance was undeniable. The man and woman—her parents, undoubtedly—moved with the same quiet grace as the immigrant girl. Their features were carved from the same sharp lines and warm hues.Dirty hues.
Her father was a presence in the room, his posture firm, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—deep brown, warm—betrayed his scrutiny. He looked like a man who knew how to be happy, the creases near his eyes forming faint half-moons, smile lines cutting deep into his clean-shaven face. To Tom, he looked ridiculous.
Beside him, her mother carried herself with quiet dignity. And Tom didn’t know what ghost had possessed him to describe an immigrant woman as having dignity, but as her gaze flickered between him and Hari—lingering on the space between them—Tom felt his usual spite momentarily buried beneath something else.
The girl, who had been so full of mischievous energy just moments ago, seemed to shrink under their presence. Her shoulders tensed, fingers curling into themselves as if guilty.
“Ammi, Baba,” she greeted softly, reaching for her father’s elbow.
Tom felt unwelcome.
He shouldn’t feel that way. They were the ones occupying his land, his birth-given right.
And yet, here in a house that smelled of spice and warmth, with the lingering sweetness of seviyan still on his tongue, Tom found his words lodged in his throat.
Her father spoke first. “And who is this?” His voice was firm but not unkind, though there was an unmistakable edge of caution.
Hari hesitated. When she turned to Tom, there was a flicker of panic in her movements—hesitation. Of course, Tom thought with irritation. The stupid girl didn’t even know his name. She had dragged him into her home without so much as a question, placed sugar in a plate of milk before him, and now looked as if she had made a terrible mistake.
Silence stretched between them. Thick. Heavy.
A familiar headache throbbed at his temples, his limbs heavy once more. But Tom was always in control of a room.
Slowly, he rose from his seat, stretching out a hand toward the father of the stupid girl. Simple. Polite.
“Tom Riddle,” he said smoothly. “Head of the publishing article house.”
Recognition flickered across the man’s face. His head tilted slightly at the name.
“Lord Riddle.” The greeting was cautious, measured. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Then a pause. A hesitation.
“Is something the matter?” The father’s eyes sharpened slightly. “That you’ve come to visit us?”
Tom shifted his gaze to Hari, who stood stiffly, her expression an uneasy mix of guilt and regret. She knew exactly what she had done.
Tom exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
He knew better than to associate with low-lives.