The Pact

After a full week and change of relentless work on my magic, focus, and mind, the day has finally come—the team meeting in France.

Draco and I sent out letters with my personal owl, making sure we wouldn’t be caught by either of our parents. She brought back a short but sweet note from the trio, with Aurélien’s approving signature added to the bottom. They must have sent it to him first.

The note is simple: Third of January, 11 pm. See you there.

“Good girl, Willow,” I coo lightly, petting her soft feathers and feeding her an extra treat for all the hard work.

We’ve spent the full day on edge, preparing to sneak out of Malfoy Manor. As the clock ticks closer to 10:45, we send Willow back to my room and sneak downstairs.

“Are you sure about this?” I whisper, keeping my footsteps light.

Draco and I round the corner to the floo, and he casts a few muffling charms before turning to look at me. “They’re on the third floor. It’s fine. Besides, they have no idea where we’re going. What could they do?”

I nod my head, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

I’ve been on edge since my training resumed, and I’ve been uncharacteristically snappy and harsh. Draco knows why, and he understands, but I’m not sure if my friends will give me the same grace.

As we go to step into the floo, a light pop sound emits from beside me, making me jump.

I spin around, my heart pounding, to see none other than Dobby standing there, wide-eyed and wringing his hands nervously.

“Dobby!” I whisper-shout, glancing anxiously between him and Draco. “What are you doing here? You scared me half to death!”

“Dobby is very sorry, miss,” he whispers, bowing his head low. “But Dobby must know—what is Miss and Master Malfoy doing sneaking about at this hour?”

Draco steps forward, his expression carefully neutral but his jaw tight. “That’s none of your business, elf. Go back to whatever you were doing.”

Dobby flinches but doesn’t budge, looking from Draco to me with something close to desperation. “Dobby does not mean to meddle, Master Draco, but Dobby knows. Knows you is up to something dangerous. Dobby must tell Master Malfoy—”

“Wait!” I interject, stepping between them before Draco can snap. I kneel slightly to Dobby’s height, lowering my voice. “Dobby, please. We’re not doing anything wrong. I promise. We just need to help some friends—people who are trying to fight against… against bad people.”

Dobby’s eyes dart to Draco, his expression torn. “Miss Lavigné has always been kind to Dobby,” he says slowly, wringing his hands. “Dobby does not want to get Miss or Master in trouble, but…”

I reach out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell anyone, Dobby. Please, trust me. We’re trying to do what’s right.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer, his wide eyes brimming with uncertainty. Then, with a deep sigh, he nods. “Dobby will not tell. But Miss and Master must be careful. Very careful!”

Relief floods through me, and I squeeze his shoulder lightly. “Thank you, Dobby. I mean it.”

Dobby nods fervently, his ears flapping slightly. “Miss Lavigné and Master Draco must go now. But Dobby will be watching. If you is in trouble, Dobby will come.”

Before either of us can respond, he disappears with another soft pop, leaving us alone in the dimly lit hall.

Draco exhales sharply, breaking the silence. “That elf is going to give me a heart attack.”

I crack a small smile, despite the nerves buzzing in my chest. “You and me both.”

“Come on,” he mutters, gesturing toward the floo. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Le Bijou Caché,” I call out, feeling the familiar pull through the floo as the flames lick around our bodies.

When we land, I’m greeted with the scent of sandalwood and vanilla, along with the blinding glimmer of jewelry cases surrounding us.

“Welcome to Le Bijou Caché,” a warm voice calls out, and I glance up to see Monsieur LeBlanc approaching us, arms outstretched in greeting. His silver hair is neatly combed, his dark suit impeccably tailored. The man exudes sophistication, but his kind smile softens the initial intimidation.

“Ah, my dear!” he says, enveloping me in a brief, fond embrace. “Aurélien told me you’d be bringing friends. Bienvenue.” He glances at Draco, raising a curious brow. “And you must be one of them. Monsieur Malfoy, is it?”

Draco nods stiffly, clearly still absorbing his surroundings. His gaze sweeps across the store, lingering on the vaulted ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers, the velvet-lined displays glittering with diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires, and the elegant racks of silk gowns and tailored suits. The warm, golden light casts a cozy glow, despite the grandeur of the space.

“This… is the old store you mentioned?” Draco mutters under his breath, shooting me a bewildered look.

I suppress a grin, biting back a teasing comment. “You should know by now not to take me so literally.”

Monsieur LeBlanc chuckles, clapping Draco on the shoulder. “It may look grand, but it has its secrets. Come, follow me. I’ll show you to where my nephew spends most of his time.”

He leads us toward the back, weaving past displays and racks. Draco continues to glance around, his usual aloofness cracking under his obvious amazement.

When we reach a modest tapestry hung near the back wall, Monsieur LeBlanc gestures to it with a flourish. “Just here. I trust you remember the way?”

I nod, stepping forward to move the tapestry aside, revealing a small door embedded in the wall. Pushing it open, I feel a rush of nostalgia as I take in the hidden space behind it—a cozy hideout filled with mismatched furniture, stacks of books, and the faint scent of aged wood.

The sound of voices greets us.

“Finally!” Ron exclaims, rising from one of the worn armchairs. “We were starting to think you got lost!”

Aurélien leans against the far wall, his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face as Draco is still reeling. “Did you forget to tell him what kind of store this was?”

“I might’ve left out a detail or two,” I reply, setting down my bag.

Harry adjusts his glasses, glancing at Draco. “I’ve got to admit,” he says, “this is not what we expected when you said ‘little store.’”

Ginny nods in agreement, a faint smile playing on her lips. “It’s gorgeous. A bit overwhelming, but gorgeous.”

“Leave it to her to downplay it,” Aurélien teases, earning a glare from me.

“Alright, alright,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Now that you’ve all had your moment, can we focus? We don’t have much time.”

Draco shakes his head as if snapping out of a trance, his usual composure slipping back into place. “Agreed,” he says, his voice steady once more. “Let’s get to work.”

We all gather around the table in the center of the room, everyone pulling various books and files out of their bags. Draco and I sit right next to each other, of course, and Aurélien takes the other spot beside me protectively.

“I trust you got my letter, Mione?” I ask, taking in all of the new materials laying out in front of me.

She nods her head, pulling out her notebook. “I cross referenced the name Alderwood with the Sacred Twenty Eight—”

“Alderwood?” Aurélien questions, giving me a confused look. “But that’s not…”

“It’s a long story,” I reply, brushing him off. “I snuck into Dumbledore’s office like I said I would and saw a memory in his Pensieve. Draco’s father called mine ‘Alderwood,’ so my parents—”

“Skipped town and changed their names!” Ron says with a snap, eyes wide.

“Yes, Ron,” I reply, already feeling the beginnings of a headache as I massage my temple. “Thank you for summarizing what I was just saying.”

Hermione shoots him a reproachful look before continuing, but Ginny jumps in before she can get a word out.

“Wait, so your parents were hiding their identity and their lineage?” Ginny asks, her brow furrowed.

“Clearly,” Draco mutters, crossing his arms. “Can we let Granger finish before we start theorizing? Merlin knows we don’t have all night.”

“Thank you!” I snap, glaring at everyone around the table. “For once, I agree with Draco. Could we all just shut up and let Hermione speak?”

The room falls silent, everyone exchanging surprised glances at my outburst. Even Aurélien looks taken aback, but he says nothing, just leaning slightly away from me.

Hermione clears her throat, breaking the awkward pause. “Right. As I was saying, I cross-referenced the name Alderwood with the Sacred Twenty-Eight and came up empty.”

My heart sinks for a moment until she continues.

“But then I thought about what you said—that the name wasn’t always Lavigné, and you only learned the name Alderwood through Draco’s father. So I dug deeper and followed the first names in the lineage records instead. Specifically, your father’s name, Castor.”

She flips through her notebook, finding a specific page. Her voice grows more animated as she explains. “His name is very uncommon, so I didn’t have a hard time. And that’s when I found it: Castor Alderwood, a direct descendant of Merlin himself.”

The room falls silent again, this time for a completely different reason.

“What?” I whisper, staring at her as if she’s grown a second head.

Hermione nods, her expression solemn. “The Alderwood name didn’t originate with the Sacred Twenty-Eight because it predates them by centuries. Merlin had a son, and his bloodline survived until the Merlin lineage ended with a daughter. She married into a different name: Alderwood. The Alderwood  lineage is extensive and the blood must be potent, because the magic never got diluted. When your family fled to France, your father must have changed his surname to Lavigné as an extra layer of protection.”

Everyone else looks equally stunned. Ron’s mouth hangs open slightly, Ginny’s eyes are wide, and Aurélien stares at me with something between shock and admiration.

Draco, however, narrows his eyes, leaning forward. “That would explain why you’re so… capable,” he says, his tone carefully neutral.

“Capable?” I repeat, my voice rising. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Draco replies, though his smirk betrays his usual arrogance. “It just makes sense now—why you’re naturally good at wandless magic, dark magic, and, well… everything else.”

Aurélien glares at Draco, but Ron interrupts before things get a chance to escalate. “Wait… what do you mean, ‘dark magic’?”

I freeze, realizing only half the room knew about that—Draco, Aurélien, and Harry.

Hermione’s jaw drops in surprise. “And did you say… wandless?”

“Conveniently left that out of the equation when you came begging us for help,” Ron quips, looking like I’d betrayed them.

I look around the room helplessly, not sure how to soften the blow. “It’s not… voluntary,” I start, stammering. “My parents—”

“She had no choice, okay?” Harry interrupts me, looking at his friends with exasperation. “And she knew if she told everyone, this is the reaction she’d get. Just lay off for a minute, we have bigger problems here.”

I give Harry a grateful look, but it’s quickly overshadowed by Hermione’s voice, shrill and emotional. “You knew?”

Harry clenches his jaw, taking a sharp breath. “She told me at the last meeting. When we were trying to figure out what the bloody hell was going on with our wands. She had to.”

Hermione’s eyes flash with hurt and frustration. “So everyone else is just expected to be kept in the dark?”

“Hermione,” I plead, my voice breaking slightly. “It’s not like that. I didn’t want to keep it from you—I didn’t want to keep it from anyone—but I was scared. If people knew… if he knew—”

“She’s right,” Aurélien says suddenly, his tone sharp as he glances around the room. “She’s been carrying this alone for years. Her parents… they made sure of that.”

Draco crosses his arms, his expression unreadable. “It’s not just that. This isn’t about her hiding it—it’s about survival. People like us—” he gestures vaguely to himself and me—“we don’t exactly have the luxury of trust.”

Ginny frowns, her brow furrowed. “So, what? You’re saying she’s dangerous?”

“No,” Harry cuts in firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m saying she’s powerful. There’s a difference.”

Ron snorts, crossing his arms. “Bit of a fine line, don’t you think?”

“Stop it!”

The room falls silent as I stand up, slamming my palms on the table. Even Ron snaps his mouth shut, clearly taken by surprise.

“I’m sick and tired of everyone assuming they know what I am—of being labeled by people who have no idea what I’ve been through. I am more than capable of telling you what you need to know if you’d give me a damn chance!”

It seems as if the room itself is holding its breath as I take a sharp breath, trying to steady myself.

Aurélien leans forward, his voice laced with concern. “Mon étoile, you’re not acting like yourself. What’s going on?”

When I turn to face him, the worried look on his face brings me back down to reality for just long enough that the guilt sets in again.

I rub my hands over my face, sighing. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m exhausted.”

Draco studies me carefully, then looks at Aurélien as if willing him to understand. “She’s been training since the day after your visit.”

“What?” Aurélien questions him, his voice coming out sharp. “Every day? Mon soleil, it’s been nearly a week and a half.”

I wince slightly at the reminder, but I don’t brush it off. “I’ve had no choice. It’s the only way I can appease them, but it’s a lot.”

Draco shifts in his seat, his usual aloof demeanor cracking. “It’s not just that,” he mutters, almost as if he regrets saying it. “The dark magic—it… it takes a toll on her body, her mind. It’s not just exhausting. It hurts.”

The room goes quiet at his words. Hermione, her brow furrowed in concern, is the first to speak. “What do you mean, hurts? Dark magic isn’t supposed to feel like that, is it?”

Draco shifts uncomfortably, his fingers tapping against the edge of the table. “It’s not the same as normal magic. It… it’s wrong.” His eyes flick briefly to me before he looks down, as if struggling to find the right words. “It leaves this crackling sensation, and when she practices it, it hurts her. I can feel it… Every time it pulses through her, it feels like electricity running through my own veins.”

My heart skips a beat. In all of the chaos and exhaustion, I completely forgot Draco can feel my pain. Even so, I had no idea he could feel something internal like that. I meet his gaze, and for a moment, our eyes lock—a silent understanding passing between us.

Aurélien leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “So, you’re telling me, every time you train, it’s not just a mental or emotional toll. It’s physical, too?”

I nod reluctantly. “It’s not something I can control, not completely. Every time I try to pull away, it reacts—it’s as if the magic itself refuses to be contained, and it fights back.”

Draco looks at me with something softer in his eyes, though he doesn’t say anything. It’s almost like he understands the weight of it all without me having to explain further.

Ron, looking uncomfortable but still determined, finally speaks up. “Then why the hell are you still doing it?”

I pause, the question hitting harder than I expected. “Because I don’t have a choice.” I force the words out, though they taste bitter in my mouth. “If I refuse, my parents will disown me. Besides, I need to be ready. The more I train, the more I understand how dangerous things are going to get. If I don’t push myself, we lose.”

Hermione, still looking conflicted, glances at the others. “I get it. You’re a lot like Harry—you’ve been carrying this on your own for so long, afraid to get anyone else involved, but you don’t have to. We’re here to help.”

Aurélien places a hand on my arm, his touch warm and steady. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, mon étoile. Let us help you. We can find another way, one that doesn’t leave you broken.”

I swallow hard, the exhaustion weighing heavily on me. They want to help, but I’m not sure they truly understand what this is doing to me. It’s not just about training; it’s about surviving something no one should have to face.

Draco’s voice cuts through my thoughts, a note of quiet conviction in it. “You don’t have to do it alone. But we have to move past this. We need to be ready for what’s coming next, and that means talking.”

For a moment, I hesitate, the tension in my chest making it hard to breathe. But finally, I nod. “Okay.” I take a deep breath, looking around the room at all their faces. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner, I was just…”

“Afraid,” Harry finishes for me, and I get the sensation that he understands completely.

“Yeah,” I reply, “something like that.”

I sit back down as an uncomfortable silence lingers, but eventually, Hermione breaks the tension.

“We’ll figure out what to do about that later, okay? For now, all we have is our research, and we have to make the best of it.”

I nod in agreement, leaning back as Draco takes my hand, giving it a light squeeze. The gesture isn’t lost on me, and everyone else looks at us hesitantly but no one says anything about it.

Hermione references her notes one more time before sliding them across the table to me. “There’s one more thing. Your mother—did she ever tell you her maiden name?”

I pick up the notebook, shaking my head. “No, actually. I never heard much about my extended family on either side. I just assumed I didn’t have any.”

As I trace my fingers over the page, Hermione starts to explain away. “After some digging, I figured out that your mother’s original name—before she married—was Grace Lévèque de Noirval. She comes from a long line of French aristocrats, so my guess is she married your father for his name.”

My stomach twists at Hermione’s words. Grace Lévèque de Noirval. The name sounds elegant, powerful—too powerful. Aurélien shoots me a look as we both contemplate the meaning.

In French literature, “Lévèque” is used in metaphors to insinuate secrecy, like being tight-lipped. And Noirval? Well, “noir” means black. Her name roughly insinuates dark secrets—or maybe even secrets about dark magic.

It doesn’t feel like it belongs to my mother, though maybe that’s because I’ve only ever known her as Lady Lavigné.

Aurélien quirks a brow, directing his attention to me. “Lévèque. Very curious.”

“Definitely,” I reply, as if we’re talking in some secret code.

Draco is staring us down, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to figure out the meaning or if he’s just annoyed my attention is on Aury, but I ignore it for now.

I turn to Hermione, adjusting the tap bracelet on my wrist. “She married him for his name? What does that even mean?”

Hermione glances at me apologetically but presses on. “Your father’s lineage, the Alderwoods… It’s a direct line back to Merlin. That kind of connection—power, prestige—would be invaluable to a family like hers. Especially if they’re already part of the aristocracy but wanted to elevate their status further.”

“Sounds like something your kind of people would do,” Ron mutters, shooting a glance at Draco.

Draco ignores him, his focus entirely on me. His hand tightens around mine, anchoring me even as the room starts to feel like it’s spinning.

Aurélien leans forward, his brow furrowed in concern. “Mon étoile, are you okay?”

I shake my head slowly. “I… I don’t know. My mother never talked about her family. Ever. I didn’t even think she had one. And now…” I gesture vaguely at Hermione’s notes. “I’m finding out she comes from some ancient, aristocratic bloodline? That she might have married my father to, what, move up in society? Compound her influence?”

Hermione’s expression softens. “I know it’s a lot to process, but it might help explain why your family is so deeply tied to all of this. Both sides of your lineage are incredibly significant—your father’s, because of Merlin, and your mother’s, because of her ties to dark magic and power.”

“And now it’s all on me,” I murmur, the weight of it sinking in. “I’m the product of all that. The bloodlines, the expectations, the… darkness.”

“It doesn’t define you,” Harry says firmly, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “You’re more than where you came from. You’re more than your family’s legacy.”

Draco’s thumb brushes over my hand, a small gesture that steadies me more than I care to admit. “Potter’s right. You’re not your parents. You’re you. And that’s what matters.”

For a moment, the tension in the room eases, and I allow myself to breathe. But Hermione’s voice brings me back to reality.

“We’ll need to keep looking into this,” she says, her tone serious. “Your mother’s family, their ties to dark magic… there’s more here than we realize. And if Dumbledore thinks it’s important, then we can’t ignore it.”

I nod, though my mind is still racing. Grace Lévèque de Noirval. The name feels like a key, unlocking doors I’m not sure I’m ready to open. But if this is the only way to understand what’s happening—if this is the only way to stop what’s coming—then I don’t have a choice.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “Understood. Anyone else find something earth shattering I need to know about?”

It’s Aurélien’s turn to sift through his findings, though he seems hesitant. “Are you sure you’re up for this, mon amour? We can come back another day.”

I shake my head, sighing. “No, it’s already risky enough for us to be out tonight. Let’s just get this over with.”

“If you’re sure,” he says softly, only continuing when he gets my approval. “Alright, you remember the section in the library with all the old books no one would ever touch?”

“Mhm,” I respond, watching him with rapt attention as he sets down three dusty hardcover books.

As I read the spines, he continues. “Well, I found these there. And I think I might know how to break the bond—at least, the original one between your parents. I’m not sure about yours and Monsieur dragon’s over there, though, because it doesn’t behave the way typical blood pacts do.”

The room falls silent, all eyes turning to the three ancient books Aurélien has laid out before us. Their cracked spines and faded lettering practically radiate age and power, the kind of magic most people wouldn’t dare touch.

I lean forward, squinting at the titles. “Les Liens de Sang: Secrets Interdits” (Blood Bonds: Forbidden Secrets), “La Magie Noire et Ses Héritages” (Dark Magic and Its Legacies), and “L’Art Perdu des Pacts” (The Lost Art of Pacts).

“Breaking a bond like that isn’t supposed to be possible,” Hermione says cautiously, her fingers twitching as if she’s desperate to grab one of the books but too wary of what they might contain. “They’re designed to be permanent, unbreakable.”

Aurélien nods, his expression grim. “Normally, yes. But these books suggest there’s more to blood magic than we’ve been taught. It’s not just a contract—it’s a manipulation of the very essence of a person. If someone can create a bond, it stands to reason that, under the right conditions, it can also be undone.”

Draco snorts softly, his arms crossed but his gaze sharp as he watches Aurélien. “Right. And let me guess, it involves some kind of ancient, forbidden ritual that no one’s survived in centuries?”

Aurélien raises a brow. “Perhaps. But I’ll remind you, Monsieur dragon, that the stakes are higher than your comfort.”

Before Draco can snap back, I raise a hand, cutting off the brewing argument. “Aurélien, just tell me—what’s the process? What did you find?”

He sighs, flipping open the first book. The pages crackle as he turns them, revealing elaborate diagrams of runes, symbols, and spells written in French. “To break a blood bond like your parents’, we’d need two things: a connection to the origin of the bond—something physical, like an heirloom or artifact—and the consent of both parties involved.”

I feel a flicker of hope, quickly extinguished by reality. “Consent?” I echo. “There’s no way my parents would ever agree to that. Especially my mother.”

Aurélien nods grimly. “I thought as much. That’s why I kept digging. There’s an alternative, but… it’s dangerous. To sever a bond without consent, you’d need to perform a counter-ritual that essentially forces the magic to unravel. But it’s risky. If done wrong, it could backfire, harming everyone involved—or worse.”

“Define worse,” Harry says warily, leaning forward.

Aurélien hesitates, his gaze flicking to me. “Death. Or even the corruption of your magic. It could leave you unbalanced, unstable—permanently.”

The weight of his words settles heavily in the room, and for a moment, no one speaks.

“And what about mine and Draco’s bond?” I ask finally, my voice quieter. “What did you find on that?”

Aurélien closes the first book and flips to a bookmarked section in the second. “Not much, I’m afraid. Blood pacts between two people are relatively straightforward, but yours… it’s different. It doesn’t just bind you—it protects you, reacts to your emotions, even transmits pain. That’s not normal.”

Draco’s gaze sharpens, and he uncrosses his arms. “What are you saying?”

Aurélien looks between us, his expression unreadable. “I’m saying your bond isn’t just a blood pact. It’s something older, something deeper. And until we figure out what it is, breaking it might not even be an option.”

The room grows even quieter, the weight of his revelation pressing down on all of us.

“So, what do we do now?” Ginny asks hesitantly.

“We start here,” Hermione says, pulling one of the books closer to her. “We read, we research, and we figure out what we’re dealing with—because if we’re going to break these bonds, we need to know exactly what we’re up against.”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I look at the books before us. Ancient, forbidden magic. Dangerous rituals. Unbreakable bonds. It feels impossible, but if there’s even a chance we can undo the damage my family has done—if there’s a chance to reclaim my own freedom—I have to try.

“Alright,” I say, my voice firmer than I feel. “At least that’s a start.”

Harry and Ron perk up now, pushing a stack of papers towards the center.

Harry starts, adjusting his glasses. “We had to switch around roles when Hermione started looking through old family trees, so Ron and I did some research on phoenix magical properties and wand making.”

“Wonderful,” Draco groans from beside me, rolling his eyes. “Leave it to you two idiots to try and do something useful.”

“Draco,” I warn, my voice low and tinged with edge. “Be nice.”

Draco scoffs but mutters, “Fine,” before leaning back in his chair, clearly not thrilled about the detour.

Harry shoots him a sharp look but chooses to ignore it, instead pulling out a piece of parchment covered in scribbled notes. “As I was saying, we found some interesting connections between phoenixes and ancient wands. Apparently, phoenixes weren’t just revered for their healing properties—they were also believed to be linked to purification magic. It’s said that phoenix tears, when used correctly, could cleanse even the most corrupted magical artifacts.”

Hermione sits up straighter, clearly intrigued. “Phoenix tears? That makes sense. They’re one of the rarest magical substances, and their properties go beyond healing. Do you think they could be used to neutralize a blood bond?”

Ron shrugs, though he looks unusually serious. “We don’t know for sure, but it sounds like it could work. The books say phoenixes have this… unique connection to rebirth and balance. If there’s a magical version of a reset button, phoenix tears might be it.”

Draco arches an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. “And where, exactly, do you plan to find phoenix tears? They don’t exactly sell them at the apothecary.”

Harry’s expression hardens. “Fawkes. Dumbledore’s phoenix. If anyone has access to phoenix tears, it’s him.”

“Convenient,” Draco mutters under his breath, earning another glare from me.

“Can we focus?” I interject, my patience wearing thin. “What do phoenix tears have to do with wand making?”

Harry adjusts his glasses again, leaning forward. “It’s not just the tears. The core of a wand matters too, and phoenix feathers are one of the rarest wand cores. They’re known for their adaptability and their connection to purity and resilience. If the bond you and Draco have is tied to your wand in some way…”

Hermione finishes the thought, her eyes widening. “Then it’s possible your wand might be the key to understanding—and breaking—the bond. It could be acting as a conduit for the magic.”

I exchange a glance with Draco, unease settling in my chest. “You’re saying my wand is connected to this? How is that even possible? I hardly use it.”

Harry shakes his head. “We’re not sure yet. But it’s worth investigating. Or if there’s a connection between you and me,” he says, gesturing between us, “we could use it to play to our strengths when the time comes.”

The room falls quiet again as the weight of everything settles over us. Ancient blood magic, phoenixes, wands—it all feels overwhelming, but at least we have a starting point.

“Anything else?” I ask, glancing between the group.

Ron shrugs. “Not unless you’re interested in some old wand-making techniques. Most of it was too technical to understand, anyway.”

“Shocking,” Draco mutters, earning a small kick under the table from me.

After a long pause, my voice comes out once more, quiet and tinged with uncertainty. “Do you think… what would happen if someone drank phoenix tears?”

Everyone looks at me in confusion, though Harry’s expression is softer, more understanding. “I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

I look down at my feet, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I just thought that maybe—I dunno, they could cleanse my blood. Cleanse… me.”

I can feel Draco and Aurélien stir on either side of me, and I’m sure they’re both about to say something when Harry speaks first.

“Nothing is wrong with you, Y/n.”

His voice is steady but gentle, carrying a weight that makes me finally look up. Harry’s green eyes are sincere, his brow furrowed in a way that shows he means every word.

I open my mouth to argue, but he raises a hand, cutting me off. “No, listen. You’re not broken. You’re not something that needs fixing. Whatever your family’s history, whatever magic you’ve been forced to deal with, it doesn’t define who you are.”

My throat tightens, and I glance away, unsure how to respond.

Aurélien leans closer, his hand brushing against mine on the table. “Mon étoile, Harry’s right. Whatever dark magic runs in your veins, it doesn’t control you. You’re stronger than that. You always have been.”

Draco shifts beside me, his usual stoic expression cracking just slightly. “They’re right,” he mutters, almost reluctantly. “You’re… annoyingly stubborn when it comes to doing what’s right. It’s probably the Hufflepuff in you.”

The attempt at humor makes me smile faintly, but the lump in my throat remains.

Hermione speaks up next, her tone practical but warm. “Phoenix tears are powerful, yes, but they’re not a cure-all. Even if they could cleanse your blood—which we don’t know for sure—it wouldn’t change who you are. And who you are isn’t the problem.”

I stare at the table, their words swirling around me. Part of me wants to believe them, to accept that I’m not a prisoner of my lineage or the dark magic that feels like it’s constantly pulling at me. But another part of me—one that’s been buried under years of pressure and expectations—can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never be free of it.

Finally, I whisper, “It can never just be simple.”

Draco’s hand suddenly finds mine once again, his grip firm but not forceful. “It never is,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a surprising amount of understanding. “But if anyone can fight it, it’s you.”

His words, combined with the unwavering support from the others, make something inside me crack. I take a deep breath, trying to steady the emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

“Thank you,” I say softly, looking around at all of them. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Harry smiles faintly. “Well, lucky for you, we’re not going anywhere.”

The tension in the room eases slightly, the weight of the moment giving way to a fragile but comforting sense of camaraderie. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I’m not completely alone in this.

“I suppose that about wraps it up,” Ginny says lightly, breaking the silence. “Unless you lot want to tell me she’s part Veela too.”

I chuckle at her blunt humor, shaking my head. “No, I don’t think so, but who knows at this point. Next thing I’ll find out is my parents are making business deals with trolls.”

The room bursts into laughter, the kind that feels warm and genuine, easing the tension that had been thick moments before. Even Draco allows a small smirk to creep onto his face, though he quickly hides it with a scoff.

“Well, I think that’s enough for one night,” Hermione says, starting to gather her notes and books. She pauses, glancing at me, her expression softening. “Y/n, can I talk to you for a second?”

I nod, a little nervous, and follow her to the side of the room while the others continue packing up their things.

Hermione crosses her arms, her brow furrowed. “I just… I wish you’d told me sooner. About the wandless magic. The dark magic.”

I look down, guilt pooling in my stomach. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just—there’s so much, Hermione. And I didn’t want to burden you, or anyone else.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “You’re not a burden, Y/n. You never have been. But you have to stop trying to carry everything on your own. We’re your friends. We’re here to help.”

I meet her eyes, the sincerity in her words hitting me harder than I expected. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

Her expression softens further, and without another word, she pulls me into a tight hug. “Just don’t shut me out again, okay?”

“I won’t,” I promise, hugging her back.

When we separate Ginny makes her way to us, nudging me in the shoulder. “Didn’t know I was in the midst of royalty.”

“Oh, shut up,” I reply, rolling my eyes despite the smile creeping across my face.

As we return to the boys, the sight that greets us stops me in my tracks. Draco, Ron, Harry, and Aurélien are actually… getting along?

Harry and Draco are standing side by side, discussing something about Quidditch, while Ron and Aurélien laugh at some joke. It’s so surreal that for a moment, I wonder if I’ve walked into an alternate universe.

“No, I’m just saying, Potter, you’re a fast flier. You just need to work on your form,” Draco says with a smirk, earning an eye roll from Harry.

“Yeah, right,” Harry replies, leaning casually against the wall. “Like that has anything to do with you winning. I’m still convinced you cheated.”

Aurélien leans over, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Hate to break it to you, Monsieur Harry, but I watched that last match. Draco’s tactics were clean.”

Ron gapes at Aury, seeming confused. “Don’t tell me you’re defending him!”

“Lighten up, Weasley,” Draco cuts in, tilting his head. “Beauxbatons and I have come to a… peaceful truce, if you will.”

“You mean you’ve both sucked it up for Y/n,” Harry teases, quirking an eyebrow. “We all saw you two at each others throats before the dance.”

Draco scoffs, crossing his arms. “Please, Potter. I wasn’t at his throat. I was merely—what’s the word—educating him.”

Aurélien laughs, shaking his head. “Ah, yes. Educating me by being insufferable. Admit it, Malfoy, you were jealous.”

The boys collectively holds their breath as Draco narrows his eyes, his expression unreadable. “Jealous? Of you?” He gestures dramatically. “Please, don’t flatter yourself.”

Ron snickers, leaning toward Harry. “Yeah, sounds about right. Malfoy wouldn’t know jealousy if it hit him in the face.”

“Right you are, leprechaun,” Draco says emphatically. “Hard to be jealous when I’m already perfect.”

Ron bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Perfect? Alright, Malfoy, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Aurélien smirks, clearly enjoying the banter. “Ah, perfection. That must explain why you tripped over your own feet at the last meeting in my room.”

Draco straightens his posture, his chin lifting defiantly. “I was dodging debris, Beauxbatons. Something your disorganization created.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Dodging? Does that mean falling flat on your—”

“Careful, Potter,” Draco warns, though there’s no real heat in his tone.

Ginny steps up beside me, grinning. “You’ve got to admit, Y/n, it’s impressive. They’re bickering like old friends already.”

I groan, rubbing my temples. “This is my life now, isn’t it? Babysitting a bunch of children who think they’re funny.”

Ron grins at me as the boys notice our presence. “Hey, you’re not exactly innocent. You’ve got Draco whipped, and we all know it.”

Draco spins around, incredulous. “Excuse me? Whipped?”

Ron shrugs, feigning innocence. “You said it yourself. You’re perfect. And apparently, that perfection involves doing whatever Y/n wants.”

The room erupts in laughter as Draco glares at Ron, his cheeks turning faintly pink. “I do not—”

I step in quickly, raising my hands. “Alright, enough! Let’s not break the fragile peace we’ve managed to create here.”

Aurélien smirks, leaning close. “She’s protecting you, Draco. Looks like the whipped theory has some merit.”

Draco glares at him, though his lips twitch as if he’s fighting back a smile. “Keep talking, Bordeau, and you’ll be testing the limits of that truce.”

Ginny laughs, nudging me again. “Yeah, you’re stuck with this lot, alright. But honestly? I think you love it.”

I roll my eyes but can’t hide my smile. “Maybe. Just a little.”

The group starts to chat about trivial things—break and the weather, what we received for Christmas. Even though it’s late, we all need the reprieve. A break from all the heavy topics we constantly have to discuss. We actually work ourselves back into the fort, pulling the chairs closer together and moving the table out of the way so we can just be together.

To my surprise, Draco actually sits between Ron and Harry. There’s a comfortable banter flowing between the three of them, and I can breathe a little easier knowing I don’t have to break up any fights while we’re here, in this fleeting moment of normalcy.

Aurélien still stays beside me though, and I can feel his worried gaze settle on me more often than either of us would like to admit.

There are two things Aury and I share that the rest of the group hasn’t been let in on: an understanding of the way my training truly affects me, and an understanding of the French language that keeps adding layers to the already complicated information we’ve received.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders (much to Draco’s dismay) and leans close, keeping his voice quiet.

“A week and a half, soleil? Why didn’t you write me?”

His voice is tinged with disappointment, though I know all he’s really concerned about is me.

I sigh, leaning my head on his shoulder. “I didn’t want to worry you. We have so much going on, and I didn’t want to ruin your holiday more than I already have.”

“You could never ruin anything,” he murmurs, gently rubbing my shoulder with his thumb. “And I worry about you anyway. At least I could have done something.”

“Like what?” I question, leaning into his warmth.

He holds me a little closer, exhaling. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe I could’ve snuck you out of there. We could have run away together.”

I look across the room at Draco, who’s eyeing me curiously but is content to be wrapped up in his bickering with Harry for now. “I can’t, Aury. You know that.”

“You’ve done it before,” he replies, though we both know he’s not serious. “It would be easier with another person. If you weren’t alone.”

“I’m used to being alone.” I swallow, willing my painful memories to go away. “Besides… I couldn’t do that to them.”

He rests his cheek on my head, and I can feel him thinking. “Your parents?”

“Kind of,” I respond, only half articulating my thoughts. “They’re my parents and I still love them and would hate to see them hurt.”

“But?” he asks, encouraging me.

I start to fiddle with my charm bracelet, rhe new one from Draco, as I try to streamline my feelings into words. “But they’re not who I’m really worried about. I’m worried about my friends. I’m worried about Draco. Even his mother, funny enough.”

Aurélien is quiet for a moment, his thumb still brushing along my shoulder. “You’re too kind for your own good, soleil,” he says softly. “Always thinking of everyone else before yourself. But I understand. It’s what makes you… you.”

I smile faintly, though it doesn’t reach my eyes. “That’s what makes it so hard, Aury. I don’t want to leave them behind, and I don’t want them to get hurt because of me. But every time I think about what’s coming—about the choices I might have to make—it feels impossible.”

Aurélien tilts his head, pressing his cheek against mine briefly. “You’re not alone in this. You have us, no matter what. And if it ever becomes too much, you know I’ll be there. I’ll fight for you, with you, against whoever or whatever stands in your way.”

I glance up at him, my throat tightening. “You already do more for me than I deserve.”

He pulls back to look me in the eye, his expression earnest. “That’s not true. And even if it were, you’re worth it.”

Before I can respond, Harry’s voice cuts through the room, laced with a subtle irritation. “Not all of us were raised rich and spoiled, Malfoy. I’m sure you grew up with family dinners and late night conversations around the couch.”

“Family dinners,” Draco scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Like my parents would waste their time on such trivial things. We only eat together when there’s company.”

There’s a tense silence between them before Draco continues, seeming to gain a second wind. “I’d bet anything you got anything you wanted as a child, didn’t you? Saint Potter. Probably got worshipped there, too.”

Harry’s jaw tightens, and his gaze hardens as he leans closer to Draco. “Worshipped? Yeah, right. I slept in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven. The only time my aunt and uncle paid me any attention was to yell at me or make me do chores. So no, Malfoy, I didn’t exactly have the childhood of dreams.”

Draco blinks, taken aback by the venom in Harry’s tone, but he quickly recovers, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. “At least they let you be a kid. My father didn’t teach me how to ride a broom for fun, Potter. It was to perfect my ‘technique,’ so I wouldn’t ‘embarrass the Malfoy name.’ Every second of my life has been under his thumb, living up to his expectations, not mine.”

The room falls eerily quiet, the tension crackling like static electricity. Even Aurélien, who rarely passes up an opportunity to needle Draco, watches silently, his expression unreadable.

Harry’s voice is quieter now but no less sharp. “You think I wanted to be shoved into this… this savior role? You think I wanted to be the Boy Who Lived, with the entire world expecting me to be perfect? At least your father prepared you for the pressure. I didn’t even know what magic was until I came of age.”

“Right, and I wanted to be the son of a heartless prick who cares more about power and money than his own child.” Draco hesitates, his posture stiff, before he finally mutters, “Whatever. I didn’t think you’d understand.”

“Funny,” Harry says with a humorless laugh. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

For a moment, they simply sit there, eyes locked, the animosity between them still present but somehow shifted. There’s something raw and unspoken hanging in the air—a mutual understanding that neither of them fully knows what to do with yet.

“I can’t speak for Harry,” I say softly, causing everyone to turn and look at me, “but believe me, the Malfoys are no picnic. I mean, Narcissa can be sweet, but Lucius…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I have a difficult time finding any redeeming qualities about him.”

Draco bristles, though it seems like my words have an effect on everyone in the room. At some point, Ron speaks, his resentment palpable. “Yeah, well, the Dursleys are terrible people. Hell, my brothers and I had to rescue Harry one summer because they barred his window and tried to starve him.”

“They didn’t starve me,” Harry interjects, but his voice is quiet. “I’m sure they considered it, but they didn’t.”

Draco’s eyes narrow as he processes Harry’s words. “Barred your window? Like a prisoner?”

Harry shrugs, trying to brush it off. “They didn’t want me going to Hogwarts. Thought they could stop me.”

“They what?” Draco’s tone is sharp, incredulous. “That’s… barbaric.”

“I guess,” Harry replies, though his gaze doesn’t meet Draco’s. “Though they’re not much worse than Lucius, are they?”

Draco stiffens, his jaw clenching. For a moment, I think he’s going to lash out, but instead, he lets out a bitter laugh. “Touché, Potter.”

Aurélien leans forward, his brows furrowed. “You mean to tell me you both grew up in households that could barely be called homes? And now you’re sitting here, arguing over who had it worse?”

Harry and Draco exchange a glance, neither of them quite sure how to respond.

Hermione crosses her arms, her expression a mixture of frustration and sympathy. “Look, I’m not saying we’re all going to be best friends after this, but… maybe stop assuming things about each other. Might save everyone a lot of grief.”

Draco scoffs, though the usual venom in his voice is absent. “Spoken like a true Gryffindor. Always trying to fix everything with a heartfelt speech.”

“And yet,” Ginny says with a smirk, “she’s not wrong, is she?”

Draco doesn’t answer, his gaze drifting to the fire. “Maybe not,” he mutters, so quietly I almost miss it.

The room falls into a contemplative silence, the air heavy with unspoken emotions. For the first time, it feels like there’s a tentative bridge forming between Harry and Draco—a fragile, delicate thing, but a start nonetheless.

I glance between the two of them, my heart aching for the pain they’ve both endured. “You’re both stronger than you realize,” I say softly, my voice carrying in the quiet. “And you’re both more alike than you’d probably care to admit.”

Draco huffs, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “Don’t push it, Y/n.”

Harry lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, we’re not there yet.”

“Fair enough,” I reply, smiling despite myself. “But maybe someday.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Harry replies. “Malfoy has a lot to make up for.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard him,” Ron replies, scrunching up his face. “You’ve been awful to us for years. You think we’ll just let that go? We aren’t all as forgiving as Hufflepuffs.”

I cross my arms, quirking a brow. “I’m right here.”

Ron seems to realize what he said and quickly backtracks, stammering, “Sorry, Y/n. I was just saying.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him, brushing it off. “But just so you know, he earned my forgiveness. And that doesn’t come lightly.”

My comment seems to linger in the air, everyone looking around at each other as if searching for something to say, before Draco finally breaks the silence.

“I know I said… and did some harsh things,” he starts, pushing his hair back in an effort to diffuse the tension within himself. “But to be fair, that’s how I was raised.”

“As a pure blood supremacist,” Hermione chimes, clearly recalling some hurtful memories.

Draco clenches his jaw, clearly uncomfortable, but he presses on. “Yes, but… I never believed in it. Not really.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “So why act like you did? Why go along with it?”

Draco hesitates, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. “Because that’s what I was taught. My father…” He pauses, as though trying to find the right words. “He always said I had to be better. Smarter. Stronger. I had to show everyone that the Malfoys were superior. It was drilled into me from the moment I could walk.”

“That doesn’t excuse—” Harry starts, but Draco cuts him off.

“It’s not an excuse,” he says firmly, though his voice is softer than usual. “It’s just… a reason.”

The room falls silent again, everyone processing his words.

Draco exhales, his gaze fixed on the fire. “I didn’t have a choice back then. Or at least, I didn’t think I did. Everything I said, everything I did—it was what my father expected of me. And for a long time, I thought if I was good enough at it, maybe…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“Maybe what?” Ginny prompts gently.

“Maybe he’d be proud of me,” Draco admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But he never was. No matter what I did.”

There’s a heaviness in the air, a tension that no one seems to know how to break.

Finally, I speak, my voice soft but steady. “You’re not your father, Draco. You don’t have to be like him.”

Draco looks at me, his grey eyes searching mine. “I know that now. But it’s not easy… unlearning everything I was taught.”

“No, it’s not,” Aurélien agrees, his tone unbearably kind. “But you’re trying. That counts for something.”

Ron snorts but doesn’t argue, and Harry watches Draco with a guarded expression, as though he’s reevaluating everything he thought he knew about him.

Draco leans back in his chair, his usual arrogance replaced with something more vulnerable. “I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I just… I wanted you to know.”

Harry nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “Noted.”

It’s not an apology, not exactly. But it feels like a step forward—a small, tentative step toward something none of us are quite ready to name yet.

Maybe, just maybe, we’ll come out of this war as friends. At least, I hope so.