A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 67: Spring and Other Illusions

Chapter 67: Spring and Other Illusions

The castle had begun to thaw.

It was subtle, at first. The way the stone floors didn't sting Anastasia's bare feet quite as much in the mornings. The thin shafts of sunlight that managed to slip through the tall windows before breakfast, dust motes dancing like they remembered how to float. Even the wind had changed—less like a knife through the ribs now, more like a whisper against the collarbone.

Spring was coming. And the castle knew it before anyone else did.

Anastasia hated it.

Warmth made people soft. It made them hopeful. It made them think things were getting better.

They weren't.

The world was shifting, and she, as ever, remained still.

The journal James had given back laid closed on her desk. It hadn't moved since the last time she'd picked it up. She didn't need to open it again. She could still hear it. Every line Edouard Marchand had written. Every confession scrawled between the lines. Every silence where Selene had pulled away and he had followed anyway.

James had changed since reading it.

She saw it in the way he looked at her now, like he was afraid of seeing the same ending play out again. Like he wasn't sure which part he was meant to play. She saw it in the way his gaze lingered too long when they passed in corridors, in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the silence that stretched between them like a chasm.

He'd been absent again.

At first, it was a missed session. Then another, with a note slipped under her door. Sorry, can't tonight. Order meeting. A few days of nothing. Then he came again. Quiet. Distracted. Asked her if she'd been practicing.

Then again, he missed their last two training sessions, citing Order obligations and research. She didn't question it. She didn't need to. His avoidance was palpable, a presence in itself. Marchand's diary had unsettled him.

Anastasia continued her training alone. Night after night, she stood in her room, the walls echoing with the crackle of her spells. She pushed herself harder, delving deeper into the blood magic that pulsed beneath her skin. Small cuts. Contained spells. Control, measured in inches.

She never used more than a drop. She never let it run. But some nights, it wasn't enough. Some nights, she felt the edges of herself blur, felt the spell hum against her teeth before she even raised her wand. And then she'd stop. Always. She'd stop. But she knew it couldn't last. One night, it would break through her hands and she wouldn't be able to hold it back. The magic didn't always listen. And when it did, it asked questions first.

She needed help.

The realisation was bitter, a taste she was unaccustomed to. But necessity overruled pride. With spring break approaching and with it, Tom's looming shadow, she needed to be ready. She needed to be in control.

Lucius was not an option. She'd decided that weeks ago. Whatever fondness remained between them, however deep the roots of their friendship reached, it didn't matter.

And Regulus...

No.

He was not to be involved.

That left one name.

She stared at the parchment for a long time before writing it.

Sirius. 9pm. Tonight. My room.

She folded it cleanly and charmed it to fly. It slipped out the window, a sliver of parchment against the evening sky.