A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 30: Falling Asleep

"James..." Anastasia began, her tone soft, ready to interject, to perhaps offer some form of reassurance.

"No. I need to say this," James interrupted, his voice firmer now, though it still carried an undercurrent of vulnerability. "I've been childish and unfair. You don't owe me anything, and you have enough on your plate without me adding to it. I just want to understand... Why was it so easy to ask Remus for help when I've made myself more than available to you?" He looked up at her then, his expression tentative, as if bracing for her dismissal.

Anastasia's fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket as she struggled to meet James's gaze. They were in the infirmary—she on the bed, he standing close enough that she could see the quick rise and fall of his chest. The tension in the air was almost palpable, and for a moment, neither of them spoke, as though fearful one wrong word would send them both over the edge.

Finally, she let out a breath, voice hushed but resolute. "It's because you make me uncomfortable."

James's brows pulled together, confusion flashing across his features. He took half a step back, as if giving her physical space might bridge the emotional gap. "Oh," he managed, voice slightly hoarse. Then, more firmly, "What do you mean?"

A tremor ran through her shoulders, part frustration, part exhaustion. "It's the way you look at me," she murmured, eyes dropping to the blanket she'd bunched in her fists.

"How exactly am I looking at you, Anastasia?" he pressed, a defensive edge creeping into his tone.

She shook her head. "You don't even realise you're doing it."

He started to speak again, but she went on. "You keep putting me on this pedestal"—she gestured vaguely upward—"Like I'm some pristine victim who just had the misfortune of crossing paths with the wrong people."

He scoffed, though it came out more uncertain than scornful. "I don't see you that way."

Her gaze flicked up then, bleak and unwavering. "No, you do. You've created this image of me that I can never live up to." She paused, frustration warring with an undercurrent of pain she couldn't quite mask. "I'm not Sirius. No matter how much you might wish I was."

James opened his mouth to object, but Anastasia overrode him with a shake of her head. "I'm not a saint who's been wronged by the world," she continued, voice taut. "I'm part of it. More... complicit than you can imagine. When you look at me with all that pity and hope and expectation... it's suffocating. It makes me feel like some impostor. So just... stop."

A flicker of hurt crossed his face. "I'm not pitying you," he said, more forcefully this time. "I'm worried, yes—concerned—but that's not pity. There's a difference."

She huffed, leaning her head back against the pillows. "It's all the same to me. Caring, pitying, whatever you want to call it—it comes with the same expectations. If I don't meet them, if I show you I'm not the perfect victim you've imagined in your head, you'll be disappointed. Just trying to save you the trouble."

He hesitated, jaw clenched. "Anastasia—"

She stopped him with a bitter laugh. "You want to know why I asked Remus for help and not you? Because he doesn't look at me like...like he's constantly checking if I'm cracking under pressure."

"What's so scary about letting me help you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "Why is it so terrible that I might actually give a damn about you?"

She swallowed hard, eyes flicking away. Her voice came out quieter, almost raw. "Is it so hard to understand that I don't want you to care? It's not just that I'm uncomfortable. You're...you're too much."