A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 56: Residual Blood

Chapter 56: Residual Blood

The darkness of the tunnel pressed in around her, the scent of damp stone thick in the air as Anastasia moved, quick and sure-footed, retracing her steps back toward the castle. The weight of the night clung to her like an iron shroud—Tom's words, the flames, the power still thrumming beneath her skin.

"The power lies in sacrifice."

Her fingers curled around the small vial in her pocket, her breath shallow as she felt it there. Heavy. Unavoidable. Tom had pressed it into her hands before they left the Hollow Comet, watching her reaction with amusement as she hesitated.

"It's not just about the blood, Anastasia."

His voice had been smooth, patient, the way it always was when he was teaching her something he believed she was ready to understand.

"It is about what you are willing to give. And what you are willing to take."

Sacrifice. Willingly given. Or forcibly taken. The thought turned her stomach. She exhaled sharply, pushing forward through the tunnel, the cold biting through her cloak, grounding her. Hogwarts wasn't far now. Soon, she would be back in her dormitory. She would sleep. She would pretend none of this had happened. She rounded the final corner. And stopped dead in her tracks. There, standing in the middle of the tunnel, at the intersection leading toward the Shrieking Shack—

James Potter.

He was pacing. Back and forth, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his hair even more of a disaster than usual, like he had run his fingers through it a hundred times. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set, his wand clenched tightly in one hand. Her stomach twisted. The map. Of course. He must have seen her leave. Must have seen Tom's name too.

She braced herself, preparing for the moment he noticed her, the inevitable confrontation. James turned, his gaze snapping to her, and the tension in his body immediately broke. Relief crashed across his face, unguarded, so visceral it startled her. His eyes softened, all of the sharp edges around him dulling as he strode toward her in hurried steps.

"You're okay," he breathed, his voice thick with something almost close to desperation.

Anastasia's chest ached.

"I'm fine." She forced herself to nod, though the movement felt stiff.

James exhaled, shaking his head.

"Bloody hell, Ana." He stopped just before her, close enough that she could see the crease between his brows, the lingering strain on his face. "Do you have any idea how reckless that was?"

She swallowed, pressing her lips together. She knew he was worried. Knew he had probably been standing here for hours, spiralling, waiting. But she couldn't—couldn't—talk about this. Not now. Not when she could still feel Tom's touch lingering on her skin, still taste his blood in the back of her throat.

"You went to him."

Not a question. No, James already knew. Still, she nodded, waiting for the inevitable—waiting for the way his expression would harden, for the judgment, for the anger. But it never came. Instead, James took a step forward and gripped her shoulders.

"Are you alright?"

The words staggered her. She hadn't realised how badly she had been bracing for the worst until the absence of it made her dizzy. Her throat tightened. James' fingers curled just slightly, his grip firm, warm, steady. He wasn't demanding answers. Wasn't telling her off. Wasn't angry. He was just... worried.