A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 1: A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 1: A Broken Inheritance

In the shadowed corridor of the ancient Black family home, the silence was shattered by sharp, gasping screams. Although the sound had grown disturbingly familiar in the Black household, Anastasia paced around her room, frantically searching for a way to make it stop. Anastasia's room, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, felt like a cage. The Slytherin-green drapes and meticulously arranged bookshelves seemed to mock her helplessness. She paused by the window, her fingers clutching the cold sill as if seeking solace from the outside world. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her, a mask of cold composure hiding the turmoil within.

"What did you do this time, Sirius?" she whispered to the darkness, her voice tinged with a mix of exasperation and helplessness. The Cruciatus curse echoed from the cellar, followed by another tortured scream. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she struggled to stay still.

As a child, her attempts to intervene had only doubled the punishment for them both. She had thrown herself into the line of fire more times than she could count, enduring the lashings and curses in a futile attempt to shield Sirius. But Sirius, stubborn and reckless, would only escalate his defiance in a desperate effort to pull back his parents' focus on himself. It had become a pointless cycle of mutual sacrifice.

Her more recent attempts were a tad more subtle, she'd interrupted their punishments with fabricated tales of urgent messages from the Ministry, concocted stories of distant relatives in peril, anything to distract their guardians. And it worked, Orion and Walburga had no reason to doubt her, seeing her only as an obedient niece, the picture of Slytherin pride who had long severed ties with their first-born son. But tonight, she knew it wouldn't work. The weight of Sirius' offence must have been monumental to provoke such a relentless response. The intensity of his screams told her as much.

"Damn it," she muttered, her voice trembling with suppressed rage and fear. "Why can't he just learn?"

The Cruciatus rang out again, followed by another scream.

Her perfectly manicured nails dug into her skin harder. A sharp sting.

Anastasia glanced down, surprised to find half-moons of blood welling beneath her fingertips where she had broken the skin. A single drop slipped down her palm, staining the parchment resting on her desk, deep, red, alive.

And beneath her skin, something stirred. A strange sensation prickled at the edges of her awareness, like a whisper just out of reach, curling at the back of her skull.

She inhaled sharply, shaking it off.

Another scream.

Her mind replayed his voice, the sharp wit and rebellious spirit that had always set him apart, now reduced to anguished cries. She cursed him again, feeling a hot surge of anger and frustration.

A soft knock on her door broke her reverie. Anastasia turned as the door creaked open, revealing Regulus. His usually composed face was pale, his eyes wide but somber, no longer trembling with the fear of a child. She rushed to him, wrapping her arms around his slender frame protectively.

"It's going to be okay," she whispered, her voice trembling with a conviction she didn't feel. "He'll be okay, Regulus."

He pulled back slightly, looking up at her with a maturity that belied his years. 

"I know." He replied cooly, "I just wish Sirius would know his place and stop acting out," he continued, his voice a mixture of frustration and resentment. There was no fear, just a weary acceptance of their reality.

Anastasia's heart ached at his newfound coldness. The boy was only 14. She brushed a strand of hair from his face, her touch gentle. 

"I know," she replied softly. "It's not in his nature."