A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 84: Slow Compromises

James blinked.

They glistened in the dark.

She didn't look away when she spoke. "That's it then," she said softly. "Isn't it?"

James frowned. "What do you mean?"

Anastasia looked up at the sky for a long moment before answering. The stars shimmered above them—indifferent, eternal.

She breathed in. Let the cold air settle in her chest.

"Yes," she said, almost to herself. "I made him give those addresses. A few names too. He died. And I could've saved him. But I didn't. I wanted to save myself instead."

The words didn't tremble. They were steady. Stark. Not a confession—just a fact. Like stating the weather. Or the time of night.

They hung in the air between them, still and sharp.

She turned to him again, her expression unreadable. "This is it, isn't it?"

James looked at her, not fully understanding.

She studied him. Her voice remained gentle, careful. "It's alright," she said. "You don't have to say it. You're angry. You're disappointed. You should be."

He opened his mouth, but she went on.

"I'll be fine," she murmured. "You don't have to worry about me. I'll survive. I always do."

The wind picked up slightly, brushing a strand of hair across her cheek. She didn't push it back.

"You want to find something redeemable in me," she said. "You want to tell yourself there's a version of this story where I'm on your side. Where you can forgive me. But you don't have to do that either."

James felt something twist behind his ribs.

She wasn't cold. She wasn't defensive. She was just—resigned.

Like she'd already rehearsed this ending in her head a thousand times.

She stood. Smoothed the front of her cloak. Her ring caught the starlight, briefly red, then gone.

"I'm the one who has to live with it," she said. "Not you."

She turned.

He stood, fast.

"Wait," he said.

She paused, hand hovering at her side.

"Let's talk," he said, voice rougher now. "Somewhere else."

She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at him from over her shoulder. "What's the point?"

And that—more than anything—made something snap inside him.

"There you go again," James said. "Making assumptions about what I'm thinking. What I'm feeling. Like you've already decided how this ends."

She didn't argue.

"I need to talk to you," he said. "Not here. Somewhere private. Right now."

A pause. A long one. She looked at him properly then. And slowly, she nodded.

"Alright," she said. Quiet as snowfall. "Lead the way."

Down the stairs. Through the corridors. Past curtained windows and sleepy portraits and the distant hum of the castle shifting in its bones.

She followed him. Not too close. Not too far.

When they reached the Slytherin dormitories, she murmured the password and let him in without a word. The room was cold, lit only by the low glow of the hearth and the faint gleam of enchanted green glass on the high windows.