The Pact

After another few days of extensive training by my parents, Lucius and Narcissa, Lucius calls us all into the sitting room for a meeting. My heart pounds as Draco and I round the corner, seeing his father standing there with a frantic yet stern expression.

“As you all know, we’ve been preparing for the arrival of a certain guest, along with a few additional spectators,” he states, his pace quick. “I just received word that they’ll be arriving tonight.”

My heart drops. If it’s who I think it is—who I dread it is—I don’t know what I’ll do.

My father gives Lucius a stern nod before turning to face me. “Y/n, dear… this is what you’ve been training for.”

I shake my head, looking between everyone frantically. “What? Now? I’m—I’m not ready!”

Lucius’s sharp gaze lands on me, his voice cutting through my panic like ice. “Ready or not, you will perform. There’s no room for weakness in front of them.”

Draco stiffens beside me, his fists clenched at his sides. “Father, this is ridiculous. She needs more time—”

“She’s had time,” Lucius snaps, silencing Draco with a glare. “And she’ll rise to the occasion. Won’t you, Y/n?”

I can feel every eye in the room on me—Draco’s filled with quiet anger, Narcissa’s faintly pitying, and my parents’ full of expectation. My chest tightens, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“I—I don’t think I can,” I whisper, the words trembling out of me.

“You can,” my father says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And you will. You’ve been preparing for this moment your entire life.”

“But what if I fail?” I blurt out, my voice cracking.

“You won’t,” my mother says coldly. “Failure is not an option.”

Draco steps forward, placing himself slightly in front of me as though shielding me from their harsh words. “This is mental,” he says through gritted teeth. “You can’t just throw her into this without—”

“Enough, Draco,” Lucius interrupts, his tone dangerously low. “Your sentiments are noted, but they are irrelevant. This is bigger than her. Bigger than any of us.” He turns back to me, his gaze piercing. “You will not fail. Do you understand me?”

I swallow hard, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a physical force. My legs feel unsteady, my stomach churning with fear and dread.

“I…” I hesitate, my voice barely audible.

Draco turns his head slightly, his voice low but steady. “You’re stronger than you think,” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.

His words ground me, if only for a moment. I take a shaky breath, nodding slowly. “Alright. I… I understand.”

Lucius smirks faintly, clearly satisfied. “Good. The Dark Lord does not tolerate incompetence, nor does he reward cowardice. Remember that.”

My blood runs cold at his words, and the room seems to shrink around me. If tonight truly is the night Voldemort arrives, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.

But as I glance at Draco, his jaw set and his eyes steady, I feel a flicker of resolve.

I have to survive. If not for me, then for him.

Narcissa steps towards me carefully, and I can see the motherly concern in her eyes. “You have a few hours to prepare. And you need to change.”

I nod, only half paying attention as she ushers me out of the room, her hand planted firmly on my shoulder. Draco tails us, clearly unwilling to let me out of his sight.

When we’re out of earshot of my parents and her husband, Narcissa lowers her voice, holding me by my shoulders. “Remember, looking the part is half the battle. Let your clothing and your confidence be your armor.”

She drops her voice even lower, until it’s hardly a whisper. “And no matter what, do not let anyone into your mind under any circumstances. Anything they find can and will be used against you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I reply, my voice shaky.

“Draco,” she says suddenly, dropping her arms, “the same goes for you. We brushed up on this for a reason.”

Draco nods, looking panic stricken. “Yes, mother.”

“Now, go. Go get ready,” she says quickly, shooing us away. “And look your best.”

Draco grabs my wrist as soon as we’re out of Narcissa’s sightline, tugging me down the hallway and toward his room. His pace is quick, his breathing shallow, and I can feel the tension radiating off him like a storm about to break.

“We don’t have time for this,” he mutters under his breath, slamming his bedroom door shut once we’re inside. “I’ll change quickly, then we’ll figure something out.”

He rifles through his wardrobe, throwing dress robes over his shoulder until he lands on something suitable: sleek black robes with silver detailing that scream Malfoy perfection. He tosses his usual clothes aside and shrugs into the new ones without hesitation, his movements jerky and frantic.

I sit on the edge of his bed, my head spinning. “Draco, what are we supposed to do?”

He pauses, turning to look at me, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. “We get through tonight,” he says, his voice quieter now but still strained. “No mistakes. No cracks. Whatever they ask of you, you give them exactly what they want, nothing more.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I snap, the panic slipping into my voice. “You’ve grown up around this! I’ve only just—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his tone sharp but not unkind. He kneels in front of me, his silver eyes locking onto mine. “You’ve been trained for this your whole life, just like they said. And you’re better at this than you think. You just need to… act.”

“Act?” I repeat, incredulous.

“Yes. Pretend you’re one of them,” he says, standing again and tightening his tie. “You can do that. You’ve fooled me before.”

I blink at him, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

He hesitates, his hands stilling on the cuff of his sleeve. “I mean… you act like you belong here all the time. Like you’re not terrified of them. So, do it again. Just… don’t let them see the cracks.”

His words settle over me, and I realize he’s trying to reassure me in his own way, even if it’s clumsy.

“Alright,” I whisper, standing. “But if I mess this up—”

“You won’t,” he cuts in firmly. “I’ll be right there with you. If it goes wrong, it’s on both of us.”

I study his face for a moment, searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt. There’s none.

“Alright,” I say again, a little stronger this time.

Draco steps closer, his hands reaching for my face before faltering midair. Instead, he brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you ready.”

He leads me to his mirror, rummaging through a drawer until he finds a sleek black comb. As he starts carefully brushing my hair, his movements slower and more deliberate than his usual rushed demeanor, I can’t help but glance at his reflection.

“You have something to wear, yes?” he asks, busying himself with the tangles.

I nervously play with the bracelet on my wrist, desperate for something to do with my hands. “Yeah. Your mum helped me pick something out.”

He sets the comb down, taking a breath. “Okay, we need to get you ready, and then maybe we should practice your occlumency one last time. Let’s go to your room.”

I nod, wrapping my arms around myself as we walk next door. I pull the plum dress down, stepping into the attached bathroom to slip into it. It fits like a glove, just like when I tried it on, but it does little to settle my nerves.

When I step back out, Draco is sifting through the vanity drawers, pulling out hairpins and a brush.

He sees my reflection in the mirror and turns around, seeming to forget himself momentarily.

“That looks lovely on you,” he says earnestly, his gaze softening. “Truly.”

“Thanks,” I respond, taken aback by the sincerity in his voice.

We both seem to remember what we’re doing at the same time, and I make my way over to the vanity, sitting down.

We fall into an easy rhythm despite the lingering worry, with Draco working on my hair and me carefully putting on my makeup, ensuring perfection.

The high neckline on the dress makes it easy for me to hide Draco’s pendant, giving me just a little bit of solace in the storm brewing in my body. He slid on a few extra rings to distract from mine on his pinky, making it nearly inconspicuous.

“Dray,” I say softly, applying my powder, “what are we going to do if they notice our jewelry?”

He pauses, considering my question. “I… don’t know, actually. No one has noticed yet.”

“I just have a bad feeling,” I reply, my hands shaking slightly. “We need a cover story to tell them. Just in case.”

Draco sets down the hairpin he was holding, turning to face me fully. His expression is serious, though there’s a flicker of nervousness behind his silver eyes.

“You’re right,” he says after a moment. “We can’t risk it. If they ask…” He hesitates, running a hand through his hair as he thinks.

I glance at the pendant hidden beneath my dress and then at the rings on his hand. “What if we say we traded when we found out we were arranged to be married? Sort of like friendship bracelets?”

“That could work,” he says quietly. “And we’ll say it’s to remind us of our duty to our families. The loyalty will sound great to them.”

I take a deep breath, trying to push down the wave of anxiety creeping up my throat. “Okay. That could work. But… what if they use Legilimency? What if they know we’re lying?”

His jaw tightens, and he steps closer, crouching slightly so we’re at eye level. “Then you have to block them out. No matter what.”

“I’m not good enough at it yet,” I admit, my voice trembling. “What if I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupts firmly, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

I shake my head, chewing on my lip. “There has to be another way.” After a long pause I snap my fingers, pointing at him. “I’ll project instead.”

“Project?” he questions, his voice unsteady. “Like purposefully show them a memory?”

I nod, looking into his eyes. “Only problem is, the memory isn’t real.”

He gives me an odd look before standing up and offering me his hand. “Then we make it real.”

“What?” I ask incredulously, taking his hand and pulling myself up.

“We just… reenact it,” he says quickly, his eyes alight with mischief. “Only this time, we make it what they would want to see.”

Realization slowly dawns on me as I piece together his plan. “Like a performance.”

“Exactly,” he quips, taking off the ring and handing it to me.

I immediately feel the break in the magic—the break in the shield, but put it back on my finger regardless, handing him the pendant. I tilt my head, studying him as I think.

“Not here,” I say softly, a smile forming on my face. “And we need your school robes.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that really necessary?”

“It needs to be as real as possible,” I explain, “so it can be vivid. And they’ll catch on if you’re in the same clothes as you are in a memory that supposedly happened at school.”

“Ah,” he remarks, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You clever girl.”

I try to ignore the butterflies I feel at the compliment before looking away briefly. “Bring your robes to the practice studio.”

“Why?”

I turn back to him, smiling. “Because it looks just like the room of requirement.”

After getting everything in place, Draco and I run through an improvised scene a few times, making sure it looks fluid and real. After a solid rehearsal, we finally buckle down and do it, and I resolve myself to commit it to memory.

Here goes nothing.

Draco walks into the room, his school robes secured neatly on his body and his usual air of nonchalance masking the tension in his shoulders. I take a small step toward him, a crumpled up piece of parchment in my hand.

“Why did you want to meet?” I ask, curiosity lacing my voice.

He places his bag down, striding towards me. “We need to talk.”

I shake my head, looking away from him briefly. “What’s there to talk about? There’s nothing we can do about it now, our families have already decided for us.”

“I know,” he replies, exhaling. “But there’s no reason to make things harder. The last thing we want is to piss off our parents.”

“So… what, you’re asking for a truce?” I ask, scoffing. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly annoyed. “Trust me, neither did I. But it’s time for us to grow up. To do what’s expected of us.”

After a long pause, I finally respond. “Fine. But you have to prove you’re in this if I’m going to trust you.”

He looks around the room as if looking for a resolution before suddenly pulling his pendant out of his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“This…” he begins, his voice steady and deliberate, “is an old Malfoy family heirloom. You can keep it. Treat it like… a symbol. A reminder of what’s at stake. For our families, for our future.” He hesitates, as if weighing his next words. “And for us.”

I swallow hard, his intensity catching me off guard. Reaching out, I take the pendant from his hand, the warmth of his fingers lingering briefly against mine.

I slip it over my head before looking down at my ring. “Funny enough,” I start, “this is an old Lavigné family heirloom. I’ve worn it every day for years.”

I slide it off, pressing it into his palm. “It’s only fair, right?”

“Right,” he replies quietly, nodding. “Only fair.”

As Draco closes his fingers around the ring, we both take a step back, letting the moment settle between us. The tension in the room feels heavier now, the air charged with the weight of what we’re trying to pull off. I glance at him, trying to gauge his thoughts, but his expression gives nothing away.

Finally, I clear my throat, breaking the silence. “I think that’ll work. It felt… convincing enough.”

Draco smirks faintly, slipping the ring into his pocket. “We should get awards for this performance.”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “Let’s just hope no one thinks to dig deeper.”

His humor fades slightly, and he tilts his head, studying me. “Are you ready to practice projecting it?”

I nod, though my stomach twists with nerves. “Yeah. I mean… I have to be.”

We sit down across from each other on the floor, the quiet hum of magic in the practice studio our only companion. I press my hands into my lap, steadying my breathing, while Draco leans back slightly, his sharp gaze locking onto mine.

“You’ve got the memory locked in, right?” he asks.

“Yes.” I nod quickly. “I replayed it in my head twice while you were putting the ring away.”

“Good,” he says, his tone firm. “Because I’m not going to go easy on you. If someone else tries to pry into your mind, they won’t either.”

I swallow hard, feeling the intensity of his words settle over me like a weight. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Draco leans forward, his silver eyes narrowing as he raises his wand slightly, though he doesn’t point it at me. “Legilimens.”

The spell hits me softly, like a light knock on a door. I feel the familiar sensation of his presence brushing against my thoughts, searching. My instinct is to push back, to block him out, but I force myself to focus instead on projecting the memory we just created.

In my mind, I picture the scene clearly: Draco walking into the studio, his pendant in hand. I see myself stepping forward, hesitant but resolute, the conversation playing out exactly as we rehearsed. I hold onto the details—the way his voice softened when he spoke, the way my fingers trembled as I handed him the ring. Every word, every movement, every flicker of emotion is vivid and purposeful.

Draco’s presence presses harder, testing the edges of my projection. I grit my teeth, willing myself to stay focused, to keep the memory seamless and real.

Suddenly, the pressure eases, and I feel his presence retreat. I open my eyes to find him watching me with a mixture of surprise and approval.

“Not bad,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “You stumbled a bit in the middle, but it was solid.”

I exhale sharply, the tension in my shoulders finally releasing. “That was exhausting.”

“Get used to it,” he replies, his tone almost teasing. “Because if this works, you’re going to have to do it again. Probably more than once.”

I nod, my exhaustion warring with determination. “One more time?” I ask.

Draco raises an eyebrow, but after a moment, he nods. “One more time.”

And so we do. Again and again, until the memory is as much a part of me as any real one, until I’m certain that even the most skilled Legilimens won’t be able to tell the difference.

After a few passes, we stand up and head back to my room so we can finish getting ready properly. He tucks my hair into an updo to keep it out of my way, then changes back into his dress robes.

As I start to put on my heels, I struggle with the buckles, my hands shaking.

“Here,” he says softly, kneeling down next to me. “Let me.”

I hesitate for a moment, the vulnerability of the gesture catching me off guard. But I nod, sliding my hands away as he gently takes my foot in his hand.

Draco’s movements are careful, almost deliberate, as he fastens the buckle on my heel. His fingers brush against my skin briefly, sending a shiver up my spine that I hope he doesn’t notice. His brow furrows slightly in concentration, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world has faded away.

“There,” he murmurs, securing the buckle with a final click. He looks up at me, still kneeling, his silver eyes softening as they meet mine. “Better?”

I nod, my voice catching in my throat before I manage to whisper, “Thank you.”

He stands, brushing off his robes as though the intimacy of the moment hadn’t just shifted something unspoken between us. “You’re welcome.”

I rise to my feet, smoothing the fabric of my dress and glancing at him. “Do I look… ready?”

Draco steps back, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that feels both analytical and something more. He nods once, his expression unreadable. “You’ll do.”

I roll my eyes at his teasing tone, but the faint smile tugging at his lips softens the jab. “And you? Do you feel ready?”

His smile falters slightly, replaced by the guarded expression I’ve grown used to. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

I reach out, placing a hand on his arm. “We’ve got this, Draco. We just have to stick together.”

For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—relief, gratitude, or maybe even trust. He nods, his voice low but steady. “Together.”

~

“Don’t look him in the eyes,” Lucius whispers sharply as we walk to the dining room. “And only address him as ‘My Lord’. Don’t speak unless spoken to, and do whatever you’re asked without question. Do you understand?”

I nod, my throat tightening as a wave of unease washes over me. Lucius’s voice is harsh but quiet, the urgency in his tone impossible to ignore.

“Yes, I understand,” I reply softly, casting a glance at Draco, whose jaw is clenched, his expression unreadable.

When we reach the dining room, the air is already heavy, a tense stillness settling over the table. Several Death Eaters are seated, their dark robes blending into the dim, oppressive atmosphere. My eyes scan the room briefly, catching a glimpse of Professor Snape near the end of the table. My stomach tightens in surprise, but I keep my expression neutral, schooling my features as best I can.

Lucius gestures to an empty chair, and I move toward it cautiously, only to realize it’s between him and Draco. The arrangement feels strategic, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.

As I take my seat, I sense Draco shift beside me, his body angled slightly toward mine in a way that feels protective, though his expression remains aloof. Lucius’s posture is rigid, his gaze fixed on the door as though anticipating something—or someone.

The sound of footsteps echoes down the hall, drawing everyone’s attention. The faint murmurs at the table cease instantly, replaced by a suffocating silence.

And then, he enters.

The air seems to grow colder as Lord Voldemort steps into the room, his presence commanding and suffocating all at once. My pulse races as I avert my gaze, focusing on the ornate pattern of the tablecloth. Every fiber of my being screams to look away, to not draw attention to myself, but the weight of his presence is almost unbearable.

“Good evening,” Voldemort’s voice slithers through the room, cold and calculated.

“Good evening, My Lord,” the Death Eaters respond in unison, their voices low and reverent.

I feel Lucius stiffen beside me, and Draco’s hand brushes against mine under the table, a fleeting touch that steadies me more than I’d like to admit.

Voldemort’s gaze sweeps across the room, his piercing eyes lingering on each person briefly before moving on. When he speaks again, his voice is soft but laced with menace.

“Let us begin.”

My hands tremble in fear, and I take a quiet breath to try to steady myself. I have no clue what this meeting will entail, but I would’ve been perfectly happy never finding out.

I subtly brush my fingers over my tap bracelet under the table, my movements imperceptible. I don’t have a message to relay, not really, but I let the cool metal remind me why I’m here, what I’m here for.

Draco.

As Voldemort’s cold, serpentine voice weaves through the room, my mind struggles to keep up with the fragments of his plans—plots and strategies I barely understand. I keep my gaze fixed downward, my heart pounding louder than his words. Lucius and Draco remain unnervingly still beside me, like statues carved from ice.

Just when I think I might get through this unnoticed, Voldemort’s attention shifts.

“And now,” he drawls, his voice chillingly smooth, “to something I’ve been most curious about.”

The air thickens, every Death Eater’s gaze suddenly fixed on me. My breath catches in my throat, and I force myself not to look up, not to meet his eyes.

“The young Lavigné.”

The sound of my name in his mouth sends a shiver down my spine. I dare a glance at Draco, who’s gone rigid, his jaw tight and his hand clenched into a fist on the table. Lucius, on the other hand, looks calm, almost indifferent, though I can feel the tension radiating off him.

“I’ve heard,” Voldemort continues, “of your talents. Your… potential.”

His words are slow and deliberate, each one slicing through the air like a blade.

“I trust,” he adds, his gaze piercing though I don’t meet it, “that you would not object to a demonstration?”

I freeze, my mind racing. A demonstration. Of what? Of my magic? Of my loyalty? My hands tremble under the table, and I curl them into fists, trying to steady them.

Beside me, Draco shifts slightly, as though about to speak, but I subtly send him a message. Tap. Tap. “No.”

“My Lord,” I manage, my voice steady despite the terror clawing at my insides. “What would you have me demonstrate?”

A thin, cruel smile spreads across Voldemort’s face, and the room feels as though it tilts. “Bellatrix?”

I turn my head ever so slightly towards the end of the table where a curly haired witch stands, skipping out of the room with her wand clutched tightly in her fist. She returns shortly, levitating something over the middle of the table.

My stomach drops in horror.

It’s a person.

The figure floats above the table, limp and lifeless-looking, but as Bellatrix flicks her wand, the person lands with a dull thud and lets out a weak, pained moan. My heart pounds in my chest as I take in the sight of a trembling, middle-aged man dressed in shabby robes. His face is streaked with dirt, and blood drips from a fresh cut along his temple.

“A Muggle,” Bellatrix announces gleefully, clapping her hands as though she’s presenting some grand prize. “Freshly plucked for the occasion, My Lord.”

Voldemort’s lips curl into a cold smile, and his gaze slides back to me. “Perfect,” he hisses. “Now, Miss Lavigné, let us see this… talent of yours.”

My throat tightens, and I glance desperately at Draco, who looks stricken but frozen, his hand gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles are white. Lucius shifts in his seat, but his expression remains unreadable, as if carefully detached from what’s happening.

“My Lord,” I begin cautiously, my mind racing, “wandless magic is—”

“Surely not beyond you,” Voldemort interrupts sharply, his tone growing colder. “I have been told you are quite gifted. Or perhaps…” His voice takes on a mocking edge. “The rumors were exaggerated?”

The room is deathly silent, save for the Muggle’s ragged breathing. I feel every pair of eyes on me, waiting.

“No, My Lord,” I say quickly, forcing myself to sit taller. “The rumors are not exaggerated.”

“Then demonstrate,” he commands, his voice a venomous whisper. He gestures lazily toward the man on the table. “Kill him.”

The blood drains from my face. My wandless magic has always been about control, precision, and survival—not this. Never this.

I’ve been training for two weeks straight, and I’ve even practiced on animals before—but never a real person.

I don’t think I can.

I swallow hard, trying to keep my expression neutral as I search desperately for a way out. “My Lord,” I say slowly, choosing my words carefully. “Wandless magic is powerful but… unpredictable. It may not be as clean as you desire.”

Voldemort leans forward slightly, his gaze locking on mine. “Let it be messy, then,” he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I glance at the man on the table, his terrified eyes meeting mine for the briefest moment. Every part of me screams to protect him, to find some way to save him, but I know the cost.

“My Lord,” I try again, “I could demonstrate on something else—”

“Enough,” Voldemort snaps, his patience clearly waning. “Do it. Or I’ll demonstrate a proper curse on someone else. Your parents, perhaps?”

I freeze, my whole body going into fight or flight. Then, before I can respond, he speaks again.

“Draco, why don’t you join me, dear boy?”

He surely sees the panic on my face at his request, and I immediately realize my mistake.

No.

Draco is my Achilles heel—the one person I’d do anything for.

And now, he knows it.

Draco stiffens but obeys, his movements measured as he walks to Voldemort’s side. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. He’s trying to appear calm, but I know him well enough to recognize the fear beneath the surface.

“Ah,” Voldemort drawls, his tone laced with mockery as he places a skeletal hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Such loyalty. It’s touching, really.” His eyes flicker back to me, sharp and calculating. “But misplaced, perhaps?”

My heart pounds in my chest, my mind racing for an answer, a way out of this without giving him what he wants.

And then his gaze shifts, settling on Draco’s hand—the one resting stiffly at his side. “What’s this?” Voldemort murmurs, his eyes narrowing.

I follow his gaze and feel the blood drain from my face. His eyes settle on my ring—the one I was desperately hoping would go unnoticed.

Draco flinches as Voldemort grabs his hand, lifting it to examine the ring. The Dark Lord’s expression twists into something both amused and dangerous. “Curious,” he says softly, his voice almost a hiss.

The room feels like it’s closing in on me. My thoughts scramble for an explanation that won’t give away the truth, but Voldemort’s eyes snap back to me before I can speak.

Suddenly, I hear Voldemort’s voice in my head, despite the fact that his lips remain unmoving, an evil grin spreading across his face.

“Tell me, girl. How did Mr. Malfoy come to possess this?”

I can feel him invading my psyche, his presence cold and unwelcome as he tries to tear through the blocks I have put up.

I have to deceive him, and I only have one shot.

As he pokes and prods, I slowly start to project the memory we created—except I make it seem unwilling. Like he’s pulling it out of me.

“No,” I mutter.

His grin only widens as I give him full access to the memory, projecting is as clearly as I can. Letting it consume me, become part of the walls I’ve built.

I feel him tugging at the edges, seemingly trying to watch it all, to read my mind—and I let him.

After relentless prodding, I feel the connection snap suddenly, leaving me feeling hollow and violated.

I really let that show.

Voldemort studies me curiously, narrowing his snake-like eyes until he finally inclines his head, seeming satisfied.

“How… sweet,” he hisses, dropping Draco’s hand. “An arranged marriage?”

I avoid his gaze, waiting for something—though I’m not sure what.

Voldemort locks his gaze on me, however, unrelenting. “How do you feel about that, Ms. Lavigné?”

I swallow hard, willing my voice to come out steady. “I find it to be a practical political choice for our families, my lord,” I reply. “One that I’m sure they settled on for good reason.”

I allow a tinge of resentment to come through as I speak, silently willing Draco—and our parents—to pick up on it.

If I can only convince him that my “accidentally shown” emotions are genuine, the product of being a moody teenager upset at the idea of marriage to Draco, then maybe—just maybe—my affections for Draco will be overshadowed.

It’s the only way to keep him safe.

“I see,” he drawls, his voice chilling.

After a pause, he gestures to the muggle on the table, smiling evilly. “Surely, though, you wouldn’t want to see anything happen to your classmate. You two are in the same year, yes?”

I nod hesitantly, keeping my eyes low. “Yes, my lord.”

“Then go on, girl. Take care of this for me.”

I swallow, feeling as though my body is locking up at what I know I must do.

I feel Lucius turn to look at me—just like every other person in the room—and he lowers his voice, so quiet I’m not convinced he said anything at all.

“Remember our training.”

Draco flinches beside Voldemort, though I subtly brush my fingers over the bracelet. Tap. Tap. “No.” I can’t have him intervening. It’ll ruin everything. He could get hurt.

I channel this feeling—channel my reason, just as Lucius taught me.

I’ll be damned if he tries to hurt Draco.

I clench my teeth, starting to channel my magic through my fingertips. “May I stand, my lord?” I ask, my voice quivering.

“If you must,” he replies, his wand pointed not so subtly at Draco—angled ever so perfectly for me to see. A warning.

I stand up, pushing my seat back as I pull my magic down through my fingertips, into my palms, feeling it course through my veins. I hold both hands out in front of me, trembling, and slightly turn my wrists as I mumble the incantation.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light bursts through my palms—strong, accurate, and controlled. It hits the muggle straight in the head, killing him instantly.

A mercy shot.

Blood splatters out from his neck and mouth, landing on the death eaters across from me, as well as Lucius and I.

I freeze.

The room goes completely still. The air itself seems to tighten around me, the lingering green glow from the Killing Curse hanging in the air like a thick, oppressive fog. My heart is pounding in my chest, the adrenaline still rushing through my veins.

My hands tremble at my sides, the coldness of the magic still seeping through my skin, mingling with the horror of what I just did.

Voldemort watches me, his red eyes gleaming with dark amusement, and I can feel his presence pressing in on me, testing for weakness. His lips curl into a twisted smile. "Impressive," he says softly, the venom in his voice making my stomach churn. "A quick, precise strike. You've learned well."

But I don't hear his words—not really. My gaze is fixed on the lifeless body in front of me, the blood slowly pooling across the table, splattering onto the floor. My heart hammers in my chest, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The reality of what I've just done begins to settle over me like a suffocating weight.

Draco, still at Voldemort's side, doesn't speak, but I can feel the tension radiating off him as he watches me. His eyes are wide, and I know he's aware of how much of a facade I’ve just put on—how much of me is broken inside. How much of me is falling apart at the seams.

Lucius watches too, his expression unreadable, but I can sense the flicker of approval hidden within the depths of his cold gaze. He's pleased, I think. This was what he trained me for—to do what needed to be done without hesitation, to carry out the impossible with nothing more than cold calculation. To do what was required of me for the sake of power.

But I didn't do it for them. Not for Voldemort. Not for Lucius. I did it because it was the only way to protect Draco. The only way to protect us.

But still, I freeze. My breath catches in my throat as I feel the weight of the choice sink deeper. I've crossed a line I can never uncross, and every breath I take feels like an affront to everything I once believed in.

Voldemort's voice slices through the silence again, sharp and amused. "You've proven yourself capable, Ms. Lavigné. Perhaps there's more to you than I expected."

I hear him, but it doesn't reach me. I can barely process anything at all as I stand frozen, my heart torn between the raw, twisted need to protect Draco and the disgust I feel for what I’ve just done.

"Do not look away," Voldemort continues, his voice growing colder. "You've earned your place here. This is what it means to truly serve."

The world spins around me, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at the bloodied remains of the muggle on the table, hoping that somehow this is all just a nightmare. But it's not. It's real.

I sink back down into my seat, my face completely devoid of any sign of emotion. The rest of the meeting feels like a blur, nothing pulling my focus away from the man on the table in front of me, from the horror of what I just did.

I feel Draco return to my side at some point, sitting down next to me, and my parents eye me anxiously from further down the table as if I might explode at any moment—but I don’t. I can’t.

My blood rushes in my ears faintly as the meeting comes to a close, one of the death eaters removing the body from the table and out of my line of sight.

But no one removes the blood on the table, on the floor, on my clothes.

Nothing can remove the blood on my hands.