A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 86: The Cost of Good Breeding

Chapter 86: The Cost of Good Breeding

Classes resumed the way an old clock might: same hands, same ticking, same tolling hours. But the air in the castle had shifted. Not quite colder, not quite louder—just off. As if the walls themselves had begun holding their breath.

It was in the way students moved: a little faster in corridors, in tighter clumps. In the hushed murmurs over dinner when the Prophet headline changed yet again. In the way professors kept their lectures sharp, brisk, as if too much silence might let the wrong thoughts creep in.

And it was in the way no one ever said the word war.

They were back at Hogwarts, after all. This was meant to be safe. Structured. Predictable.

A lie that clung to the walls like ivy.

The Slug Club dinner was held that Friday, the final one of the year. The table was longer than usual, dressed in deep plum velvet with silver candelabras casting flattering light over everything. Slughorn had gone all out—venison pasties, charred scallops, glazed quince, a small mountain of profiteroles stacked in an enchanted pyramid.

Anastasia entered with Lucius, Narcissa, and Regulus—black and silver like an oil painting. She didn't look up as she stepped through the door. Neither did the others.

The room was already filling up with familiar faces—Slug Club regulars, ambitious seventh-years, a few eighth-years chatting nervously by the punch.

Anastasia barely glanced at them. "Why do we even bother coming to these anymore?" she muttered, smoothing a crease from her sleeve. "As if it matters."

Lucius didn't respond right away. Normally he'd say something flippant—networking, darling—but tonight his jaw was tight, his gaze fixed ahead. He looked tired. Coiled.

Narcissa scoffed, stepping neatly around a pair of chattering Ravenclaws. "It's an opportunity to mingle with people who might actually matter someday."

Anastasia arched a brow. "So idealistic of you."

"Someone has to be," Narcissa said lightly, though there was tension behind it. Her earrings caught the candlelight like daggers.

"Lighten up," Lucius finally quipped, "It's the last one we'll ever have to attend."

Regulus hadn't spoken yet. He kept a step behind the group, eyes flicking across the room like he was counting exits. There was something withdrawn about him tonight—tense, but quiet.

Narcissa looped her arm through Anastasia's as they made their way to the table. "Bellatrix thinks she's too important for these things now," she said, apropos of nothing.

Lucius sighed, and finally said, "I heard she's headed to Berlin this summer."

"Of course she is," Narcissa murmured, picking up a goblet of wine from a passing tray. "Running after him like a lost dog. Abandoning her husband, mind you. Rabastan's been sleeping in the East Wing for a month now. It's all quite—" she gave a sharp little breath, "—improper."

"Completely unhinged, you mean," Regulus muttered.

Lucius snorted. "Well, well. He speaks."

Regulus flicked him a dry look. "Don't get used to it."

Narcissa's lips twitched.

They were seated just as the room's chatter rose a pitch. The new arrivals had begun to drift in, Slughorn ushering them like a proud host greeting royalty. Anastasia looked toward the door briefly, then away just as quickly.