The Pact

I finish packing my things up in my dorm to head back home for winter break. It’s a depressing turn of events, really.

The manor doesn’t feel like home, but then again, it never really did. Ever since I was little, I’ve always preferred to find home in people rather than places, and even with that, it didn’t happen for me until I met Aury.

Now I have Draco, but I’m going to be separated from him for two and a half weeks. The thought is unbearable, and I can feel the bond strain when we’re in different parts of the castle. I can only imagine how much it’s going to pull when we’re at our respective manors.

I sigh and click the latch on my suitcase. All my friends have left already, and I didn’t get a chance to say a proper goodbye to Draco. Even worse, I haven’t been able to tell anyone what I found out yet. I’ll have to write to them when I get to the manor.

I step out of my room and into Dumbledore’s office. Most students are traveling back by train, but my parents wouldn’t come pick me up. They wrote Dumbledore to tell him to specifically make me come home by floo.

As the familiar swirl of green flames envelopes me, I brace myself for the jarring transition from Dumbledore’s office to the cold, unwelcoming halls of the Lavigné manor.

I step out of the fireplace into the grand but lifeless sitting room. The air smells faintly of ash and polish, the house elf likely having worked overtime to prepare for my return. The room is pristine, every piece of furniture perfectly arranged, yet it feels devoid of warmth—like stepping into a museum exhibit of someone else’s life.

“Ah, there you are,” my mother’s clipped voice cuts through the silence, pulling me from my thoughts. She strides into the room, her heels clicking against the marble floors. Her immaculate appearance is as suffocating as the manor itself: a perfectly tailored black dress, pearls gleaming at her throat, and not a single strand of her hair out of place.

“Welcome home,” she says, though her tone is anything but welcoming.

My father follows behind her, his hands clasped behind his back. He looks at me with his usual inscrutable expression, though there’s a flicker of something—tension, perhaps?—in his eyes.

“Grace, let her at least settle in before we discuss plans,” he says, his voice low and measured.

Plans? My stomach sinks. Whenever my parents mention plans, it rarely bodes well for me.

“There’s no time for settling in,” my mother replies sharply, her gaze piercing as it lands on me. “We’re leaving for the Malfoy estate tomorrow morning. They’ve invited us to spend your entire break with them.”

The words hit me like a hex. Two weeks at the Malfoy Manor. Two weeks under the watchful eyes of Lucius and Narcissa. Two weeks of pretending everything is fine while Draco and I dance around whatever it is that’s happening between us.

“Oh, uh—why?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

My mother’s lips press into a thin line, as though the question itself is an affront. “Because it’s been arranged. Lucius has… plans for our families, and it’s important we show our support.”

The vague answer doesn’t satisfy me, but I know better than to push. My father’s gaze shifts to me, and for a brief moment, I think he might say something to soften the blow. But he doesn’t.

“You’ll need to be on your best behavior,” my mother continues. “The Malfoys have gone to great lengths to arrange this, and I won’t have you embarrassing us.”

I clench my fists at my sides, biting back the retort that rises to my lips. Of course, this is about appearances. It always is.

“Yes, mother,” I say stiffly, my voice devoid of emotion. “I’ll be ready.”

My mother studies me for a moment, as if trying to determine whether I’m being sincere. Finally, she nods, satisfied.

“Good. Dinner is in an hour. Don’t be late.”

With that, she sweeps out of the room, leaving me alone with my father.

He hesitates, his gaze lingering on me. “You’ll manage,” he says quietly, though it sounds more like a plea than reassurance. And then he’s gone, leaving me in the oppressive silence of the manor once more.

Two weeks at the Malfoys’. A lot planned. The words echo in my mind, heavy with unspoken implications. Whatever this break holds, I have a feeling it’s going to change everything.

I trudge upstairs, our house elf already having taken up my luggage. I need to get out of this foyer, away from the black cloud over my head that is my parents.

I busy myself with unpacking and repacking over the next hour, choosing outfits that are modest enough to be classy but still flattering. I have no idea what my parents are planning, but I don’t trust them one bit anymore.

After all, I don’t even know our real heritage.

Two minutes before seven, I make my way to the dining room. My mother hates it when I’m barely on time, but she knows she can’t technically say anything since I’m not late (which she hates exponentially more).

The table is already set, our nice china on display even at seats we aren’t occupying. The food looks great, as always, but I have no appetite.

I sit down and as I drape my napkin over my lap, I tap my bracelet. Tap tap. “Miss you.”

Draco responds immediately as always. Tap tap tap tap. “I’m here.”

That’s enough to settle my nerves for a moment, being trapped here with my parents. I hope it gives him some peace, too.

“So,” my father starts, taking a sip of his water, “how did your exams go? I trust you were well prepared?”

I nod my head, giving him a tight smile. “Of course. You know I take my studies seriously.”

“And how did you do?” my mother asks, narrowing her eyes, waiting for the right answer.

I hold my head a little higher, not giving her any satisfaction. “Very well. Professor McGonagall is putting me in advanced courses next semester.”

“To be expected,” she drawls, her eyes flickering with approval. “They should have placed you in higher courses to begin with.”

“I just think the credits from Beauxbatons were a little different,” I reason, taking a small bite of the chicken on my plate. “And the courses were in French. I think Headmaster Dumbledore was meeting me in the middle.”

My parents both tense at his name, though they try not to show it.

This is perfect. They don’t know I know anything.

My father sets down his glass carefully, the clink against the table louder than it needs to be. “Dumbledore, you say? He seems… accommodating.”

I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. “He is. Very kind, too. Always checking in to make sure I’m adjusting well.”

My mother’s lips press into a thin line, and I know that’s her version of bristling. “How thoughtful of him,” she says, her tone syrupy and sharp all at once. “I wonder how he finds the time, what with all his… responsibilities.”

I glance up from my plate, feigning innocence. “What kind of responsibilities?”

She waves a delicate hand, brushing off the question. “Oh, you know. Running the school, mediating disputes, keeping tabs on students. I imagine he involves himself in far more than he ought to.” Her eyes flick to my father. “Don’t you agree, dear?”

“Yes,” my father says smoothly, folding his napkin. “Headmasters in positions like his often overstep. He likely fancies himself more influential than he is.”

I force a small laugh, as if they’ve said something amusing. “You think so? Everyone at school seems to admire him. Even the professors seem to hold him in high regard.”

My mother leans forward slightly, her voice dropping to something softer—almost conspiratorial. “And what about you, darling? What do you think of him?”

I blink, feigning confusion. “Me? He’s fine. I mean, he’s the headmaster. He doesn’t meddle much in my day-to-day life. Except,” I add, tapping my fork against my plate as though it just occurred to me, “he did ask me about my family once.”

My father stiffens, and my mother’s smile falters, but only for a moment. “Oh?” she says, her voice tight. “What did he ask?”

I tilt my head, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make them uneasy. “It wasn’t much. Just questions about Beauxbatons and why I transferred. I told him it was for academic opportunities, of course.” I pause. “Why? Should I have said something different?”

“No,” my father says quickly, his smile strained. “That’s a perfectly acceptable answer.”

“Of course,” my mother chimes in, though her eyes are sharp, assessing me for any sign of deception. “Dumbledore must be terribly busy to have taken such an interest in you. It’s almost unusual.”

I pick up my glass, sipping slowly to hide my smirk. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. I’m sure it’s just his way of making students feel welcome.”

“Or,” my father says, his voice a touch colder now, “it’s his way of gathering information. You should be careful, my dear. People like Dumbledore… they have agendas.”

“Agendas?” I echo, setting my glass down with a blink. “What kind of agendas?”

Neither of them answers immediately, their silence louder than any words. My mother recovers first, smiling too brightly. “Oh, nothing for you to worry about, darling. Just… stay vigilant. That’s all we ask.”

I hum in agreement, picking at my food, while my mind races. They’re hiding something. And whatever it is, it has everything to do with Dumbledore.

I fight the urge to test the waters even more—I considered mentioning furniture made of “Alderwood” just to see how they reacted, but I can’t. I don’t want to reveal my hand too soon.

For now, I’m focused on the fact that we’re spending break with the Malfoys. It’s both a huge relief and a source of stress, because even though I’ll get to be close to Draco, I’ll be equally as close to both of our parents, and I don’t know what kind of schemes they’re cooking up.

“You know,” I say softly, breaking the silence, “I’ve made good progress with the Malfoy boy. We’re on friendly terms now.”

My mother gives me a considering glance, trying to read my body language. “Is that so? When did this happen?”

“Over the past few months,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “We’ve been partnered in class a few times, and I’ve been spending more time with his… group. It seemed smart to build bridges, considering your… expectations.”

My father leans forward slightly, his eyes sharp but his expression carefully neutral. “And how does he treat you?”

I take a measured breath. “He’s polite. We get along well enough. He’s not as… difficult as I initially thought.”

My mother raises an eyebrow, her voice edged with suspicion. “Not difficult? Mere months ago you said Draco Malfoy had a reputation for being arrogant and sharp-tongued. Are you certain he hasn’t been playing you?”

I shrug, feigning indifference. “If he is, he’s not very good at it. I’ve seen the other side of him—when he’s relaxed, he’s quite charming. Besides, I know how to hold my own.”

Her lips press into a thin smile, and I know she’s debating whether to believe me. “Good. You’d do well to keep him close. The Malfoys are important allies, and Draco’s… favor could prove useful.”

My father nods in agreement, his voice calm but deliberate. “And what about Lucius and Narcissa? Do you think they’ve taken an interest in you?”

I pause, choosing my words carefully. I know my parents talk at length about me with the Malfoys, so they definitely know how they feel about me. They just want to gauge if I’ve let my guard down, which I haven’t.

“They’ve been… polite. Narcissa, especially. She seems to enjoy having me around.”

My mother’s smile tightens. “That’s good to hear. Keep it that way. But remember, appearances matter. The Malfoys respect poise and decorum—don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” I assure her, though her words only increase my unease. If I’m being evaluated by their standards, I’ll never feel like I’m doing enough.

The silence that follows is suffocating, the clinking of silverware the only sound in the room. I glance at the clock, willing the evening to end, but my father speaks again, his voice soft but pointed.

“And Draco? Do you trust him?”

The question throws me, and I grip my fork tightly to hide my reaction. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” I say carefully. “He’s different when it’s just us. I think he understands what it’s like to live under certain expectations.”

My mother’s eyes narrow, her voice dropping to something almost accusatory. “Be careful, my dear. People like Draco Malfoy can be unpredictable. Don’t let your guard down.”

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something I’ll regret. If only they knew how much I’ve already let my guard down—and how much I don’t care.

“I know better than to trust a teenage boy,” I say, my voice laced with just enough sarcasm to keep it light.

My parents both chuckle softly, sharing a glance across the table. If they weren’t who they are, this would almost feel like a sweet family moment—a rare flicker of warmth amid the constant tension.

But I know better. Every moment of levity with them has an edge, a trap hidden beneath the surface.

“Well said,” my father muses, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “Trust is earned, not given. And even then, it should be doled out sparingly.”

“Especially with boys like Draco,” my mother adds, her tone teasing but calculated. “He may seem refined, but he is still a Malfoy. Remember that.”

I smile tightly, as though I’m in on their little joke, but my mind is elsewhere. If they only knew what Draco’s been to me—what he’s done for me—they might think twice about speaking so freely.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, tilting my head as if I’m humoring them.

The conversation lulls for a moment, and I take another bite of chicken, keeping my eyes on my plate. The tension in the room hasn’t eased; it’s simply shifted into a quieter, more dangerous form.

“So,” my father says after a pause, his tone light but his words anything but, “what exactly do you and Draco talk about when you’re… on these friendly terms?”

I glance up, letting the question hang in the air for a beat longer than necessary. “School, mostly. Classes, professors, Quidditch. Normal things.”

“Hmm,” my mother murmurs, swirling the wine in her glass. “And he’s never mentioned his family? His… father?”

I shake my head, lying with ease. “Not really. He’s not the type to talk about personal matters.”

They exchange another glance, and I know they’re weighing my answer, deciding whether to press further.

“Well,” my father says at last, leaning back in his chair, “just be sure you don’t forget where your loyalties lie. The Malfoys are allies, but they are not family.”

“Of course,” I say smoothly, my face a mask of compliance. But inside, my thoughts are racing. “Speaking of, I’ve been meaning to ask you both something. How exactly do you know the Malfoys?”

They both nearly freeze, the question clearly catching them off guard. Before they can shut it down, I continue, keeping my tone light and innocently curious. “Are they friends or old business partners or something? Because they seemed familiar with you the first night we went to their manor.”

My parents exchange a quick glance, their momentary unease betraying them before my mother regains her composure. She sets her glass down with practiced elegance, her smile tight but calm.

“They’re old acquaintances,” she says smoothly, though her tone carries the weight of rehearsed vagueness. “Our families have crossed paths over the years, as is common in certain circles.”

“Certain circles?” I echo, tilting my head as though her answer truly satisfies me. “You mean families like ours?”

My father clears his throat, his expression firm but unreadable. “Precisely. The Malfoys have always been… influential. It’s only natural that our paths would align at times.”

I lean back slightly, tapping my fork against my plate. “That makes sense, I suppose. Though it did seem like you’ve known them more… intimately.” I let the word hang, knowing it will unsettle them. “Lucius seemed very comfortable discussing politics with you that night.”

My mother’s smile tightens further, the faintest flicker of irritation in her eyes. “Lucius has many opinions, and he is not shy about sharing them. That doesn’t mean we agree with all of them.”

“But enough to meet regularly?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Enough,” my father interjects, his tone sharper now, “to maintain a professional relationship. That’s all you need to know.”

I nod, carefully masking my satisfaction at the crack in their polished façade. “Of course. I was just curious. They seem… interesting, that’s all. I want to learn more about them considering I’m tied to Draco.”

My mothers gaze goes sharp, as if I swore at her. Panic flashes across my fathers face though he tries to mask it. “How do you mean?”

I furrow my brow at them like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That we’re set to be married. Like we discussed after the mixer with the ministry? I—we’ve come to terms with it now.”

A heavy tension lingers in the room as my parents relax a fraction. They still think I’m in the dark. Perfect.

Mother tightens her grip on her glass enough for her knuckles to turn white, though her voice remains cold and calculated. “Naturally. It is your duty to the family, after all.”

“I wouldn’t call that my reasoning,” I reply, fiddling with my bracelet under the table. “Draco and I have just realized there’s no use in fighting it.”

“And when exactly did you two discuss this?” My father narrows his eyes suspiciously, studying me.

I keep my mask of indifference on my face, not letting anything slip. “It wasn’t much of a discussion. It’s more of an… unspoken agreement. A truce, if you will.”

My mother’s lips twitch, her expression caught between approval and scrutiny. “A truce,” she repeats, her tone laden with skepticism. “Interesting choice of words.”

My father leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “And do you believe a truce is enough? This is not a schoolyard spat, my dear. This is your future—both of your futures.”

I shrug lightly, pretending their pressure rolls right off me. “I think it’s a good start. We’re figuring it out as we go.”

Mother sets her glass down with a deliberate motion, her gaze slicing into me. “Figuring it out will not be enough. If this arrangement is to work, you’ll need to rise above the mediocrity you’re accustomed to at Hogwarts.”

My jaw tightens, but I keep my expression neutral. “I’m doing just fine in my classes.”

“That’s all well and good,” she says, dismissive. “But academics are only one aspect of what’s required. There are certain… skills that must be honed if you’re to secure your place in this family’s legacy.”

My heart sinks, though I know better than to let it show. “You mean my training,” I say flatly.

“Precisely,” my father confirms, his tone brooking no argument. “Your wandless magic has potential, but it’s undisciplined. Over the break, we’ll ensure you have ample time to refine it.”

“And the darker arts,” my mother adds, her voice crisp and final. “You’ve avoided them long enough. You’ll need mastery, not hesitation, if you’re to stand beside Draco—or anyone else of consequence.”

I swallow hard, forcing a nod. “Of course. Whatever you think is best.”

Inside, dread coils in my stomach. I know exactly what they expect of me: to become the perfect heir, the perfect partner, the perfect weapon. And I know just as well that I can’t let them mold me into their vision.

But for now, I’ll let them believe they’ve won. It’s safer that way.

It seems playing dumb is the way to go here, so I keep the act up. “Are you certain no one at the ministry has caught on to me? Considering I’m underage practicing outside of school.”

Of course, I know the ministry has been taken over by death eaters. But they don’t know that I know that.

“They can only track your magic through your wand,” my father says, sounding rehearsed. “So long as we work this skill, you can’t be touched.”

I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. “And you’re sure they wouldn’t ask questions if they found out?”

My mother gives a sharp, humorless smile, her eyes gleaming with something cold. “The Ministry has no reason to interfere. Besides, your talents are valuable. It’s in their best interest to look the other way.”

My father nods, leaning back in his chair with a confidence that makes my skin crawl. “You’re well-protected, my dear. No one will question your abilities if you use them wisely—and discreetly.”

I hum thoughtfully, pretending to be satisfied, though their calculated reassurance only makes me more wary. They’re setting me up for something, and I’m not sure what it is yet.

“Understood,” I say with a faint smile, as if their manipulation hasn’t sunk its claws into me. “I suppose it makes sense. Wandless magic is… harder to trace, after all.”

My mother’s eyes glint with approval. “Precisely. And that’s why it’s crucial you take this training seriously over the break. No more hiding behind hesitation or fear. You’ve been given a gift, and it’s time you use it to its full potential.”

“And the dark magic?” I ask, letting just enough uncertainty slip into my voice. “I thought Hogwarts discouraged it for a reason.”

My father chuckles lowly, shaking his head. “Hogwarts is bound by the illusion of morality. They preach about limits and consequences, but power doesn’t come from restraint. You’re capable of far more than they’d ever teach you there.”

I nod again, keeping my face neutral even as my stomach churns. “Of course. I’ll do whatever is necessary to prepare.”

My mother leans forward, her smile sharp and predatory. “Good. Because the world is changing, darling, and if you’re not ready, you’ll be left behind. Or worse.”

The words linger in the air like a warning. I force myself to smile back, as though I’m in complete agreement, while my mind works furiously to piece together their plans.

“How long has it been since you’ve practiced?” my mother asks, sounding more like a tutor than a parent.

I chew on the inside of my cheek, avoiding her eyes. “A while.”

“Exactly as I thought. Come, dear. Do some magic for mummy. You know how happy it makes me.”

I cringe at the syrupy sweet voice she uses, though dread envelopes my senses even more. I hate doing dark magic. It comes from a different part of me, one I don’t like. I try to avoid it as much as possible.

I push my food around on my plate, my shoulders tensing. “I have nothing to practice on.”

My mother’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes grow sharper. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. There’s always something to practice on. Use the silverware, if you must.”

My father leans back in his chair, watching me carefully. “Or the chair, the curtains, anything in this room will suffice. Your reluctance is unnecessary.”

I glance around the dining room, my stomach twisting. The thought of summoning that part of myself here, under their scrutinizing gaze, makes my skin crawl. I take a slow breath, masking my hesitation with nonchalance.

“I suppose I could manage something small,” I say, reaching for my fork. I hold it loosely, pretending to study it, as my mind races for an excuse.

“Something small?” my mother repeats, her voice sickly sweet again. “You’re capable of much more than that. Show us, darling. Show us what you’ve learned.”

My pulse quickens. They’ll know if I halfheartedly attempt something; they always do. And if I refuse outright, they’ll only push harder.

“I’ll need a moment,” I say, setting the fork down and flexing my fingers as if preparing.

“Take all the time you need,” my father says, though his tone implies there’s a limit to his patience.

I close my eyes briefly, pulling at the dark magic buried deep inside me. It’s like touching a live wire—volatile, cold, and unnervingly familiar. I let the feeling course through my veins, down through my fingertips. I hold my hand up, twisting my wrist ever so slightly. I mutter a quiet incantation under my breath, and when I open my eyes, the fork rises from the table, twisting itself into a perfect spiral.

“Good,” my mother murmurs, her voice filled with approval that makes me feel sick. “Now, do more. Something useful.”

I lower the fork back to the table, clenching my jaw. I’m not a show pony.

“Such as?” I ask sweetly, mocking her tone.

She exhales sharply, though her words don’t match her demeanor. “Such as reinforcing the wards around this house,” she says, her voice honeyed but her eyes cold. “You’ll need to know how to strengthen them when the time comes. It’s a simple exercise, really. Surely it won’t be too much for you.”

I force a smile, though my stomach churns. “Of course not, Mother. I’m happy to help.”

My father sets down his glass, his gaze sharp and expectant. “The wards are crucial to our safety. You’ll start after dinner. Your mother will oversee your progress.”

I nod, feigning compliance. “Naturally. Anything for the family.”

Mother’s smile returns, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good girl. See? This is what I’ve been saying all along. You have such potential, my dear. It’s a shame you haven’t embraced it fully yet.”

Her words sting more than I’d like to admit. I know better than to argue, though. Instead, I take another bite of my now-cold dinner, focusing on keeping my expression neutral.

“I suppose I should brush up on a few incantations,” I say lightly, playing along. “It’s been a while since I worked with wards.”

“That’s precisely why we’re doing this,” my father says, his tone brisk. “You need to be prepared. If we can’t rely on you to protect yourself—and us—what good are your talents?”

I don’t miss the underlying threat in his words, and it takes everything in me to keep my composure.

“Understood,” I say evenly, setting down my fork. “Whatever you need.”

They exchange a pleased glance, clearly convinced they’ve won this round. But as I pick at the remnants of my meal, my mind is already working. Strengthening the wards is nothing new to me, but I can use this opportunity to learn something about theirs. Every small detail I uncover brings me closer to figuring out their plans—and how to stop them.

For now, I’ll let them think I’m falling in line. It’s safer that way.