A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 2: Moves and Countermoves

Chapter 2: Moves and Countermoves

The drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place was cold, the fire in the hearth doing little to chase away the icy tension that suffused the room. Anastasia Gaunt stepped through the front door and into the oppressive silence, her every movement measured and deliberate. She removed her cloak with calm precision, folding it over her arm, and set her wand down on the polished mahogany table as if she were merely returning home after an uneventful outing.

"Anastasia." Walburga Black's voice was razor-thin, slicing through the stillness like a blade. Her tone promised fury, her figure stiff and unyielding in the shadows of the flickering firelight. Orion stood by the mantle, a whiskey glass in hand, his expression grim but no less furious.

Anastasia turned toward them, her face a mask of Slytherin composure, betraying nothing. "Good evening."

Walburga strode forward, her long black robes trailing behind her like a storm cloud. There was no preamble, no warning—her hand cracked sharply across Anastasia's cheek.

The impact stung, white-hot pain blooming against her skin, but Anastasia didn't move, didn't recoil. Her head snapped slightly to the side with the force of the blow, her long black hair spilling over her shoulder like ink, but her eyes remained fixed forward, steady and unmoving.

"You dare," Walburga hissed, her voice trembling with rage, "after all we've done for you—after all we sacrificed for you—to betray this family?"

Anastasia straightened her posture, lifting her chin. "I don't know what you're talking about." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the unyielding steel beneath it was unmistakable.

Walburga's eyes narrowed, her nostrils flaring. "Don't insult my intelligence, girl. The cellar is empty. Sirius is gone. And you—you were the only one in this house who could have helped him."

"I've done nothing of the sort."

A hollow laugh escaped Walburga's lips, devoid of humor. Orion stepped forward then, setting his glass down with a heavy clink. His presence filled the room with a different kind of menace—colder, calculating.

"Anastasia," he began, his voice smooth but laced with venom, "this is not the time for your little games. Do you think us fools? Do you think we don't see what's right in front of us? You were seen leaving the house late last night."

"And returning," Walburga spat, "like a thief in the night. Do you take us for blind imbeciles?"

"I had nothing to do with it," Anastasia said, her voice icy, her tone detached as if she were commenting on the weather. "If Sirius is gone, then perhaps he's finally acted on his own impulsive stupidity. It wouldn't be the first time."

Walburga's hand twitched as if she might strike her again, but she held back, her anger coiled tight. "And where would he go, hmm? To those blood traitors he calls friends? To the Potters?"

Anastasia's heart thudded in her chest at the mention of the Potters, but her face remained impassive. "If that's where he's gone, I wouldn't know. Sirius hasn't confided in me in years. You've made certain of that."

Orion finally stood, his movements deliberate, his presence as intimidating as the ancestral portraits that lined the room. "Do you think we don't know you, girl?" he said, his voice low but brimming with restrained fury. "You've always had a soft spot for Sirius. So weak. Disgusting."

Walburga's wand was in her hand now, her knuckles white as she gripped it. The slap was one thing, but the next words cut deeper. She leaned in, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "After everything we've done for you, gave you everything. After we took you in when your wretched parents abandoned you to ruin.