A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 83: Appearances

All of it normal. All of it obscene.

Because Cal Ainsley was gone.

Disappeared, just like that.

He hadn't turned up after the raid. Hadn't made contact. Hadn't sent word.

His wand had been found near the warehouse in Soho, snapped clean in two.

And none of them had the guts to ask out loud what that meant.

"How did they get the addresses?" Sirius muttered. His voice was raw, lower than usual. "That property in Wales was warded. The warehouse too. Only five of us that weren't there that night even knew about it."

James didn't answer.

He'd asked himself the same question a hundred times since the news came in. Asked it all night. Still hadn't found an answer that didn't make his stomach churn.

"Those locations weren't really active anymore," Remus said quietly, "but the warehouse was used. Recently."

"They were still active," Sirius snapped. "Cal knew better than to hand those over. He wouldn't. He's too careful."

"Maybe he didn't mean to," Remus said.

That was worse.

James ran a hand through his hair. His knuckles ached. He hadn't noticed until now.

"I still don't get it," Sirius muttered, flicking the ash of his cigarette. "Why are we even going back? School's a fucking joke now. It's not safe. Not even neutral."

"Because someone has to be there," Remus said. He spoke gently, but there was no softness in it. Just resolve. "Someone has to keep an eye on Tom's little recruits. On the ones who think this is all some grand, noble mission."

Sirius didn't reply.

"And the kids," Remus added. "Someone has to keep an eye on the younger ones."

That shut them both up.

James shifted his weight. The soles of his boots pressed against the damp stone. He still hadn't said anything.

Because truthfully—he didn't know what he was doing either.

He didn't want to go back.

Not to the corridors. Not to the common room. Not to the whispers.

And not to her.

He hadn't seen Anastasia since she disappeared into the darkness of the Selwyn estate.

Hadn't heard from her either. Not really. Just that fractured mirror conversation. That look in her eyes—wild, exhausted, something already unravelling. Like she was underwater and didn't even know it.

He'd been furious. Sick with worry. Desperate.

And now?

Now he didn't know what he wanted to see.

If she got out untouched—if she came back the same as she was before—he didn't know what that would mean. Didn't know what it would say about her. About him.

Because he was the one who'd said it didn't matter. That he didn't care what she'd had to do to survive.

And he'd meant it.

Mostly.

But sometimes—late at night, in the quiet moments, when sleep wouldn't come and guilt gnawed at the back of his throat—he thought about her in that house. Thought about her in Tom's bed. Thought about her looking calm, composed, cold as always.

And it made him sick.

Not because of what she'd done. But because what if it didn't hurt her?

What if she came back the same? What if she'd folded herself into that life, smoothed the creases, smiled at all the right moments until she meant it?

He didn't want her broken. He couldn't bear that.

But if she wasn't?

He hated himself for how that made him feel.

He folded his arms across his chest, staring hard at the horizon.

"She'll be there," Sirius said quietly, reading his mind the way only Sirius could. "She always is."

James didn't answer.

The train pulled into the station with a shriek of metal and a hiss of steam.

All around them, students started shifting. Lifting trunks. Hugging parents. Stepping into the next part of their lives like nothing had changed.

James stood still.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

The steam cleared slowly as the train groaned to a halt.

James stepped off behind Sirius, Remus close at his side. The platform was loud—luggage clattering, owls screeching in cages, someone crying two rows down. But beneath it all, there was a hum. A current.

He felt it before he saw it.

The crowd shifted.

And there she was.

Anastasia stood near the far carriage, her trunk already beside her, a hand resting loosely on the handle. Tom Riddle stood just behind her—impeccable as ever, dressed in dark layers far too elegant for travel. His posture was relaxed. Possessive.

James' gut turned.

Anastasia didn't look broken.

Her hair was swept into a neat twist. She was dressed for a funeral. Her face was unreadable—composed, pale, perfectly still.

She didn't look hollow. Not like she had after Christmas, when she came back with sleep potion bottles clinking in her bag and didn't speak for days.

She looked... fine.

A little stiff around the shoulders. Eyes sharper than usual. But fine.

James hated the way his heart seized.

"She looks alright," he muttered.

Sirius followed his gaze. "Good," he said, like that settled something. "That's good."

But James kept staring. Watching the way she nodded at something Tom said, how she didn't recoil when his hand rested lightly at her elbow. How she didn't smile, but didn't flinch either.

Like it had all been absorbed already.

Like it didn't hurt anymore.

"You're not seriously mad at her for being fine," Sirius said, voice low.

James snapped his head toward him. "Of course not."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Alright."

They stood like that for a second—James too rigid, Sirius too perceptive. Then Sirius clapped a hand on his shoulder, rough but steady.

"Let's get on with the year," Remus said. "We've got enough to worry about with the end of the world and all."

James didn't laugh.

But he let Sirius steer him toward the carriages anyway.

And behind him, he didn't look back. Not once.

Not even when he felt her eyes on him.