Salazar had never asked for the burden that Godric, now deceased, had placed on him. He was angry, though not rightly so. And why had he agreed to protect his friend's wife and child? She wasn't pure-blood or half-blood; she was a vile Mudblood. His deep-rooted biases surfaced every time he looked at her with his frosty grey eyes.

"Why do you grace me with your kindness?"

She remained silent, lulling the red-haired little boy in her arms, her gaze fixed on him with a questioning expression. He should have consigned that filthy witch to the flames; however, there she stood before him, with this brat in her arms, haunting his sight.

"Thou shouldst despise me, not extend kindness," he croaked. He tried to look away from her face but found himself captivated by her doe-like eyes.

His eyes carefully watch her every move, fascinated as her soft curls gently reveal her porcelain skin. A funny feeling tingles in his lower back, and he wants to touch her velvety skin. But he stops himself from acting on this forbidden craving, knowing she isn't his to claim, even as his heart races in his chest like a caged dragon. He feels the urge to hug her as his passion grows stronger with every beat of his mad heart. He yearns for her, wanting to pepper her with kisses and praise. This realization equally excites and horrifies him.

How could he have feelings for a Muggle-born witch? Is this some twisted form of divine retribution? Why doesn't he just keep his mouth shut and spare himself this agony? It drives him up the wall.

Salazar's eyes trace the path of her glossy curls as they cascade over her sharp shoulder. Her flawless neck beckons his touch like a blank canvas. He resists the temptation to close the distance between them and press his dry lips to her full, inviting ones—a wish he doesn't dare admit.

"Cease your tears," he commands, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. The sight of her crying hits him hard, leaving him breathless as the tears shimmer like clear gems on those rosy cheeks; this is his fault.