A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 85: The Price of Freedom

Dumbledore held up a hand.

"Even if that is true," he said, "people died in those raids."

James went still.

"Five casualties," Dumbledore continued. "Two were Order-adjacent. Three were informants. All killed as a result of those addresses reaching the wrong hands."

James shook his head again, harder this time, like he could physically repel the words.
"She didn't—she didn't know, she's never killed—"

"No," Dumbledore agreed. "She did not. But her part remains central."

The finality in the sentence hollowed the room.

James felt his breath punch out of him. "She had no choice," he rasped. "You know she had no choice. Tom—he would've—he does—"

"Coercion does not erase consequence," Dumbledore said softly. "It only complicates it."

James pressed a hand to his forehead.
"You're twisting this. She was protecting someone—she was—"

"I do not doubt her intentions," Dumbledore cut in, sharper now. "But intentions do not resurrect the dead."

The words hit so cleanly, so coldly, James flinched.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. The candlelight made his eyes look impossibly old.

"You claim she is on our side," he said, "and perhaps she wishes to be. Perhaps she even tries to be. But choices made under duress still create ripples. Some of them fatal."

A beat.

"And if she continues to exist in Tom Riddle's shadow, more such ripples will follow."

James looked up, something raw in his eyes.
"She's being forced," he whispered. "She is trying. She does everything she can in the smallest ways she can. She's—she's still fighting him. Even when it hurts her. Even when she knows he'll punish her for it. She's not gone. She's not lost. She's—"

"—dangerous," Dumbledore finished quietly.

"She was trying to survive," he whispered.

"I do not question that," Dumbledore said. "Nor do I condemn her." He paused. "But intent does not erase consequence. You, more than most, should understand this by now."

James flinched—because he did.
Because he'd spent months repeating a version of the same sentence to himself.

"What she did," Dumbledore went on, "is precisely what makes her dangerous to Riddle—and dangerous to us. Not by malice. By reach. By proximity."

James shook his head violently. "She's not loyal to him."

"No," Dumbledore agreed. "She is loyal to survival. And survival inside Riddle's circle requires a currency most cannot afford."

The implication settled between them.

Her survival was paid in blood.

Not always hers.

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore continued softly, "you came here because you hoped I would save her. I am telling you: I will not condemn her. But neither will I pretend the choices she has made—willingly or otherwise—have not cost lives."

James felt sick.

Dumbledore continued, "If she wishes to leave, she will have my protection. But if she does not... then she stands in a perilous place indeed. For herself. For us. And for you."

James' head shot up.

"Your certainty in her goodness is admirable," Dumbledore said, "but it blinds you. She is not simply a girl caught in a trap. She is a wielder of an ancient magic, aligned with a man who understands its value."

James stood frozen under the weight of Dumbledore's words—aligned with a man who understands its value—when something in him finally snapped.

"So what happens," James said quietly, "if she doesn't come willingly?"

He didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Because he knew the answer.
Because he already knew she wouldn't.

Dumbledore didn't look away. "Then I will do what is necessary."

There it was.
A clean sentence with no seams to pry apart.
A verdict disguised as principle.

The conversation was over.

James stood in the doorway for a moment, numb.

He had done it. He had sold her out.

No, not sold. Freed the truth. Given it air.

But somehow, it didn't feel like a victory.

Because he knew what Dumbledore saw now. And he knew how easily people became functions in his hands.

She would never just be Anastasia again.

Not to the man behind that desk. Not to the Order.

She was the blood heir. The weapon. The proof.

And James could only hope that when the time came—when it all came down—she'd forgive him for lighting the match.