A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 87: Trading Weapons

The courtyard exploded into chaos.

Stone walls flashed with hexes. Shield charms rippled against cobblestones. Someone shrieked—a second-year who had run out from behind the hedge. James barely registered her as he deflected a curse aimed at his ribs.

He didn't have time to strategise. Just to move. Block. Cast.

A bolt of orange light grazed his shoulder. He spun, catching Nott off-balance with a stunning spell. But there were too many of them.

Then everything stopped.

"Enough."

The voice wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be.

It rang through the courtyard with a clarity that silenced everything.

Anastasia stood at the edge of the stone arch, wand held low but steady. Her robes were dark, her expression unreadable.

And just like that, the Slytherins lowered their wands.

Every single one.

Even Mulciber, who looked like he wanted to spit, paused mid-breath.

James stood frozen, panting, shoulder smarting from the earlier hit.

She walked forward slowly, gaze sweeping the courtyard.

"You're embarrassing yourselves," she said, voice cool. "And drawing the kind of attention we don't need."

Mulciber bristled. "He started it."

"I'm sure," she said, not even glancing at James. "And you were stupid enough to escalate it. Five against one? In public? With witnesses?" Her voice sharpened. "Do you want to get suspended?"

Rosier muttered something, but lowered his wand entirely.

She turned to the younger students, her voice softening by a degree. "Go."

They ran.

And for one moment, the world was still again.

James stared at her.

He hadn't seen her like this for a while. Not from this angle. Not as one of them.

But the way they obeyed her—the way Mulciber looked at her like he'd love to argue but didn't dare—it said everything.

She had power here.

Not borrowed. Not feigned.

Authority.

Anastasia turned to him last. Her expression didn't change.

"Don't be an idiot, Potter," she said. "You're already on thin ice."

Then she left.

Just like that.

The Slytherins followed, one by one, slinking out like smoke.

James stood alone in the wreckage of the moment, breath fogging in the chill air.

***

That night, James couldn't sleep.

The dormitory was quiet—Remus curled in the window seat with a book he wasn't really reading, Sirius lying upside-down on his bed, one hand dangling off the side like a child half-hoping to fall. James paced.

He tried to make it to his desk. Failed. Turned in a circle. Tried again.

"Just say it," Sirius said, voice tired but not unkind. "You've been hovering like a fucking ghost for an hour."

James stopped in front of the fireplace. He didn't turn around. He clenched his fist, bit his lip and ran both his hand through his hair like he was about to rip some out.