A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 71: In Another World

Chapter 71: In Another World

The latch on her trunk clicked too loudly.

Anastasia flinched.

The room was too quiet—just the low hum of wards, the muffled crackle of candlelight, and the drag of silk against wood as she folded the last of her green robes into place. Her fingers moved on instinct, but her mind wasn't really there. It was circling, retracing, bracing.

Ten days.

She shut the trunk, exhaled through her nose. Locked it with a flick of her wand.

Ten days. That was all.

And yet—her hands hovered. Unsure.

She turned back to the pile on her bed, the essentials: potions pouch, wand holster, travel documents, a soft grey scarf she'd been given years ago and never had the heart to replace. Her toiletries were already packed, everything neat, deliberate. Controlled.

Still, she kept checking. Rechecking. Folding, unfolding. Running her thumb along the edge of her wand case like it might split open if she let it go.

Ten days.

She'd survived longer.

But the thought of walking into that house again—those halls, those eyes—sent a cold, brackish pulse through her ribs. Her reflection in the mirror above her desk looked pale. Too still.

She shut her eyes hard.

You're stronger now. You're in control. Those deaths were not your fault. You're not his. You never were.

It didn't help.

She pressed a hand flat to her abdomen, trying to anchor herself. The scar beneath her ribs ached faintly, phantom pain from an old memory. All she had to do was stay detached. Let Tom talk. Let him touch her hair. Let him think she was listening. That she was his. She could nod, smile, laugh when expected. Keep her mind elsewhere. Keep him out. Let him win his little games, so long as Regulus stayed untouched.

A soft knock at the window.

She turned, wand half-drawn out of reflex, but her shoulders eased when she saw the mess of curls and familiar glasses.

Of course it was him.

She waved her wand, unlatched the window, and James Potter climbed in like it was the most natural thing in the world. He landed with a soft thump, brushing snow off his cloak. His jumper was inside out.

"You're not supposed to be here," she said quietly, tucking a jar of balm into the side pocket of her bag.

James shrugged. "Never stopped either of us before."

She didn't respond.

"I thought we weren't training tonight," she added, not looking up.

"We're not." He walked toward the desk, gave her space. "I'm not here for training."

"Then what?"

"I just—" he scratched the back of his neck. "Wanted to check in."

"I'm fine," she said, folding another robe. Her tone was even. But her fingers were too tight on the fabric, her spine too straight.

James took a step closer. "You've packed like four pairs of gloves. Who are you trying to convince?"

She ignored that. Picked up her robes again and folded them tighter.

"God forbid you look unpolished while being held hostage."

She exhaled through her nose. That might've been a laugh. Almost.