A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 10: First Steps

The memory was oddly sharp, tugging her out of the present and into the past: perched on Sirius' balcony at Grimmauld Place, the stale smell of tobacco curling in the air, the muffled quiet of a house momentarily emptied of its horrors. They weren't friends—never friends— not since they turned eleven years old, but in those rare moments, something unspoken lingered between them, something untainted by rivalry or expectation.

She lifted the pack closer to her face and breathed in. The faint scent of stale smoke clung to it, and beneath that, a trace of something uniquely Sirius: a sharp, almost reckless warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold halls of Grimmauld Place.

How did this even get here? she thought, her lips curling faintly into something that wasn't quite a smile. She could see him now, leaning lazily against a doorframe, smirking at her with that infuriatingly easy charm.

A sudden urge pulled her from her thoughts. She didn't overthink it—thinking, after all, was the problem today. She slipped the pack into her pocket, rose from her seat, and slid the door open. The corridor was quiet, most students still in their compartments. She moved quickly, her steps soft against the worn carpet.

At the end of the train, she found what she was looking for: the small platform just outside the last carriage, where the air whipped past in cold, biting bursts. She opened the door cautiously, stepping out into the rushing wind. It was louder out here, the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels magnified, the countryside a blur of green and gold beneath the slate-grey sky.

Her fingers worked quickly, pulling a cigarette from the pack and lighting it with her wand. She'd only done this a handful of times, but muscle memory kicked in, and soon she was inhaling that acrid, oddly comforting smoke.

She exhaled, watching as the plume of white was immediately snatched away by the wind. It wasn't a pleasant taste, not exactly, but it was something to do, something that grounded her in a way she couldn't explain.

Leaning against the railing, she let the cigarette dangle between her fingers as her gaze swept across the rushing landscape. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she didn't mind. It was better than the suffocating warmth of her compartment, better than the haunting echoes of Tom's words.

She thought of Sirius again, of the way he'd smirk at her indignation when she'd first caught him with one of these. He'd offered her one so nonchalantly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And she, in a rare moment of curiosity, had accepted.

"Figured you'd chicken out," he'd teased, watching as she coughed on her first inhale.

"Shut up," she'd snapped, her glare half-hearted as he laughed.

The memory faded, leaving her with a hollow ache she couldn't quite place. She took another drag, letting the sharp burn settle in her lungs before exhaling slowly.

The train rattled beneath her, the wind roaring in her ears, but for a moment, it was quiet inside her head. Out here, there were no expectations, no masks to maintain. Just her, the cigarette, and the fleeting memory of something simpler.

Unbeknownst to Anastasia, James Potter had noticed her quiet departure from the Slytherin compartment. Curiosity, mixed with an undefined concern that had taken root in him since witnessing the unnerving scene at the ball, spurred him to follow. His steps were cautious, mindful of the noise, as he navigated the corridors in search of her.

Finding Anastasia, the sight of her alone, the fragile plume of smoke a stark contrast to the steel and steam around them, struck a chord within him. The rivalry and antagonism that had long defined their interactions seemed trivial in this moment, overshadowed by the complexity of the emotions playing across her face.