A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 73: A Week in the Country

Marchand's again, but annotated. Half the pages were overwritten with Tom's notes in his tight, slanted script. Some lines circled, others crossed out violently.

Margin after margin scrawled with corrections. Crossed-out theories. Symbols that pulsed faintly in her peripheral vision. Not for memory. For manipulation. He wasn't trying to preserve Marchand's legacy.

He was trying to master it.

And when she'd found it, she'd stood there for a full hour without moving. Just reading. Just trying to understand if this was meant to be found—or if it was a trap. She had never seen him so open before, not even in omission. It felt almost... intentional. Like a test.

She still hadn't brought it up.

And neither had he.

Which unnerved her more than any argument might have.

Because Tom had been—peculiarly tame. Not distant. Not disinterested. Just... soft-edged. There were no harsh words. No cold commands. No disappearances in the middle of the night. He had been sweet, even—reaching for her hand during breakfast, brushing a kiss over her shoulder before vanishing for the day. Leaving books on her nightstand. Ones he knew she'd like. Her favourites. As if this were their normal.

Her first instinct had been suspicion. Of course it had.

He was not sweet.

He was strategic.

This wasn't affection. This was acquisition. He had tasted what she was now—what her blood could do—and she suspected the change was deliberate. He was taming her. Making her forget. Making her believe that the past year had been something survivable, forgivable. As if everything could be rewritten, if it was quiet enough. If she was docile enough.

But she hadn't forgotten.

She could not forget the screaming that used to echo through these walls—last winter, when his followers had been welcomed inside the estate like wolves with polished shoes. When there had been bodies. When she had shut her door and tried to drown it out with sleeping draughts from Remus. When she had lain awake listening to a girl's voice hoarse with pleading.

Now?

The house was silent.

Too silent.

She hadn't heard a single footstep in the corridors that didn't belong to her or Tom. No screams. No shadows flitting just out of view. He had not summoned the Inner Circle here, not even once. No Mulciber. No Carrow. No Avery.

But the papers—

The papers said otherwise.

She checked every day. Twice, three times. Always praying not to see three names.

James Potter.

Sirius Black.

Remus Lupin.

Their names hadn't appeared yet. But others had. Students. Shopkeepers. One entire Muggleborn family from Kent, vanishing in the span of a single night. The Prophet called it a tragedy. The Oracle called it infiltration. Anastasia called it a pattern.

And yet—she was sleeping better.

Which terrified her more than anything.

Her limbs felt heavier in the morning. Her dreams were full, but shapeless. Peaceful, even. But it wasn't natural. She knew that. She knew Tom could sedate the mind without potions. Could turn down the dial on a person's thoughts like dimming a lamp.

She hadn't looked into James' mirror.

It was still buried in the lining of her suitcase, wrapped in an old school scarf, stashed beneath the false bottom she'd charmed herself. She told herself it wasn't safe. That the wards Tom used for surveillance were too volatile, too unpredictable. That if she so much as touched the mirror with intent, he'd know.