A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 85: The Price of Freedom

"It means," Dumbledore said, "that by the time this year ends, she cannot be under his control."

There was no question who would be responsible for ensuring that.

James stared at him, fists clenched.

"So you'll help her?" he asked. "Help her—not just extract her. Not just use her?"

"I will do what is necessary," Dumbledore simply replied.

James' jaw tightened.
"No," he said, voice low. "You're not listening. She's on our side. She doesn't want to be his weapon—she's been helping us, helping people, as much as she's been able to without—"
He cut himself off before he could say without getting killed for it.

Dumbledore didn't interrupt. He only watched him, calmly, like he was waiting for James to finish circling the point.

James swallowed. "She's been resisting him. Quietly. Constantly. You have no idea what it costs her to do even that."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Dumbledore asked, almost gently, "Are you certain?"

James blinked. "What—?"

"Are you absolutely certain," Dumbledore repeated, "that Miss Gaunt has not used her abilities in service of Tom Riddle?"

James froze. Just a fraction of a second. Barely a breath.

But it was enough.

Dumbledore saw it. He had been watching him too closely not to.

He exhaled through his nose, a quiet, resigned sound.
"So," he said. "You are not certain."

"That's not—" James started, but the words tangled. His throat burned.

"Cal Ainsley's disappearance," Dumbledore continued, tone still calm, still unbearably patient.

James stopped breathing.

"The fire at the Weasley property."
He folded his hands. "The safehouse raids that week—the one in Wales, the warehouse in Soho."

He looked at James as if reviewing a list of proofs.
"Those were not coincidences."

The room felt colder than before. The windows, the parchment, the brass instruments—all sharpened.

James remained silent.

Dumbledore pressed on, voice impeccably even:
"You knew Cal Ainsley, from what I understand. Quite well."

James stared at him. His heartbeat was in his throat.

"Tell me," Dumbledore said, "do you believe Cal would ever willingly hand over safehouse addresses to Tom Riddle?"

James' mouth opened, then closed. The answer was lodged somewhere behind his ribs, crushing, immovable.

Cal, who cried through his first mission brief because he hated lying.
Cal, who flinched at the idea of Unforgivables.
Cal, who once told James he didn't want to be brave if bravery meant hurting someone else.

Cal would have died before giving the Death Eaters anything useful.

"No," James whispered. "Never."

Dumbledore's expression did not shift, but his silence felt like confirmation.

James swallowed hard. "She didn't give him anything that mattered." His words came out rushed, uneven, desperate. "She told me—she said she only gave up names they already had. Locations that were cold or barely active. She protected the rest. She saved more people than—than—"