The Pact

Potions feels very different when a) everyone around you is asking about your “relationship” (that is happily undefined, thank you very much) with a certain Slytherin and b) you saw your professor at a death eater meeting where you had to… well. I’d rather not think about it.

“Are you okay?” Draco asks me softly, nudging my side when I freeze in the doorway.

Professor Snape and I make eye contact for much longer than necessary before I can bring myself to answer. “Uh… yeah.”

Draco quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t push it, he just gently tugs on the sleeve of my robe to get me out of the way.

As soon as I step into the classroom, whispers erupt like wildfire. Normally, Potions is the quietest class—a simmering cauldron here, the occasional scrape of a knife there—but today, it’s chaos.

“When did this happen?” Pansy Parkinson’s voice slices through the murmurs as she blatantly stares at Draco and me, her eyes narrowed like a hawk zeroing in on prey.

Draco doesn’t even glance her way. “Mind your business, Pansy,” he says flatly, dropping into his seat and setting up his potions kit like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

“This?” I hiss at him under my breath, sliding into the seat next to him. “What’s this?”

“You’ll see,” he mutters, his tone almost amused.

He’s right. I don’t have to wait long. As I pull out my parchment and quill, Ron leans casually over the table, his voice low but unmistakably teasing. “So, when did you two finally admit it? Come on, don’t hold out on me.”

“Admit what?” I snap, my face heating instantly.

“Oh, please.” Ron smirks, leaning back in his chair like he’s already won. “The looks, the way you always sit together now, and don’t even get me started on the… meetings. Half of us thought Draco had been Imperiused with how sweet he was acting.”

Draco groans, rubbing his temples like this is giving him an actual headache. “Drop it, Weasley.”

Hannah chuckles, turning around to face me. “Told you. Good luck.”

“Wait, so you are together?” Pansy interjects, her eyes lighting up in triumph as she swivels in her seat to face us. “You can’t just pretend nothing’s going on! We all see you constantly wearing his hoodies.”

“I just get cold,” I protest weakly, my voice drowned out by the growing noise.

From the other side of the room, Seamus Finnigan shouts, “Oi, I heard about that! Does he actually smile around you, too? Like a real one?”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “Oh my Merlin.”

“Careful, you’ll inflate his ego,” Draco drawls, though I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—a ghost of a smirk. He’s enjoying this, the git.

It gets worse when Theo Nott decides to join in. “So, who confessed first?” he asks slyly, his quill spinning lazily between his fingers. “Was it you, Lavigné? Or was Draco actually brave for once?”

Draco’s smirk disappears, replaced by a deadly glare. “You’re next, Nott,” he says, his tone dripping with menace.

“Please, I’m shaking in my boots,” Theo retorts, completely unfazed.

Before I can even attempt to shut this circus down, a voice cuts sharply through the room: “Silence!”

The room instantly falls still, save for the sound of Professor Snape sweeping toward the front of the classroom, his robes billowing dramatically as always. He surveys the class with a scowl that could curdle milk, his dark eyes lingering on me and Draco for a fraction of a second too long.

I swallow hard, my stomach twisting uncomfortably. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Draco stiffen too. For a moment, I wonder if he feels it too—the weight of Snape’s gaze, like he knows exactly what we’re both trying desperately to forget.

“Turn to page two hundred fifty,” he commands, his voice serious.

The sound of pages turning fills the room as everyone scrambles to obey, but my hands feel like they’ve turned to lead. I force them to move, flipping to the page, and the title at the top sends a chill through me: Liquid Death: A Lethal Poison for the Unwilling.

Snape’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade. “Today, we will brew a potion that requires precision, intellect, and an understanding of the true consequences of your work.” His eyes sweep the room, landing on me for a moment too long. “Liquid Death is not for the faint of heart. It has been used by the most… determined practitioners to end lives, often with minimal trace.”

I can’t help it—I flinch. My chest tightens as memories flash unbidden: the terrified eyes of the Muggle, the way my hands shook, the way the spell whispered into the air before there was no turning back.

“Something wrong, Miss Lavigné?” Snape asks, his tone as sharp as a knife.

I freeze. Everyone’s heads swivel toward me, and I feel my throat close. I shake my head quickly, not trusting myself to speak. “No, sir,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Good.” His gaze lingers for a beat too long before he turns back to the rest of the class. “The instructions are on the board. You have one hour to complete your potion. Begin.”

I can feel my hands trembling as I gather my ingredients. Dragon’s blood. Belladonna. A single black opal to grind into powder. Each step feels heavier than the last, as though the weight of what I’ve done is embedded in every movement.

“You’re shaking,” Draco mutters under his breath, leaning slightly closer as he begins slicing his belladonna with practiced precision. His voice is low enough that no one else can hear, but there’s a note of concern beneath the usual cool tone.

“I’m fine,” I lie, trying to steady my hands.

“No, you’re not,” he counters quietly, his eyes flicking to Snape, who’s now pacing the room like a vulture circling its prey. “You’re pale as all hell. What’s wrong?”

I keep my voice low, pretending to measure the opal dust. “I said I’m fine. Just—just focus on your potion.”

Draco doesn’t reply immediately, but I can feel his gaze on me, burning into my profile like he’s trying to figure me out. Finally, he says, “If you mess up your brewing because you’re being stubborn, I’m not fixing it.”

“Good thing I don’t need your help,” I snap back, more harshly than intended. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond, turning his attention back to his cauldron.

The room is quiet save for the bubbling of cauldrons and the occasional scrape of knives. I try to lose myself in the motions—grinding, slicing, stirring—but every now and then, I feel Snape’s eyes on me. It’s not my imagination; I know it’s not. Each glance feels deliberate, pointed, like he’s trying to unravel me without a word.

And maybe he is. Maybe this is his way of reminding me of what I’ve done. Of who I’ve become.

But then again… he was there, too. He was just as much of a participant as I was, only he probably had a choice.

And doesn’t that make it worse?

“Y/n, really, what’s going on?” Draco asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Your fire needs to be bigger or it’ll never—”

I wave my hand in front of the flame, wandlessly sparking it up. “There. Now Draco, please, I don’t want to talk about it.”

He gives me a look, one that says, “what the hell aren’t you telling me?” but I can’t bring myself to care when it feels like the walls are closing in on me.

I add my ingredients one by one, trying to follow the instructions, but I’m seriously struggling to concentrate.

Even worse, I think Snape knows it.

The air feels too thick to breathe. Every inhale makes my chest tighter, like there’s not enough room for my lungs to expand. The flickering light of the cauldrons around me seems too bright, too harsh, and the sharp scent of belladonna and dragon’s blood is overwhelming. My hands tremble as I stir clockwise, then counterclockwise, my movements faltering.

I can feel it building—the panic, the pressure, the memories I’ve tried to shove down and lock away. My vision blurs, and my heart starts racing like it’s trying to escape my ribcage. I need to get out.

“Miss Lavigné,” Snape’s voice rings out, cool and deliberate, slicing through my mounting panic like a whip. “If you cannot manage the simple task of following a recipe, I suggest you remove yourself from my classroom before you embarrass yourself further.”

The words are sharp, but the tone—the tone feels almost purposeful, as though he knows exactly what’s happening inside my head and he’s pushing me toward the edge.

I don’t wait to respond. I don’t look at Draco or the curious, judgmental eyes of my classmates. I just stand, my chair scraping loudly against the stone floor, and walk straight out of the classroom.

The moment the heavy door closes behind me, the hallway feels like a gasp of fresh air. I stumble forward a few paces and collapse onto the cold stone floor just outside the door. My hands press into my thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of my robes as I try to ground myself.

Breathe. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

I squeeze my eyes shut and count silently, focusing on the rhythm, on anything other than the suffocating guilt clawing at my chest.

You did what you had to. You didn’t have a choice.

But the excuses sound hollow now, echoing in the empty corridor.

A door creaks, and I hear footsteps approaching. My stomach drops. I don’t look up, hoping whoever it is will just walk past and leave me alone. But, of course, they stop in front of me.

“Y/n.”

Draco. Of course it’s him.

I don’t open my eyes, but I can feel him staring at me. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, almost careful. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” I lie, forcing my voice to be steady. “Just needed some air.”

“Air?” His tone sharpens, like he’s not buying it. “You don’t storm out of class over needing air. Did Snape say something to you that I missed?”

I shake my head, still not looking at him. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, tough,” he snaps, and I finally open my eyes to glare at him. He’s standing with his arms crossed, frustration written all over his face, but there’s something else there, too—something softer. “You’re not fine. You’re shaking, and you look like you’re going to pass out. So forgive me if I don’t leave you alone to stew in whatever this is.”

His words hang between us, and for a moment, I don’t know how to respond. My throat tightens, but I force myself to speak.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

I shake my head again, tears threatening to spill over. “I can’t.”

Draco exhales sharply, the sound full of irritation, but when he sits down beside me, his voice is quieter. “I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well start talking.”

I can’t stay away from him any longer, the separation more painful than the memories themselves. I curl up beside him, nuzzling my face in his shoulder as the tears start to prick behind my eyes.

“It’s haunting me, Draco.”

He wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer protectively.

“I know. I’m so sorry, sunshine.”

The nickname alone is enough to make me look up at him, my voice shaky. “What?”

His lips curve into a soft smile. “What do you mean, what?”

“I… did you just call me…?” I stammer, bewildered.

“Don’t get used to it,” he replies, though his tone is soft and affectionate. “It worked, though.”

I furrow my brow. “How do you mean?”

“I shocked you so much I stopped your panic.”

I laugh halfheartedly, realizing he’s completely right. The hall has stopped feeling suffocating and I can breathe, albeit a little shakily because of the tears still clouding my eyes. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

He eyes me suspiciously, as if weighing his answer. “Don’t laugh.”

“No promises,” I reply softly, scooting even closer.

He sighs, shaking his head. “Potter.”

“You can’t just say that and not explain,” I say, bewildered.

“I just… look. I overheard him talking about having those ‘attacks’ or whatever they’re called, and I know you have them sometimes, so.”

I blink in surprise, not sure what to make of his sudden confession. “I don’t remember telling you about them,” I say weakly.

“I can feel them,” he replies, stroking my hair. “Didn’t forget that, did you?”

His words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe again—but for an entirely different reason.

“No,” I lie, leaning into his touch. “I didn’t forget.”

His fingers weave gently through my hair, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to soothe me as much as himself. “Good. Because I’d hate to think you don’t notice when I’m paying attention.”

I can’t help but let out a watery laugh at that, wiping at the corners of my eyes. “You’re not exactly subtle, Dray.”

“Neither are you,” he quips, and I can hear the faintest hint of a smirk in his voice.

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation and the lingering tension melting into something softer, quieter. His hand never leaves my hair, and I let myself rest against him, feeling his steady breathing beneath me.

“Why do you do it?” I ask after a while, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Do what?”

“Pay attention. Care.” I lift my head slightly to look at him, trying to understand the unreadable expression on his face. “Do things like talk to your old childhood nemesis to figure out how to take care of me better. You don’t have to.”

Draco’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to brush the question off entirely. But then he sighs, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, his voice quieter than usual. “I just… I can’t not care about you. It consumes me.”

I blink at him, startled by the rawness of his admission. “Draco—”

“And before you say anything,” he cuts me off, his smirk returning, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, “no, this doesn’t mean I’m turning into some bleeding-heart Gryffindor. You’re still a nightmare.”

The tease pulls a genuine laugh from me, and the sound seems to relax him further. He shifts so that he’s leaning back against the wall, pulling me along with him.

“Better?” he asks after a while, his voice softer now.

I nod against his shoulder, feeling the tension in my chest finally easing. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

“Good,” he murmurs, his arm tightening around me protectively. “You can cry on me anytime, sunshine.”

The nickname makes me roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. Instead, I let myself stay there, tucked against him in the quiet hallway, feeling a little less haunted.

Eventually, though, class winds to a close and students start drifting out. Hannah’s the first to step through the door, looking frantic until her eyes settle on me.

“Merlin, Y/n, are you okay?” she asks, pulling me to my feet and wrapping me up in a hug.

I squeeze back, lingering for just a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Draco calmed me down.”

She looks over my shoulder at Draco, who’s looming a few feet behind me, watching every person who comes near me like a hawk. She nods, turning her focus back to me. “I figured as much when he followed you out.”

“He has a habit of doing that,” I muse, fixing my hair.

Hannah leans close, dropping her voice to a whisper. “He seems to be boyfriend material if you ask me.”

I roll my eyes, though I can’t fight the smile on my lips. “Maybe we’ll get there someday. For now, we’re just trying to survive.”

She chuckles, adjusting my robes for me. “And I better be the first to know when that day comes.”

“Of course you will.”

With that, Draco’s back at my side, placing a hand on the small of my back. “We need to get our things from the classroom,” he says, almost apologetically.

I groan, rubbing a hand over my face. “Right. Merlin, this is so embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” Hannah chimes in, tilting her head. “You didn’t sleep a wink last night. It’s not your fault you’re on edge today.”

Draco shoots Hannah an approving glance before steering me gently back toward the Potions classroom. The door is still open, though most of the students have already cleared out. As we step inside, I immediately feel the weight of Snape’s gaze on us. The sound of the door slamming shut makes me flinch, and I turn to see Snape flicking his wand, locking the door with a sharp click.

“Sit,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Draco and I exchange a look, but we obey, sliding into seats at one of the empty tables. Snape paces to the front of the room, his black robes billowing behind him as he turns to face us, his dark eyes narrowed.

“Do you take me for a fool?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

I feel Draco stiffen beside me, his posture going rigid. I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Snape snaps, his tone cutting through the air like a knife. “The two of you were present at the last… gathering. I want to know why.”

My stomach drops, and my hands curl into fists beneath the table. I glance at Draco, who’s glaring at Snape with a mix of anger and unease.

“With all due respect, sir,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended, “why don’t you tell us why you were there?”

Snape’s eyes narrow further, his lip curling in disdain. “You would do well to remember who you’re speaking to, Miss Lavigné.”

“And you would do well to remember that I didn’t choose to go,” I fire back, my voice shaking but firm. “I didn’t have a choice, but you did, didn’t you? So. Why were you there?”

The room feels suffocating, the tension so thick I can barely breathe. Snape’s expression is unreadable, but his silence is answer enough.

“Careful,” Draco murmurs under his breath, his hand brushing against mine under the table.

“Perhaps,” Snape says finally, his voice cold and clipped, “you’ve forgotten your place. Allow me to remind you that you are a student here, and I am your professor. You do not question me.”

I bristle, but Draco’s hand tightens on mine, a silent warning to hold my tongue. Snape’s gaze flicks between us, and his expression darkens.

“Whatever dangerous game you think you’re playing, I suggest you stop,” he says, his tone heavy with implication. “The Dark Lord does not tolerate weakness, nor does he tolerate defiance. Do not make yourselves targets.”

With a flick of his wand, the door unlocks, and Snape turns back to his desk, dismissing us without another word.

Draco is the first to stand, his jaw tight as he gathers our belongings. I follow silently, my heart pounding in my chest as we step out into the hallway.

“What the hell was that?” Draco whispers harshly once we’re out of earshot.

“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “But whatever it is, he’s watching us.”

Draco’s eyes narrow, and he glances back toward the classroom. “Then we’ll have to watch him, too.”

“Agreed,” I remark, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. “The real question is, though… do we tell the trio?”

~

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

I stand hesitantly in the doorway of Dumbledore’s office, my hands folded neatly behind my back. He gestures towards the chair in front of his desk. “I’m glad you received my message. Please, have a seat.”

I eye the chair almost suspiciously for just a moment before walking into the room and lowering myself down into it, crossing my legs with a mechanical precision.

Dumbledore observes me quietly for a moment, his blue eyes twinkling with an inscrutable mix of warmth and calculation. “How are you, Miss Lavigné? Truly.”

I blink at the question, my guard instantly rising. “I’m fine, Professor.”

His lips twitch, as though he doesn’t quite believe me but chooses not to press further. “Good, good. I won’t keep you long—I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your studies. However, I have some news to share that I believe may interest you.”

I tilt my head slightly, curious despite myself. “News, sir?”

Dumbledore nods, leaning back in his chair. “Each semester, as you may know, Hogwarts professors are afforded the opportunity to mentor one student of their choosing. This mentorship is not only a privilege but also an acknowledgment of a student’s potential and the professor’s belief in their capabilities.”

I nod cautiously, wondering where this is going.

“This semester,” Dumbledore continues, folding his hands atop his desk, “Professor Snape has requested to mentor you.”

The words hit me like a bludger to the chest, and for a moment, I can’t find my voice. “Snape… requested me?”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore confirms, his tone calm but measured. “He has spoken highly of your talent in Potions and your aptitude for—how shall I put it?—the more complex nuances of magic.”

I don’t miss the subtle implication in his words, but my thoughts are too tangled to focus on it. Snape wants to mentor me. The same Snape who watched me at that Death Eater meeting with the same detached expression he wears in class. The same Snape who practically interrogated me and Draco just hours ago.

“I see,” I manage, my voice carefully neutral.

Dumbledore studies me with that maddeningly perceptive gaze of his. “You seem… uncertain.”

I clench my hands in my lap, trying to steady myself. “It’s just… unexpected, sir. I didn’t realize Professor Snape thought so… highly of me.”

“He sees potential where others might not,” Dumbledore says, his tone almost kind. “It is, after all, a high honor.”

“Of course,” I reply quickly, though my mind is racing.

“You are under no obligation to accept,” Dumbledore adds gently, as if sensing my hesitation. “Though I would encourage you to consider it carefully. Mentorship from Professor Snape could open many doors for you.”

I nod slowly, though my stomach churns with unease. Draco and I want to watch him more carefully, and this would certainly provide the opportunity to do so. But being alone with him—potentially often—could be dangerous.

Then again, danger is starting to feel like part of my daily routine.

“I’ll be sure to let him know I’ve accepted, then,” I say flatly, keeping my tone measured.

Dumbledore regards me curiously, as if he wasn’t expecting me to accept, but simply replies, “Wonderful. After all, you are a very gifted student.”

I smile thinly. “Thank you, sir.”

I start to gather my things to leave, but he stops me. “One last thing before you go.”

“Yes, sir?” I ask hesitantly, my brow furrowing slightly.

He looks at me thoughtfully, leaning forward just a little. “How are your parents?”

The question catches me off guard, and I look away uncomfortably. “They’re… fine.” The words come out suspiciously, drawn out and laced with confusion.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he starts, looking off into the distance as if reminiscing. “We used to be great friends. But as of now… well, I haven’t heard from them in quite a while. Since you were enrolled here, actually.”

The room feels like it drops a few degrees as his words sink in. My parents haven’t spoken to Dumbledore since I was enrolled? That doesn’t make any sense. They despise him—always have, always will.

“You mean… since I started here?” I ask cautiously, trying to mask my confusion.

“Precisely,” Dumbledore replies, his voice calm but deliberate. He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “It was an unusual request, but one I was happy to oblige, given the circumstances.”

I frown. “Request?”

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpens slightly, though his tone remains gentle. “They wrote to me personally, Miss Lavigné. A heartfelt letter asking me to ensure you received the best education possible. Your father, in particular, spoke highly of your potential.”

My chest tightens as I process his words. My father? The same man who said Hogwarts was unworthy of our family’s attention? Who told me Beauxbatons was the only acceptable school for someone of my lineage? Who agreed with my mother when she said this school wouldn’t challenge me properly?

“That… doesn’t sound like him,” I admit hesitantly.

Dumbledore hums softly, as though he expected my disbelief. “Perhaps not the man you know now. But people are often more complex than we realize, aren’t they?”

He opens a drawer and pulls out a neatly folded piece of parchment, sliding it across the desk toward me. “I thought you might want to see it for yourself.”

I reach for the letter with trembling hands, unfolding it carefully. My father’s handwriting leaps off the page, bold and precise as always:

“Albus,

I write to you not as a man of pride or pretense, but as a father deeply concerned for his daughter’s future. Y/n possesses talents that I fear will go unchallenged if she remains confined to the limitations of our current environment. I trust that you, with your experience and reputation, will provide her with the opportunities she needs to thrive.

 Please ensure her enrollment at Hogwarts as a personal favor to me. After all, it was you who stated you owed me all those years ago after I assisted in your plans. However, we simply must return to England. I’m certain you will understand why.

We trust she will be well taken care of during her time at Hogwarts. Any further questions can go straight to our family lawyer.

Respectfully,

Castor Lavigné”

My breath catches as I reread the words, my father’s rare vulnerability feeling almost foreign. I glance back up at Dumbledore, my mind racing.

“They… they never told me,” I whisper.

“I suspected as much,” Dumbledore says softly. “Your parents likely have their reasons. But I thought it important for you to understand that, despite their silence, their concern for your well-being is clear.”

I nod numbly, folding the letter back up and clutching it tightly in my hand. The room feels suddenly too small, the walls pressing in with questions I’m not ready to face.

The request itself seems rooted in concern, but the rest… I can’t shake the feeling that there was a deeper reason to send me here.

“Thank you, sir,” I manage, my tone thoughtful.

Dumbledore’s eyes linger on me for a moment longer before he nods. “Of course, Miss Lavigné. Should you ever wish to discuss this—or anything else—my door is always open.”

I nod again, standing quickly and making my way to the door, my grip on the letter tightening with each step.

As I leave, one thought echoes in my mind, louder than all the rest: What’s the real reason they sent me here?

I catalogue the letter to show Hermione, hoping she or maybe one of my other friends will be able to help me untangle this mess.

Right on cue, I turn the corner and literally run straight into Ron.

“Ow, watch where you’re—oh, hey, Y/n,” he says, rubbing his arm. “Didn’t see you there.”

I scrunch my face in apology. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you walking. Didn’t mean to… well.” I gesture at his arm, before bending down to pick up the book I made him drop. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” he asks, seeming exasperated. “I’m surprised you didn’t fall over on account of how sturdy I am.”

I have to stop myself from laughing at his obvious attempt at making himself seem intimidating. Instead, I just nod. “Yeah, me too. Guess I just have great balance.”

He seems to accept this answer before he tilts his head, considering me. “Say, what were you doing over in this part of the castle?”

“Meeting with Dumbledore,” I reply, gesturing over my shoulder with my thumb. “Apparently Snape wants to mentor me?”

Ron’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Snape? Wants to mentor you? Are we talking about the same Snape who makes us all miserable just for existing?”

I laugh lightly, though it’s more out of discomfort than amusement. “The very same.”

“Blimey,” he mutters, shaking his head. “What’s he playing at? Doesn’t seem like the type to take anyone under his wing unless it’s for some weird, dark reason.”

“That’s… exactly what I’m worried about,” I admit, clutching the letter tighter in my hand.

Ron’s gaze drops to the parchment, and his curiosity sharpens. “What’s that?”

I hesitate for a moment before holding it up. “A letter. From my parents to Dumbledore, asking him to enroll me here.”

Ron frowns, clearly confused. “Wait, I thought they didn’t want you at Hogwarts. Didn’t they prefer Beauxbatons?”

“Exactly,” I say, lowering my voice. “This letter makes no sense, Ron. My father wrote it himself, asking Dumbledore to bring me here as some kind of… favor.”

Ron’s brows knit together as he processes this. “That doesn’t sound like something your parents would do.”

“I know,” I say, frustration creeping into my tone. “That’s the problem. None of this adds up.”

He nods slowly, then jerks his head toward the Gryffindor common room. “You should show that to Hermione. If anyone can figure this out, it’s her.”

“That was the plan,” I reply, relieved to have some validation.

“Good,” Ron says firmly. “And for what it’s worth, I’d watch yourself around Snape. The bloke’s always up to something.”

I smile faintly. “Thanks, Ron. I’ll be careful.”

He grins back, falling into step beside me. “Let’s go find Hermione, then. She’s probably buried in some book, but at least we know she’ll stop long enough to solve a mystery.”

“Can always count on her, right?” I say, giving him a sideways glance.

“Yeah,” Ron replies easily, though there’s a faint flush creeping up his neck. “She’s brilliant. Always knows exactly what to do.”

I hum thoughtfully, watching him out of the corner of my eye. “She’s not just brilliant. She’s loyal. And kind. And, well… kind of always there for you, isn’t she?”

He frowns slightly, clearly not catching my drift. “Course she is. She’s Hermione.”

I roll my eyes, suppressing a laugh. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?” he asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.

“That she’s more than just Hermione to you,” I say casually, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “You’re always talking about her, Ron. Always looking for her. Always lighting up when she’s around.”

His ears turn scarlet, and he stumbles over his words. “I—well, I mean, she’s my friend, isn’t she? That’s what friends do. They… you know, care about each other.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, clearly unconvinced. “Look, all I’m saying is, if you feel more than that, maybe it’s time you tell her. Officially.”

Ron stops walking, staring at me like I’ve just grown a second head. “What makes you think she’d even feel the same way?”

I smirk, crossing my arms. “Ron, you really don’t pay attention, do you? Trust me—she feels the same. But if you wait too long, she’s going to think you’re not interested.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly grappling with the idea. Finally, he mutters, “I’ll… think about it.”

“Good,” I say, giving him a playful nudge as we start walking again. “Because if you two keep dancing around each other, I might have to lock you in a broom cupboard until you sort it out.”

Ron groans, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s just find her before you start matchmaking me to anyone else.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mock him, half chuckling as we wind up at the entrance to the Gryffindor dorms.

Ron clears his throat. “Fortuna major.”

The portrait opens and we step inside, my eyes immediately settling on Hermione and Harry cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire.

I sidle up to them with a crooked smirk on my face. “Now what are you two doing down here when there’s a perfectly good couch not even a few paces away?”

Hermione looks up from the book balanced on her knees, her expression a mix of mild annoyance and amusement. “The light’s better here,” she replies primly, as if that explains everything.

Harry just shrugs, tossing a Chocolate Frog wrapper into the fire. “She insisted. Something about the angle of the firelight being perfect for studying.”

“Of course she did,” I say, rolling my eyes fondly as I sit down beside them. “Because why relax when you can study in optimal lighting conditions?”

Hermione huffs, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Some of us like to make the most of our time, Y/n.”

“And some of us like to make sure our friends take breaks,” I counter lightly. “Speaking of which, Ron and I are officially here to rescue you from your mountain of books.”

Ron flops onto the floor beside her, a little closer than usual, and mutters, “Yeah, what she said. You’ve been at it for hours, Hermione.”

“I have not!” Hermione protests, but Harry snorts, clearly unimpressed.

“You have,” he says with a grin. “You didn’t even notice when I ate the last of your biscuits.”

Her eyes widen, and she smacks him lightly on the arm. “Harry James Potter! Those were for everyone!”

“Were they, though?” he teases, ducking her swat.

As they bicker, I lean closer to Hermione, tapping the edge of her book. “Seriously, though. Can you spare a few minutes? I’ve got something I need your brain for.”

Her irritation melts away, replaced by curiosity. “Of course. What’s going on?”

I glance at Ron, who’s suddenly very interested in the fire, before pulling the letter out of my bag. “It’s about my parents and… well, Snape. I think I need your help untangling some things.”

Hermione’s brow furrows as she takes the letter, immediately skimming its contents. “This is… peculiar.”

“Peculiar how?” Ron asks, leaning in as if he can understand Hermione’s thoughts by proximity.

“I’ll explain,” she says, standing up and holding out her hand to me. “But we’ll need to do some research.”

“Of course we do,” Ron mutters, though there’s no real bite to his words.

I grin, taking her hand and pulling myself to my feet. “Lead the way, Professor Granger.”

She shakes her head fondly, walking straight back out of the Gryffindor common room. Harry and Ron trail behind, grumbling about “women and their books,” or something like that, but we just ignore them.

“What are we looking for?” I ask, taking the letter back and looking over it once more.

She chuckles. “Not what. Who.”

“I’m… not following,” I reply, narrowing my eyes in confusion.

“We need to figure out who your family’s lawyer is,” she states, brushing back a strand of her hair. “Because I can guarantee Dumbledore spoke to them.”

I nod, sticking the letter in my bag. “That’s easy. It’s Francis LeBlanc.”

She stops in her tracks, and Ron and Harry almost collide into her. “LeBlanc? Like… Aurélien’s uncle?”

“Technically, yes,” I say, fighting back a smile at the boys’ clumsiness. “Not the one you met, though. After Aury and I became friends, my parents insisted on meeting his, and long story short they ended up meeting Monsieur Francis and asking him for help on some legal issues with the storefront. He’s been our lawyer ever since.”

Hermione’s eyes light up with intrigue as she starts walking again, her pace quickening. “That’s a good lead. If Francis LeBlanc is your family’s lawyer, he might have copies of the correspondence or at least some knowledge of what’s going on behind the scenes.”

“Assuming he hasn’t been conveniently left in the dark,” I mutter.

“Still worth a shot,” Hermione insists, glancing back at me. “You said he helped with legal issues regarding your storefront, right? What kind of problems were they having?”

I shrug, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “Nothing too dramatic, as far as I know. Mostly paperwork stuff—licenses, inspections, making sure the business wasn’t tied to anything illegal. My parents like to keep things… pristine on the surface.”

“Sounds about right,” Ron says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Rich people and their fancy lawyers.”

Harry snorts. “You’re one to talk. You’d hire a lawyer if it meant you could get out of writing a single essay.”

Ron glares at him. “Oi, that’s different!”

Hermione waves a hand dismissively, cutting off their bickering. “Focus, you two. Y/n, do you think you could get in touch with him? Maybe write a letter or use the Floo Network?”

“I could,” I answer slowly, considering the idea. “But if my parents are keeping secrets from me, there’s a good chance they’ve warned him not to share anything either.”

Hermione tilts her head thoughtfully. “True, but it might not hurt to frame it as a casual question. If he thinks you’re just curious about the letter and not digging for something deeper, he might let something slip.”

I chew on my lip, nodding. “I can try. But if that doesn’t work, we’re back to square one.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Hermione assures me with quiet confidence. “If anyone can crack this mystery, it’s us.”

“Us?” Ron repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Pretty sure it’s always you who does all the cracking, Hermione.”

“And yet,” Hermione says with a sly smile, “you always benefit from it, don’t you?”

As we approach the room of requirement, I can’t help but feel a flicker of hope amidst my confusion and frustration. Maybe this isn’t so difficult after all.

When the door scratches open, my eyes go wide. “A floo!”

The trio all stop in their tracks as well, looking confused. Harry looks back and forth between Hermione and I incredulously. “I didn’t know it could do that.”

I shrug. “Me neither, but… it’s supposed to have whatever we need, right?”

They all hum in agreement before Ron clears his throat. “Not that I want him here, but… where’s Malfoy? He’s usually attached to your hip. Won’t he be mad if we all leave without him?”

“Who said anything about all of us going?” I retort, raising a brow. “He knew I had a meeting with Dumbledore but I told him to hang back. He knows I’ll tap if I need him.” I gesture to the tap bracelet on my wrist, already stepping into the floo.

“You can’t go alone!” Hermione remarks, her voice high and tight.

I grab a handful of the powder, tilting my head. “I’ve known Francis for years, Mione. Besides, if I show up with other people he’ll feel interrogated. We want him to let secrets slip, not lock them up tighter.”

Hermione opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off with a small smile. “I’ll be fine. You three have done enough for today—besides, it’s not like I’m running into enemy territory.”

She frowns but nods reluctantly, her hands twitching at her sides. “Just… be careful. And if something feels off, you come straight back, alright?”

“Promise,” I say, giving her a reassuring look. “I’ll be quick. And let Draco know where I am if he asks, yeah?”

I glance at the boys, who both look unsure but don’t protest. Harry simply nods, while Ron mutters, “Don’t let him bore you to death with lawyer talk.”

I smirk, widening my stance. Tossing the Floo Powder in, I watch as green flames burst to life, licking at the air and casting eerie shadows on the walls of the Room of Requirement. I hesitate for a heartbeat, feeling the weight of their stares on my back, before calling out my destination.

“Le Bijou Caché.”

And suddenly, my world is enveloped in green.