A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 43: A Walk of Shame

Chapter 43: A Walk of Shame

The station was drowning in smoke.

Thick plumes of steam curled through the iron arches, spilling across the platform in restless waves, obscuring faces, softening outlines. The air smelled of damp stone and metal, the kind of scent that clung to fabric, that settled into skin.

And yet, through the shifting mist, the staring remained.

Anastasia felt it the moment she stepped onto the platform, the weight of too many eyes pressing against her skin, clinging to her like something sticky, something unwanted. But no one—no one—dared to meet her gaze.

They whispered instead.

Low, urgent murmurs carried through the cold January air, hushed voices crackling like static.

They knew.

They all knew.

People were disappearing. Not just powerful figures in the Ministry. Not just nameless casualties in a war that had not yet been named.

Students.

They were vanishing now, and everyone knew why.

Knew who.

Knew him.

And she—her—walking beside him, in perfect, practiced step, was as much an answer as any confession.

Anastasia kept her face carefully blank, her hands curled loosely at her sides, her chin lifted in the same poised, untouchable way it had always been. But inside—inside, she was tired.

She did not want to be here.

For years, Hogwarts had been a respite, however temporary. A place where she could pretend—pretend she was merely a Black, a Gaunt, a Slytherin. Pretend she was nothing more than what they saw. Pretend that none of it mattered because there was always another train ride, another season, another escape.

But there was no escape now.

Not from him.

Not from this.

The girl who had once sought refuge in the castle, who had once slipped into her dormitory and breathed easier, had died in the Riddle Estate. Drowned in sheets that smelled like him, buried beneath whispered reassurances she did not mean, pressed beneath hands she had let touch her.

There was no version of herself left to play.

And now, there was nowhere left to run.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of them." Tom's voice was smooth, quiet. Close.

She turned her head just slightly, enough to see the curve of his smirk, the amusement behind his dark eyes.

"They're afraid of you," she corrected.

"As they should be." Tom exhaled softly, amused, as if he found the attention flattering, as if he thrived in the weight of it.

As they neared the train, she caught sight of a group of Gryffindors standing a short distance away. James Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin.

James' jaw was clenched, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes fixed on her like he was searching for something—proof, maybe, or a confession she did not have to give.

Sirius was less restrained.

His face was twisted in something she couldn't quite place—anger, disgust, something frustrated and desperate all at once. He took a step forward, like he might say something, but Remus' hand landed on his arm, holding him back.