A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 2: Moves and Countermoves

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists on his lap. "But—"

"No buts, Regulus," she said, her voice softening slightly but losing none of its edge. "I can handle whatever they throw at me. I've been doing it my whole life. But you... You're too important. To yourself, to this family. You can't afford to make the same mistakes Sirius did."

Regulus looked down, his brows furrowed deeply. After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice quiet but determined. "But aren't we better than the rest of them? Our bloodlines, our family—it's worth something, isn't it? Doesn't that make us... different?"

Anastasia let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Different, perhaps. Better? That depends on what you mean by 'better.' If you think blood purity alone makes you superior, then you've already lost."

He looked up at her, confusion and frustration warring on his face. "But what's the point of all of this, then? Everything they've drilled into us, everything they stand for—it has to mean something, doesn't it?"

Her expression darkened, the faintest flicker of emotion breaking through her composed exterior. "It means exactly as much as you let it, Regulus. Use it if you must. Wield it as a tool. But don't let it define you. Don't let it chain you."

He was silent, his gaze dropping to the floor again. She stepped back, her arms crossing once more as she watched him wrestle with her words. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to echo the weight of their conversation.

Finally, he looked up, his voice hesitant. "And Sirius? Do you think he's...?"

"He's safe," Anastasia said again, her voice firm. "And whatever else he is, he's free. That's more than most can say."

Regulus nodded slowly, the tension in his frame easing ever so slightly. For a moment, he looked like the child he used to be—young and unsure, seeking guidance in a world that offered none.

Anastasia watched him quietly, the ghost of a sigh escaping her lips. "Go to bed, Regulus. It's been a long day."

He hesitated but rose to his feet, pausing at the door. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn't respond, simply nodding as he slipped out of the room. Once he was gone, she leaned against the desk again, staring into the flickering green flame. The weight of the night settled on her shoulders, but she straightened, her composure never faltering.

***

On the last night of winter break, Anastasia was summoned to a formal dinner under the pretence of discussing "family matters." The atmosphere in the Black manor was thick with unspoken tension, a stark contrast to the usual cold indifference that permeated its walls. Anastasia had prepared herself for another reprimand, perhaps even a more severe punishment for her actions, but it had already been a week, and nothing had transpired.

The dining room was set with an elegance that was reserved for occasions of utmost importance. The silverware gleamed under the soft light of the chandeliers, and the crystal glasses sparkled, casting prismatic shadows on the white tablecloth. Walburga and Orion sat at the head of the table, their expressions unreadable. Anastasia paused in the doorway, her sharp eyes sweeping over the room before settling on the unexpected guest seated at the far end.

Tom Riddle.

He looked entirely at ease, as though he belonged there, his dark suit impeccable, every strand of his sleek black hair in place. He sat with an almost regal posture, his long fingers resting casually on the armrests of his chair. Tom rose when she entered, a smooth, practiced gesture, his dark eyes fixed on her with unsettling intensity. The years had only sharpened his features—the high cheekbones, the precise angles of his jaw, the piercing gaze that seemed to strip away pretense. He was dressed impeccably, the deep green of his robes complementing the darkness of his hair.