Chapter 10: First Steps

The platform was alive with the sound of students and parents, the screech of the Hogwarts Express punctuating the chatter and laughter of those reuniting after the spring break. Luggage trunks were being loaded, and owls hooted impatiently from their cages as the familiar chaos of departure filled the air.

Anastasia Gaunt stood at the edge of it all, her posture poised, her face a perfect mask of serenity. Beside her, Tom Riddle exuded his usual commanding presence, his sharp suit a stark contrast to the more casual wizarding robes around him. The sight of them together was enough to draw the occasional glance, though no one dared to linger for long. Tom's gaze alone was enough to scatter any onlookers.

James Potter and Sirius Black stood on the opposite side of the platform, their presence largely unnoticed in the bustle. Sirius was leaning casually against a post, his face a careful mix of disinterest and tension, while James stood beside him, his hazel eyes fixed on Anastasia and Tom.

"Bloody hell," James muttered under his breath, his voice laced with disbelief. "Would you look at that?"

Sirius followed his gaze, his own expression tightening. Across the platform, Tom had stepped closer to Anastasia, his hands resting on her shoulders as he leaned down to embrace her. At first, Anastasia stiffened, the barest hint of hesitation flashing across her features. But then, after what seemed like an eternity, she allowed herself to relax into the embrace, her arms circling him loosely.

Tom's lips brushed against her neck, a soft, deliberate movement that made James's stomach churn. He whispered something inaudible, his smirk widening before he pulled her into a deep, lingering kiss. Anastasia didn't resist, her face unreadable as she allowed the kiss to linger just long enough to be convincing.

"Bloody good actress," Sirius muttered, his voice low and tinged with something James couldn't quite place.

James's brow furrowed, his confusion only deepening. The last time he had seen Anastasia and Tom together, it had been anything but affectionate. His mind replayed the scene in the library—the slap, the curses, the cold cruelty of Tom's words as Anastasia crumpled to the floor. And now this? He shook his head, his voice sharp as he muttered, "What if he's Obliviated her? Made her forget it all."

"Don't even joke about that," Sirius snapped, his voice cutting through the noise of the platform. His grey eyes were hard as he turned to James, his jaw tight. "You don't know what you're talking about."

James raised his hands defensively, though his gaze remained fixed on Anastasia. "I'm just saying," he said, his voice quieter now. "How else do you explain that?" He gestured toward the scene across the platform, where Tom was now smoothing a strand of hair behind Anastasia's ear, his smirk still firmly in place.

Sirius's lips pressed into a thin line, his expression dark. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice raw with frustration. "But that doesn't mean she's forgotten. And it doesn't mean she's okay."

James tore his gaze away from Anastasia long enough to glance at Sirius. "Then why? Why would she—"

"Because she has to," Sirius said simply, his voice heavy with something James couldn't quite place. "Because if she doesn't, he'll kill her. Or worse."

The weight of Sirius's words settled over them, heavy and suffocating. James felt a sick twist in his stomach as he looked back at Anastasia, who was now stepping away from Tom, her hand brushing against his arm in a gesture that seemed almost natural. But James knew better. He had seen her fire, her defiance, and he had seen it extinguished. This wasn't natural. This was survival.

"Still doesn't make sense," James muttered, shaking his head. "How can she stand it? Him touching her like that?"

Sirius let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "You think she has a choice?"

The words hit James like a slap, and he fell silent, his gaze dropping to the ground. Across the platform, the final whistle of the train sounded, and Tom leaned down to say something to Anastasia, his expression softening ever so slightly. She nodded, her face calm, serene, the perfect picture of composure. Then, with a final lingering look, she turned and boarded the train.

Tom stayed where he was, his dark eyes following her until she disappeared into the crowd. James and Sirius watched as he straightened his jacket, his smirk returning as he turned on his heel and vanished into the bustling crowd.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The train began to pull away, the sound of its engine growing louder as it left the platform behind. James finally broke the silence, his voice quiet and strained. "She didn't look scared."

"She wouldn't," Sirius replied, his tone bitter. "Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone."

James glanced at him, his expression torn between frustration and guilt. "How do you know?"

Sirius didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the empty space where Tom had been moments before. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm. "Because we grew up together. And if there's one thing we know how to do, it's survive."

As the train's whistle blew, Anastasia boarded, finding an empty compartment near the back. She'd usually sit with Regulus and Lucius, but after the week she had, Anastasia did not feel like having company, nor did she have the strength to face them both. So instead, she sat down alone, her mind already working through her next steps. She knew she had to stay strong, to play her part perfectly.

The train began to move, and as the platform disappeared from view, Anastasia allowed herself a small, determined smile. She would endure this, she would protect those she loved, and one day, she would be free.

As the Hogwarts Express sliced through the countryside, leaving behind the echoes of farewells and the hustle of Platform 9, Anastasia felt the weight of the morning's events pressing down on her. A tangible ache that refused to ease. Her head rested against the cool glass, but even that simple relief felt fleeting.

She sighed and leaned back, dragging her bag into her lap. If nothing else, she could distract herself—maybe a book or notes she'd meant to review. Anything to keep her thoughts from circling back to Tom, his hands on her, his voice dripping with that venomous charm. She rifled through the bag with mechanical efficiency, her fingers brushing against smooth leather, the brittle edges of parchment—until they landed on something unexpected.

A rectangular pack tumbled free, landing on the seat beside her. Anastasia frowned and reached for it, tilting it into the light as she studied it.

A muggle cigarette pack.

For a moment, she simply stared at it, her mind sluggishly piecing together how it could've ended up in her belongings. She opened the pack and saw a silver lighter stuck between the cigarettes.

Sirius.

A small, dry laugh escaped her lips as she turned the pack over in her hands. Of course it was his. She could practically hear him now, teasing her for handling it like it might combust in her hands. How many times had she rolled her eyes at this ridiculous muggle habit of his? And yet, curiosity had eventually gotten the better of her, and she'd let him show her how to light one—strictly for novelty's sake, she'd told herself.

The memory was oddly sharp, tugging her out of the present and into the past: perched on Sirius' balcony at Grimmauld Place, the stale smell of tobacco curling in the air, the muffled quiet of a house momentarily emptied of its horrors. They weren't friends—never friends— not since they turned eleven years old, but in those rare moments, something unspoken lingered between them, something untainted by rivalry or expectation.

She lifted the pack closer to her face and breathed in. The faint scent of stale smoke clung to it, and beneath that, a trace of something uniquely Sirius: a sharp, almost reckless warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold halls of Grimmauld Place.

How did this even get here? she thought, her lips curling faintly into something that wasn't quite a smile. She could see him now, leaning lazily against a doorframe, smirking at her with that infuriatingly easy charm.

A sudden urge pulled her from her thoughts. She didn't overthink it—thinking, after all, was the problem today. She slipped the pack into her pocket, rose from her seat, and slid the door open. The corridor was quiet, most students still in their compartments. She moved quickly, her steps soft against the worn carpet.

At the end of the train, she found what she was looking for: the small platform just outside the last carriage, where the air whipped past in cold, biting bursts. She opened the door cautiously, stepping out into the rushing wind. It was louder out here, the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels magnified, the countryside a blur of green and gold beneath the slate-grey sky.

Her fingers worked quickly, pulling a cigarette from the pack and lighting it with her wand. She'd only done this a handful of times, but muscle memory kicked in, and soon she was inhaling that acrid, oddly comforting smoke.

She exhaled, watching as the plume of white was immediately snatched away by the wind. It wasn't a pleasant taste, not exactly, but it was something to do, something that grounded her in a way she couldn't explain.

Leaning against the railing, she let the cigarette dangle between her fingers as her gaze swept across the rushing landscape. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she didn't mind. It was better than the suffocating warmth of her compartment, better than the haunting echoes of Tom's words.

She thought of Sirius again, of the way he'd smirk at her indignation when she'd first caught him with one of these. He'd offered her one so nonchalantly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And she, in a rare moment of curiosity, had accepted.

"Figured you'd chicken out," he'd teased, watching as she coughed on her first inhale.

"Shut up," she'd snapped, her glare half-hearted as he laughed.

The memory faded, leaving her with a hollow ache she couldn't quite place. She took another drag, letting the sharp burn settle in her lungs before exhaling slowly.

The train rattled beneath her, the wind roaring in her ears, but for a moment, it was quiet inside her head. Out here, there were no expectations, no masks to maintain. Just her, the cigarette, and the fleeting memory of something simpler.

Unbeknownst to Anastasia, James Potter had noticed her quiet departure from the Slytherin compartment. Curiosity, mixed with an undefined concern that had taken root in him since witnessing the unnerving scene at the ball, spurred him to follow. His steps were cautious, mindful of the noise, as he navigated the corridors in search of her.

Finding Anastasia, the sight of her alone, the fragile plume of smoke a stark contrast to the steel and steam around them, struck a chord within him. The rivalry and antagonism that had long defined their interactions seemed trivial in this moment, overshadowed by the complexity of the emotions playing across her face.

"Smoking, huh? How very muggle of you," he said, stepping up beside her.

"Back to your stalking antics so soon, Potter? How refreshing."

James smirked, though there was a tightness to it, an awkwardness that didn't suit him. "Just can't stay away, Gaunt. You've got this... magnetic charm."

Her glare deepened, but she said nothing, taking another slow drag as if to emphasise her disinterest in whatever game he thought he was playing.

James, undeterred, stepped fully onto the platform, his hands shoved into the pockets of his robes. "Didn't peg you as the type to indulge in muggle habits." he said, glancing pointedly at the cigarette between her fingers.

"And I didn't peg you for someone with a death wish," she retorted, her tone sharp. "But here we both are."

James grinned despite himself, but there was something almost nervous in the way he shifted his weight. "I'm just making conversation, Gaunt. No need to bite my head off."

"Conversation? Is that what we're calling this now?" She raised an eyebrow, her expression dubious. "What exactly do you want?"

James hesitated for a beat, as if weighing his options, before his grin widened, feigned ease spilling into his voice. "To join you, obviously. Cigarette, please. Let's make this a proper bonding moment."

Anastasia rolled her eyes and turned back to the horizon, the cigarette balanced delicately between her fingers. "What is it, Potter?" she asked flatly. "I'm not in the mood to entertain whatever this is supposed to be."

For once, James faltered. He hadn't expected her to make this easy, but the bluntness of her dismissal still stung. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his grin slipping into something softer, more uncertain.

"Look," he said after a moment, his tone quieter, "I'm not playing at anything. Just thought maybe you could use the company."

She snorted, turning back toward the open air, the cigarette balanced delicately between her fingers. "Are you quite alright, Potter?" she repeated, her voice laced with incredulity. "Or did you hit your head during the break? In what world would your company be of any use to me?"

He shrugged, stepping closer until he was leaning on the railing beside her. "It's a brave new world, Gaunt. Thought I'd give kindness a shot."

"Kindness?" she echoed, her tone biting as she turned to face him fully, her sharp features illuminated by the faint glow of the cigarette. "Now I know you've definitely hit your head. Am I supposed to be touched?"

He grinned, though the sharpness in her tone made it waver slightly. "Don't strain yourself."

Anastasia took another drag, exhaling slowly before fixing him with a pointed look. "So, this is your new strategy? Show up uninvited and hover until I'm forced to acknowledge you?"

"Something like that," he said lightly, stepping closer despite her glare. "And here I thought you'd be more gracious about the effort."

She scoffed, shaking her head as she turned back to the railing. "Well, I guess it's a good thing you're used to being wrong."

He grinned despite himself, though her coldness wasn't unexpected. "You've got a way with words, Gaunt. It's no wonder people find you so charming."

Instead of leaving, as she hoped, James stepped closer, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. He stood beside her, letting the wind ruffle his messy hair as he studied her. His gaze flicked to the cigarette in her hand, his brows raising slightly as he reached forward and plucked one from her pack without asking.

She shot him a sharp glare. "Help yourself, Potter."

"Thanks, I will," he quipped, lighting the cigarette with a small flick of his wand. He took a slow drag, exhaling as he said, "Sirius smokes these."

Her fingers tightened slightly on the railing, but she kept her expression indifferent. "How observant of you."

"Just surprising," he added, leaning against the rail now, the cigarette balanced between his fingers. "Thought you were too... dignified for this sort of thing."

"Dignified?" She tilted her head, the faintest edge of a smirk curling her lips. "Careful, Potter. That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Don't get used to it," he replied quickly, though his tone was more light than biting. He hesitated, as if searching for a way to continue, then cleared his throat. "So," he said, leaning slightly closer, "does Riddle know about this little habit of yours?"

Her expression hardened instantly, her smirk vanishing as she turned her gaze sharply on him. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

James smirked, clearly unbothered by her hostility. "Just curious. I mean, the guy doesn't exactly scream 'laid back.' Seems like he'd have a few things to say about his perfect fiancée sneaking off to puff on muggle cigarettes."

Anastasia let out a dry laugh. "That's funny. Hilarious, even, that you think I owe you any kind of explanation."

James shrugged, taking another drag. "Fair enough. Still, it's interesting. Bet he'd be furious if he knew. Or maybe he doesn't mind? Maybe you're more... independent than I gave you credit for."

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "What are you playing at, Potter?"

"Nothing," he said lightly, though the glint in his eyes betrayed him. "Just making conversation."

"And why do you care?" she shot back, her voice sharpening. "What is this, Potter? Some half-baked attempt to dig for information? Wanna know what he's up to? Think I'll tell you? What do you take me for?"

James's jaw tightened, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "This isn't about him," he snapped. "I couldn't give a damn what Riddle's up to."

"Oh really?" she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then by all means, enlighten me. What is this about, Potter?"

James exhaled sharply, his hazel eyes meeting hers with something that almost looked like... concern. "It's about you, Gaunt. You deserve better."

For a moment, she simply stared at him. Then, without warning, she burst into laughter—sharp and disbelieving, her head tilting back as she let the sound ring out into the wind. It wasn't her usual mocking chuckle, but something louder, more visceral, like she couldn't contain the sheer absurdity of his words.

"You—" she managed between laughs, wiping at her eyes. "You think I deserve better? Oh, Potter, you've outdone yourself this time."

James frowned, his expression hardening as he watched her. The laughter didn't falter, not until she looked at him again and saw the seriousness etched into his face. Her laughter trailed off, replaced by a wary silence as she studied him more closely.

"Wait," she said slowly, her brows knitting together. "You're serious."

"I am," he replied, his voice steady, though his gaze flickered briefly, as if he didn't quite know how to navigate this conversation.

Her wariness shifted into something sharper, defensive. She straightened, her eyes narrowing. "Whatever Sirius has told you," she said coldly, "Whatever sob story he's spun, forget about it. I don't need your pity, Potter."

"This isn't about Sirius," James said, his frustration evident now. "I don't know what you think he's said, but this has nothing to do with him."

"Doesn't it?" she challenged, crossing her arms. "What, did he paint me as some poor, tragic damsel for you to save? Is that why you're here, playing the noble Gryffindor?"

James hesitated, his jaw tightening as he tried to come up with an answer that wouldn't give too much away. He couldn't tell her the truth—not about the ball, not about what he'd seen. But he also couldn't walk away now, not when he'd already started down this path.

"I don't think you're some tragic damsel," he said finally, his tone quieter but no less firm. "And I'm not here to save you. But maybe I'm not okay with standing by while you—" He stopped himself abruptly, shaking his head. "Never mind. Forget it."

She raised an eyebrow, her suspicion deepening. "While I what?" she pressed.

"While you waste away in this bloody nightmare of a life," James muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Her expression darkened, her arms tightening around herself as if to shield against the weight of his words. "You don't know anything about my life," she said coldly. "So don't pretend you do."

"I know enough," James shot back, his voice hardening. "I know you deserve better than Riddle, better than all of this."

Anastasia's laughter burst out suddenly, sharp and incredulous. "Do you even hear yourself, Potter?" she asked, shaking her head in disbelief. "You and I have never had a single positive interaction and you think you get to decide what I deserve?"

James opened his mouth to reply but found himself at a loss. She was right. They had never had a casual conversation, not in the ten years they'd know each other. He'd recall the first time they met. They were about seven or eight years old, dragged by their parents to a Ministry gala. It was before the Blacks took her in. She'd refused to play with him and the other kids, stating that her parents told her not to mingle with blood traitors. He'd never liked her from the start. Anastasia, even at her young age, already had the look of utter confidence and haughtiness that her whole family sported. It never occurred to him that she was just a kid.

James ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. "I'm not deciding anything," he said, his tone strained. "I'm just saying you shouldn't have to—"

"To what?" she interrupted, her voice rising. "To follow the path set out for me? To fulfill the legacy I've been raised to uphold? You don't get it, Potter. You can't get it."

He stared at her, his hazel eyes searching her face for some crack in the armor she'd wrapped so tightly around herself. "Maybe I don't," he admitted. "But that doesn't mean I don't care."

Anastasia's irritation flared. "And do you want to explain why exactly do you care? What's it to you? I'm not Sirius. If you're in need of a new project or another stray to take in, you've got the wrong person."

"Sirius isn't a stray." James shot back, more harshly than he intended, "and I don't consider you a project," James he added, quietly. "Why is it so hard for you to believe that someone might just be nice for the sake of it? Because they care?"

"If this is about that night at yours," she said, her voice sharp and clipped, "forget about it. It won't happen again. I helped Sirius because it was the right thing to do, because we grew up together—not that it's any of your business."

"Gaunt—" James began, but she cut him off, spinning back to face him with a fire in her eyes that made him pause.

"Not because I suddenly want to rebel against my entire family, against my own legacy," she continued, her voice firm and unyielding. "So whatever it is you're planning, Potter, give it up. I won't be a part of it."

"You're not listening," he said finally, his voice quieter now but no less firm. "I'm not asking you to be a part of anything. I just... I just think you deserve… better." He winced as he repeated those last words, not knowing what else could be said.

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Potter. As I recall, you're the one who told me not so long ago that associating myself with Tom made me just as bad as him."

James took a deep breath, struggling to keep his composure. "Guess I was wrong, wouldn't be the first time. But I mean it, Anastasia. No one deserves to be treated like a possession."

Anastasia stiffened, her mask slipping for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. Her first name on James' lips felt bizarre and unnatural, yet, his expression felt earnest and serious. She turned sharply, her hair whipping as she turned away from him and threw her cigarette in the wind.

"Enjoy the rest of your cigarette, Potter," she said coldly, not looking back.

James stood there for a long moment, watching her retreating figure, the words he wanted to say caught in his throat. When he finally turned back to the railing, the cigarette in his hand had burned down to the filter.