A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 52: A Truth, However Small

Sirius was leaning back now, arms stretched behind his head like he didn't have a care in the world. The picture of casual irreverence. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

But it didn't reach his eyes.

She saw it. Clear as the moonlight bleeding through the tower windows.

The tightness in his jaw. The way his gaze skirted hers a second too quickly. That flicker of something behind the mask—worry, raw and unwelcome, and the quiet undercurrent of guilt that hadn't stopped gnawing at him since Grimmauld Place.

She saw it, because it was the same kind of mask she wore.

James huffed out a soft laugh, shaking his head, and Remus chuckled under his breath, smirking as he leaned back into his chair.

And just like that, the conversation shifted, the tension from moments ago dissipating into something lighter, something easier to carry.

But Anastasia—

Anastasia stayed silent.

Anastasia sat still amidst it all—this fractured pocket of warmth, of laughter, of careless joy. It wrapped around her like an old jumper that didn't quite fit, a little too tight in the sleeves, a little too loose in the chest.

Their world was moving again.

Sirius was smirking, one leg thrown dramatically over the arm of his chair, recounting something involving Peeves, a stolen bottle of firewhisky, and the unfortunate decapitation of a suit of armor. Remus looked exasperated in the fondest way, and James was grinning, that crooked smile that once filled her with disdain, now doing something far more dangerous.

They were trying.

They wanted her here.

And that should've been enough.

It almost was.

But the rot inside her wouldn't stay quiet.

It never did.

Because no matter how easily they slipped back into friendship, how willingly they wrapped her in their easy loyalty—none of it changed the truth of what she had let happen. The weight of it sat in her chest like iron, buried deep beneath skin and spellwork and silence.

She had stood still while Alice died.

She had let Tom touch her with hands soaked in blood, and whispered comfort into his ear as if he were something soft and breakable.

She had become what he needed her to be.

The laughter around her didn't reach her ears. It distorted, warped. The corners of the room felt too sharp. The air too thick.

And still, she said nothing.

Not when James turned slightly, brushing his shoulder against hers in an easy, unconscious gesture.

Not when Sirius tossed a biscuit at Remus's head and barked a triumphant laugh as it crumbled in his hair.

Not when Remus, brushing crumbs from his collar, offered her a half-smile like he knew she was drifting, and was waiting—quietly—for her to come back.

Her nails dug into the fabric of James's duvet, her hands clenched tight in her lap.

The warmth of the room had dulled, the momentary reprieve flickering at the edges, slipping through the cracks.

She didn't feel real.

The sound of their voices faded.

The firelight against the stone walls blurred.

Her pulse thrummed—steady, controlled—but inside, something deep and rotting curled tighter, reminding her of exactly what she was.

A coward.

Even now, she was scared of what would happen if she let herself be honest with them. About what she'd done, who she truly was. Once, she would have thrown it in their faces, just so they could leave her alone. Now, she was terrified of losing this.

And she hated how much she wanted to tell them. Hated how much she feared telling them. Because if they knew the truth—not just the edges she'd offered tonight, but the whole rotting thing underneath—

Would they still look at her like this?

Would James still sit that close?

Would Remus still offer her those quiet, knowing looks?

Would Sirius still joke about fighting in her stead?

She forced her hands still.

Let her expression settle back into neutrality, the way it always did. Cold, poised, unreachable.

But her eyes drifted back to James.

He hadn't spoken again, but he was watching her now. Not fully smiling. Just... seeing her. As if he knew she'd left the moment. As if he could tell she wasn't here anymore.

She exhaled, forcing herself to focus on the present, to hear Sirius's laughter, to see the relaxed slope of James's shoulders, to catch the amused glint in Remus's tired eyes.

Normal.

This was normal.

And she—

She could pretend.

Even if she didn't belong here.

Even if she never had.