A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 85: The Price of Freedom

Chapter 85: The Price of Freedom

James had been pacing in front of the gargoyle for the better part of an hour.

His trainers squeaked slightly against the stone every few turns. The hourglass in the alcove to his left ticked steadily, betraying the minutes he'd spent rehearsing and second-guessing every possible version of the conversation he was about to have.

This was a mistake.

Or maybe it wasn't.

Maybe it was the first real thing he'd done in months.

He didn't know how he was going to say it. He didn't even know what it was—how do you explain the need to interfere in someone else's life like it was strategy? How do you justify betrayal when it's done with the best intentions?

He'd been replaying that night in her room over and over again. Her voice, measured. Her hands still. That small, quiet smile she gave him before she let go.

She thought she was at peace.

But he knew better.

She'd accepted her role beside Tom Riddle. Had rationalised it down to survival and necessity and numbers. Convinced herself it was noble, even—if the sacrifice was slow enough, and she bore the cost herself, then maybe it could mean something.

She'd stopped imagining freedom. She wasn't planning to run. Not anymore.

She wasn't going to leave.

So he had to do it for her.

Even if she never forgave him. Even if it ruined everything between them. Even if she hated him for the rest of her long, free life.

He stopped pacing only when the staircase began to turn.

"The headmaster will see you now," said the gargoyle, like it had been listening the whole time.

James exhaled, hard, and took the steps two at a time.

***

The door to the Headmaster's office opened without a sound. James stepped through before he could think better of it, fists clenched inside his robes.

The room was unchanged. It never was.

Books towered in shelves that dust never touched. Silver instruments clicked softly in the background, puffing little bursts of smoke into the still air. Fawkes blinked once from his perch, head cocked toward the boy at the door.

Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, half-shrouded in candlelight. The windows were drawn. A tea tray sat untouched at the edge of the desk. Fawkes stirred in his sleep.

"Mr. Potter," the Headmaster said, folding his hands together. "What brings you here this evening?"

James didn't sit.

"Thank you for seeing me. It's about Anastasia Gaunt."

Dumbledore studied him for a moment, then steepled his fingers. "Go on."

James stepped forward, slowly. "You told Sirius once—if she wanted out, if she chose to defect, you'd help her. That there was a way."

Dumbledore nodded. "That offer stands."

"Well," James said, "It needs to happen. Now."

The Headmaster's gaze didn't waver. "Has she made up her mind, then?"

James paused

"Not really."

Dumbledore tilted his head. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you."