A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 52: A Truth, However Small

"Let her speak." Sirius interjected.

James turned, brows drawn. "She doesn't have to—"

"She wants to," Sirius said, sharper now. Not cruel, not cold—just... urgent. "Can't you see that?"

Anastasia was frozen between them, chest tight, hands shaking, bile still rising like a storm she couldn't swallow. James's hand was still on her arm, steady and warm and too kind.

But Sirius—he was watching her with something else.

Not gentleness.

Understanding.

"She's choking on it," Sirius said, softer now, eyes never leaving hers. "So let her spit it out."

And for a moment, Anastasia hated him.

Hated that he saw her.

Hated that he understood.

Because it would be easier—safer—to keep it buried. To stay wrapped in the comfort of silence and plausible deniability. But Sirius wasn't giving her that out. He never had.

Anastasia swallowed, inhaling shakily.

"I..."

She started again, but the words faltered, threatening to break apart before they could leave her lips.

She dug her nails into her arms, rubbing at them absentmindedly, trying to scrub out the remnants of Tom's touch, trying to erase the feeling.

James's hand covered hers, stopping her.

She exhaled.

"You really shouldn't care," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "You shouldn't worry about me."

Sirius exhaled sharply, frustration flickering across his face. "Yeah? Bit fucking late for that."

Her throat tightened.

She forced herself to meet his eyes.

"I've done nothing to deserve it," she admitted, voice cracking. "I— I wasn't— I'm not a victim."

Sirius scoffed. "Ana—"

"No," she cut him off, her gaze sharp now, desperate for them to understand. "Listen to me."

"I..." She continued, then finally, barely above a whisper, "I didn't fight. I didn't fight Tom, not when he tortured and killed, not when he..." Her voice caught in her throat, "I didn't fight him at all."

Her hands had begun to tremble.

She tried to pull away, to vanish back into the comfort of walls and silence and solitude, but James held her steady.

"I didn't fight him," she repeated, a ghost of the girl she usually was. "So don't look at me like I'm brave. Don't talk to me like I'm good. I stood there and watched. I let him hurt people. I kissed him and smiled and wore the ring and I let it happen."

The room was silent.

James squeezed her hand, but said nothing at all.

It was Remus, soft-voiced and steady, who spoke first.

"You endured him. You did what you could to survive."

She looked up at him.

He was watching her too, quietly, like he always did. A kind of softness lived behind his gaze that made her want to look away, and yet she didn't.

"What's the big deal if you didn't fight, anyways?" Sirius mused, stretching his arms above his head. "We can fight in your stead, can't we, boys?"

Anastasia's eyes flicked toward him.