A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 87: Trading Weapons

Chapter 87: Trading Weapons

The week blurred.

With their finals coming up, James tried to study—he really did. His textbooks remained cracked open on every surface he sat near. Tables. Stairs. The bench just inside the library's west alcove. But the words refused to root themselves. They lifted off the page like smoke and drifted into a fog of everything else.

Every time he tried to concentrate, he heard Dumbledore's voice again: Then we must act. Immediately.
But since then, Dumbledore had gone quiet on him. He'd meant it as a turning point. A win. A line finally crossed.

So why did it feel like he'd pushed her in front of a train?

He hadn't seen her properly since the Slug Club dinner. Not really. Only in fragments. A flash of her sleeve brushing past in the corridor. The crown of her head bent over a stack of parchment in the library. A shadow slipping out of the Astronomy Tower while he slipped in late at night to breathe.

He told himself he was avoiding her for her sake. That if he kept his distance, he could pretend it wasn't personal. That he hadn't sold her name and power in a moment of desperation. That he wasn't checking the map every night like some lovesick spy, watching her dot flicker from wing to wing, ensuring she was still there.

And that she hadn't been summoned away.

Again.

But the guilt stuck like sap to the inside of his throat. Viscous. Relentless.

It was Sirius who finally kicked him out of the library.

"Go outside," he said, tossing a book at James' head. "You're going to turn into a fucking candlestick."

James muttered something about Arithmancy. Sirius didn't buy it.

He wandered the grounds for a while instead, shoulders hunched, eyes darting. He wasn't sure what he was looking for—until he heard the laughter.

Not the good kind. Not the reckless kind that filled Gryffindor Tower when someone spiked the cider.

This was colder.

He turned the corner near the covered courtyard and froze.

There were five of them—Slytherins, clustered like a pack. Mulciber stood at the center, wand lazily in hand. The others flanked him: Rosier, Nott, Travers, Wilkes. Their posture was casual, like this wasn't even worth the effort of performance.

Across from them, pressed back against the moss-dark wall, were three younger students—sixth years, by the look of them. Two boys and a girl, all in Ravenclaw robes. One of the boys had blood on his collar. The girl's wand had been snapped in half.

"Say it again," Mulciber drawled, tapping his wand against his thigh. "Come on. I didn't quite catch it."

The boy didn't speak. Just shook his head, jaw clenched, eyes darting toward his friend.

Rosier chuckled. "Thought so."

"Hey!" James's voice cut the air like a blade.

Heads turned. Wilkes looked amused. Travers didn't move.

Mulciber's lip curled. "Oh, look who's come to save the day."

James stepped forward, wand in hand. "Pick on someone your own size."

"We would," said Rosier, "but it's so much more fun when they squeal."

James didn't wait for the next insult. He raised his wand—too fast, too sharp—and fired a non-verbal jinx that sent Rosier stumbling backward. Wilkes retaliated, and suddenly the air crackled with spells.