The Pact

“Y/n, do you want some time to read over these files before we discuss them?” Hermione asks quietly, leaning back into her chair.

I nod, not having spoken since we got back. I’m too exhausted and confused to even begin to process what’s happening, but I have no real choice.

Aury catches on to Hermione’s inaudible signal to let me sit on things for a moment as he stands up and clears his throat. “Well, we deserve some time to decompress after all of that, non? I’ll have my uncle make us some tea.”

I give him a grateful smile as he exits the fort, leaving me with Draco and the trio, who all look like they’re waiting for me to explode.

Harry certainly picks up on my state of mind as he walks towards one of the corners of our little fort and pulls out a deck of cards, bringing them back to the table. “Come on, blokes. How about a game of exploding snap?”

Draco and Ron murmur their grudging agreements and Harry flashes me a look that says, “I’ve got you.” All I can think about is how truly wonderful my friends are.

As the others shuffle into a circle for the game, I turn my attention back to the letters spread out before me, the ornate parchment a glaring contrast to the messy floor of our hideout. Each word feels heavier than the last as I reread the passage detailing my grandmother’s role in the Conseil des Sorciers.

“Catherine Lévèque de Noirval’s lineage ensured her influence in the French magical government, though her disappearance from public life left her seat unclaimed. Upon her abdication, the seat passed to her daughter, Grace Lavigné, who withdrew from the position suddenly due to personal and familial reasons. This seat now belongs to Y/n Lavigné, her direct heir. The Conseil has upheld its decree: the position remains in waiting for Grace Lavigne’s heir to claim it.”

I run my fingers over the edges of the parchment, staring at my name, etched in official ink, as the next in line.

It doesn’t feel real. How can this belong to me, a fifteen-year-old girl who still struggles to keep her head above water at Hogwarts?

With every new word I read, it just seems to get worse. I don’t just have a claim on one seat—I legally hold the rights to two.

The next letter catches me off guard, the edges crinkled from Aurélien’s hurried attempts to unearth it during our search. Dumbledore’s name jumps out at me almost immediately. I skim the first few lines until my breath catches.

“My dear Catherine,

The wizarding world is at a crossroads, and I implore you to reconsider your alignment. Your family’s ties to dark forces cannot be ignored, yet I believe Y/n may offer hope—a bridge between two warring factions. Do not squander her potential; her future is tied to something far greater than either of us can comprehend.”

The words blur as my vision wavers. My grandmother had corresponded with Dumbledore? He had known about this seat—about me—all along? Why didn’t he say anything?

A soft scrape of a chair pulls me back to the present. Draco has abandoned the game and now sits across from me, his silver eyes scanning my face with a guarded expression. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice so low it almost doesn’t reach me.

“I’m fine,” I lie, though my trembling hands betray me as I fumble to fold the letters.

“You’re not fine,” he counters, reaching forward to still my hands. “You’re about to go into shock, and I’m not about to sit here and watch you unravel. So, what’s in those letters?”

I hesitate, glancing over at the trio, who are caught up in their game, Aurélien still missing from the scene. Part of me wants to keep this information to myself, to bury it deep until I have the strength to confront it. But then Draco tilts his head, and there’s something so unexpectedly tender in his gaze that it unravels my resolve.

“I’m… okay, you know how my father stepped down from the Conseil de Sorciers? Well, apparently, that makes the seat mine now,” I explain, pausing to let it sink in. “And to make it even better, my grandmother held a seat on the Conseil as well, but when she disappeared it went to my mother. But my mother stepped down, too. So now? I’ve got a claim on two government positions in France. Two!”

Draco’s brows knit together, the wheels in his mind turning almost visibly. “That’s not just power,” he says slowly. “That’s leverage.”

“Leverage for what?” I snap, a spark of frustration igniting in my chest. “Against my parents? Against Voldemort? I don’t even know where to start—”

“Exactly,” Draco cuts me off, his tone sharper now. “You don’t know what you’re holding yet, but you need to figure it out before someone else does. Do you have any idea how dangerous this makes you?”

His words hit me like a slap, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. Dangerous. I’ve spent my entire life fearing I’d be perceived that way. But as I look down at the letters again, at my name intertwined with centuries of power and secrets, I realize Draco is right.

“I need time,” I murmur, shoving the papers back into the folder and closing it with trembling hands.

“You might not have it,” he replies, his voice softer now, though no less urgent. “But I’ll do whatever I can to make it easier on you.”

His words hang between us, unspoken promises woven into the quiet. Before I can respond, Aurélien returns, balancing a tray of tea and biscuits, his usual grin back in place.

“Alright, mes amis, let’s take a break from all the doom and gloom, oui? Tea fixes everything, I promise.”

Draco leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable now, but his eyes linger on me for a moment longer before he turns to accept a cup.

I take a cup as well, though I can’t bring myself to drink it. I just stir it absentmindedly with the spoon, pouring through the letters and files that have been tucked away for years.

As I make it through my father’s file, that’s when I see it—his will.

“The Last Will and Testament of Castor (Alderwood) Lavigné:

To Whom It May Concern,

Let it be known that this document serves as my final declaration regarding the Lavigné family estate, titles, and legacies. In the event of my death, the following stipulations must be adhered to without exception:

1.   Primary Inheritance:

All properties, wealth, and titles belonging to the Lavigné family, including:

- The Alderwood Estate in France

- Lavigné Manor

- The family vault located beneath the Conseil des Sorciers

- Holdings within Lavigné Enterprises and all associated ventures

shall pass exclusively to my blood heir, Y/n Lavigné.

2.   Access to the Family Vault:

The Lavigné vault contains assets, relics, and knowledge that have been safeguarded for generations. To access this vault, Y/n Lavigné must undergo the ancestral Rite of Ascension. This ritual is detailed in the accompanying document, marked Ancestral Protocols of the Alderwood Lineage. Failure to complete the ritual will render the inheritance void, and the vault shall remain sealed in perpetuity.

3.   Conditions of Inheritance:

- Before any assets maybe claimed, Y/n must submit herself to the process of Ancestral Bonding, a specific and necessary examination by the Conseil des Sorciers to confirm her rightful claim to the Alderwood bloodline.

- The process is non-negotiable and must be undertaken in the presence of an appointed arbiter, as dictated by Lavigné tradition.

- Any deviation from the prescribed path will be treated as forfeiture, and all holdings will pass into stasis until a qualified heir emerges.

4. Grace Lavigné:

My wife, Grace, shall retain the right to a modest allowance for her comfort, as detailed in Addendum B. However, she shall have no influence over the ancestral assets, which are the sole responsibility of my heir.

5.   Conseil de Sorciers

The Alderwood (now Lavigné) family has controlled the third seat of defense in the Conseil de Sorciers for numerous generations and the position shall be passed on to Y/n as my blood heir with my passing or resignation. If Y/n denies her claim to the seat, it will remain empty until the next suitable heir takes the position, as detailed in the ancient laws of the French Conseil.

6.”

The last page is torn, the ink faded into smudges. A faint symbol, a serpent coiled around a rose, marks the corner of the parchment, its meaning obscured.

My chest tightens as I read the ominous words. My father’s will wasn’t a simple document; it was a labyrinth of secrets and conditions, all designed to test my loyalty to a family I barely understood.

I glance at Draco, who’s sipping his tea, his eyes fixed on me. “What have you found? Your anxiety is eating me alive,” he teases, trying to lighten the tension.

“My father’s will,” I reply flatly, setting down the parchment with the others. “Can’t seem to find my mother’s, though.”

Hermione perks up from across the small room, her eyes meeting mine. “Francis may not have her will—if it isn’t finalized, that is.”

I nod slowly, mulling over her words. “There’s a good possibility of that.”

After a tense silence, I roll out my neck, finally sipping my tea for the first time. My friends watch me with baited breath as if I’m about to lead them into battle.

“All set, then?” Ron asks, his voice almost frightened. I reorganize the parchments before rejoining them—my unspoken yes.

“Alright. A few major points—I have a maternal grandmother named Catherine with an estate in Loire Valley, France. She held the fourth seat of international affairs on the Conseil de Sorciers but disappeared from the public eye, effectively giving it up. My father also held a seat on the Conseil—the third seat of defense. He stepped down from the position a few years ago for ‘personal reasons.’ And now, since I’m the heir of both bloodlines…”

Draco cuts in, placing his hand over mine. “She legally holds both seats now.”

The room falls silent as Draco’s words settle over us like a heavy fog. My hand instinctively curls beneath his, and I stare at him, searching for any trace of mockery in his expression. But there’s none—only cold certainty.

Hermione is the first to break the silence, her voice hushed and reverent. “I didn’t know about your grandmother’s seat—so you hold influence in two distinct factions of the Conseil. Defense and international affairs.” She swallows hard. “That’s… unheard of.”

Ron lets out a low whistle. “Unheard of? Sounds like it paints a target on her back to me.”

“More than you realize,” Draco murmurs, his tone quieter now. His gaze flickers between the torn parchment and me. “You’ll have enemies on all sides. People who would kill to consolidate that kind of power for themselves—or to keep it out of your hands entirely.”

“I didn’t ask for this.” My voice is wary, making me feel pathetic. “I didn’t ask for any of it.”

“No one’s saying you did,” Harry says gently. “But the fact is, you have it now. So what’s next?”

I shake my head, leaning back against the worn armchair and letting out a long, uneven breath. “I can’t even think of what ‘next’ looks like.” My eyes drift back to the torn edge of the will, to the coiled serpent and the rose. “There’s still so much I don’t understand. Like this symbol—it feels important, but I can’t place it. And in my father’s will, he mentioned an old family vault. One I need a ritual to access. It’s all… too much.”

Draco’s hand remains on mine, grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected. “You don’t have to figure it all out today,” he says, his voice surprisingly soft. “But you can’t ignore it either. That vault could hold the answers you’re looking for—or the weapons you need to protect yourself.”

“Great,” Ron mutters. “Another cursed family vault. Haven’t we learned our lesson from the last one?”

Hermione shoots him a warning look. “It’s not the same, Ron. This is different—this is about legacy, about her birthright.”

Draco smirks faintly. “Not to mention, this isn’t Gringotts. The Lavignes wouldn’t trust goblins with their most precious secrets.”

I close my eyes, trying to stave off the pounding in my head. “Hermione, can you dig into this symbol? The serpent and the rose. Maybe it’s connected to my grandmother, Catherine, or her estate in the Loire Valley. If she disappeared, there must be some kind of trail.”

Hermione nods eagerly. “Of course. I’ll start with the Conseil’s archives and any references to the Alderwood or Noirval bloodlines.”

“And I’ll look into this ritual,” I say, my voice steadying. “If I have to complete it to access the vault, I need to know what it involves.”

Draco’s fingers tighten slightly over mine, his gray eyes glinting with something I can’t quite place.

Aurélien leans forward, a stray curl falling into his eyes. “You’re walking into dangerous territory, ma chère. Whatever’s in that vault, whatever this legacy of yours entails, it won’t come without a price.”

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “I’ll pay it. Whatever it takes to make sense of all this—to take control of my own life—I’ll pay it.”

The words hang in the air, a quiet declaration of war. Against the past, against the secrets, against the weight of a legacy I never asked for but could no longer ignore.

Harry pulls his glasses off his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “This is going to be bloody difficult to handle by ourselves. Not to mention we’re still dealing with Voldemort and death eaters trying to take over the ministry.”

“Not trying,” Draco corrects him, his tone grim. “They already have.”

Harry glares at Draco, but there’s no fire behind it—only a weary acceptance of the truth. “All the more reason we can’t do this alone,” Harry says, his voice steady. “We need help. Adults who actually know how this world works.”

I bristle at his words, an instinctive reaction to the thought of dragging more people into this already tangled mess. “Who, exactly, are we supposed to trust? My parents? Lucius Malfoy?” I scoff, shaking my head. “No way. This stays between us.”

“That’s insane,” Hermione interjects, her brows furrowed in frustration. “You can’t navigate something as monumental as the Conseil de Sorciers without guidance. You need someone who understands the political landscape. This isn’t just a family inheritance—it’s power, influence, and responsibility on a global scale.”

“Not to mention, the Death Eaters are watching,” Ron adds. “They already tried to rope your family into their plans. What do you think they’ll do when they find out you’ve inherited two seats on the Conseil? They’ll see you as a threat.”

Draco leans forward, his expression unreadable but his voice low and firm. “They’re right, you know. You’ll need allies. People who can vouch for you, guide you through the bureaucracy, and—if it comes to it—protect you.”

The room falls into a heavy silence, all of them staring at me with a mix of concern and urgency. My chest tightens as I grapple with the weight of their words. They’re not wrong, but the idea of stepping into the Conseil’s chambers, of claiming a seat I didn’t even know existed a day ago, feels impossible.

“And who would I even ask?” My voice cracks slightly, betraying my uncertainty. “My parents are out of the question. If the Death Eaters are involved, they’ll use this against me.”

Draco’s gaze darkens. “Your parents can’t help you, but there are others who can. My mother, for one. She understands the inner workings of pureblood politics better than anyone, and she’s not aligned with the Dark Lord the way my father is.”

“Or my aunt Odette,” Aurélien chimes in, rubbing his jaw. “She’s been involved in French high society since birth. She would understand how to navigate it—and she adores you, mon soleil.”

I look at him earnestly, my eyes pleading for someone to understand. “What if it gets out that I’m involved in federal affairs? That puts a bounty on my head. I don’t want to involve too many people.”

Aury tilts his head slightly, seeming almost hurt. “I know, étoile. But Odette would never out you. I’m sure of it.”

“And what about Catherine?” Hermione asks, her eyes lighting up. “Your grandmother—if she held a seat on the Conseil, she might still have allies who could support you.”

“She disappeared,” I remind her, though the words feel hollow. “She gave up her seat. Who knows if she’s even alive?”

“Then we find out,” Hermione insists. “Her name, her history, her estate—it’s all connected. If we can trace her movements, we might uncover allies who are still loyal to her name. Or at the very least, find answers to why she disappeared.”

Harry nods, leaning forward. “The longer you wait, the more vulnerable you are. If you don’t claim your seat, someone else might try to take it—or block you from ever getting it. And if the Death Eaters catch wind of this before you make your move…”

He doesn’t finish, but the implication is clear.

I close my eyes, my mind racing through the possibilities. It’s overwhelming—terrifying, even—but deep down, I know they’re right. If I’m going to survive this, if I’m going to protect myself and the people I care about, I can’t do it alone.

“I’ll think about it,” I say finally, my voice quiet but resolute. “But I’m not promising anything. If we do this, it has to be on my terms.”

Aurélien smiles faintly, his eyes holding something deeper. “On your terms, then. But don’t take too long, mon étoile. The Conseil doesn’t wait for anyone.”

And neither, I think, do the enemies circling closer with every passing moment. I don’t say that out loud, though.

I move my hand out from under Draco’s and stand up, immensely overwhelmed. “I’ll be right back. I need some air.”

Almost every mouth in the room opens to protest but I hold up a hand, silencing them. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

Without waiting for a response, I duck out of the fort and back into Monsieur LeBlanc’s shop. The sparkling jewelry hardly does anything to ease my mind, but I wander the aisles nonetheless, admiring the handcrafted brooches and necklaces and rings.

“See something you like?”

I turn to see Monsieur LeBlanc grinning in my direction, looking as polished as ever despite how late at night it is.

I offer him a small smile in return. “How could I not?”

“Pick something out, then, ma belle. Whatever you’d like,” he tells me, gesturing to the cabinets and shelves.

“Monsieur, I—”

He cuts me off with a chuckle. “How many times must I ask you to call me Florian?”

“Probably about a hundred more,” I reply, grinning despite myself. “You know how I was brought up. Very proper.”

“Oh, yes,” he replies with a lilt. “Because you’re so very ladylike.”

My mouth falls open in mock offense. “Hey! I am too!”

Florian raises a skeptical eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Is that so? Shall I start keeping a tally of all the ways you break that claim, or should we just call it even now?”

I narrow my eyes, though a smile tugs at my lips. “Fine. Maybe I’m not as proper as my parents would like, but I have my moments.”

“Indeed,” he replies smoothly, stepping closer and gesturing toward the display. “Now, indulge an old man’s sentimentality and let me gift you something. Not because you need it, but because I think you deserve a little luck on your side.”

The word luck catches me off guard, settling somewhere deep in my chest. I hesitate, scanning the glittering cases, each piece calling to me in its own way. But one gem seems to shimmer more brightly than the rest. Nestled in a small, unassuming setting is a polished citrine stone, its golden hues catching the light like bottled sunshine. It feels warm, hopeful, and powerful—all things I could use right now.

My fingers hover over the glass as I look back at Florian. “This one. The citrine.”

His gaze softens, and he nods approvingly. “An excellent choice. Citrine symbolizes strength, joy, and abundance. A stone fit for someone with a destiny as bright as yours.” He moves to unlock the cabinet, retrieving the piece with careful hands. “Will you wear it as a necklace or carry it with you as a charm?”

I reach out to take it, the warmth of the stone surprising against my palm. “A charm,” I say after a moment. “Something I can hold when I need to remind myself what I’m fighting for.”

“Ah. Like a worry stone, non?” Florian smiles knowingly and steps behind the counter, holding his hand out to take the gem.

I tilt my head as I hand it to him. “A worry stone?”

He quirks an eyebrow mischievously as he pulls out his wand and starts mumbling incantations under his breath, lacing the citrine with something. “Before magic, worry stones were simply smooth rocks people could carry and rub with their fingers to soothe their anxieties. But now?”

Florian holds the stone up to the chandelier and the light reflects off of it in a million directions, casting a warm glow over the room. When he hands it back to me, I can feel some kind of magic humming under my fingertips—something calming, something protective.

“Now, you can hold onto it when you are feeling overwhelmed. Close to your heart, like this, see—” he demonstrates, putting his fist up to his chest, “—and you’ll be able to feel the magic settling through your chest like a warm drink. Eases some of the stress, oui?”

I mimic his gesture, holding it against my heart, and immediately feel my blood pressure start to come down. It’s like a warm embrace that I can carry around in my pocket.

Before he can explain further, I step around the counter and wrap my arms around his waist in a tight hug. He exhales in surprise but immediately pulls me closer to his chest, his cologne wrapping around me.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, almost to myself. “So much.”

He rubs my back with an open palm, the pressure steady and grounding. “Don’t thank me, ma fille. Just go out into the world and prove everybody wrong. Show them what you’re capable of. Who you are.”

I pull away almost reluctantly to nod up at him, a warm heat pricking behind my eyes. “I’ll make you proud.”

Florian smoothes my hair down, his smile never faltering. “You already have.”

~

After a tender goodbye to Aurélien and Monsieur LeBlanc, we all floo back to Hogwarts some time close to half ten—eleven, maybe.

I’m the last to step through the flames, and I gawk at the newly changed Room of Requirement before my expression melts into something between relief and excitement.

“It’s…” Harry starts, but I jump in.

“A kitchen!” I reply, already scoping out the ingredients and fixtures I have at my disposal.

Draco furrows his brow from across the room. “Correction. It’s my kitchen.”

I spin around to face him, arching an eyebrow. Hermione, ever curious, cuts in. “What do you mean, your kitchen?”

“It’s just like the one at his manor,” I say, almost shy. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? And high end. Has everything you could ever need.”

Draco crosses his arms, leaning casually against the wall, his smirk as infuriating as ever. “Well, obviously.”

He’s preening—an unmissable arrogance lacing his voice and movements at the indirect compliment. The trio groans, but I can’t bring myself to be annoyed by it. If Draco is acting like a spoiled child, it means things are wonderfully normal, at least for now.

“Don’t let him fool you,” I chime, tying my hair up, “he rarely uses it.”

“Don’t get them started,” Draco mutters, rolling his eyes. “For your information, I am perfectly capable of cooking. But I’ll admit, this might’ve been tailored to your… peculiar habits.” His gaze flicks pointedly to the bowl I’ve already pulled down.

I ignore him and start gathering ingredients, tossing everything onto the counter with practiced precision. “Well, if the Room of Requirement wants me to bake, who am I to argue? Besides, I need this right now.”

Hermione tilts her head, watching curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Baking helps me think,” I explain, cracking eggs into a bowl with quick, decisive movements. “When I’m overwhelmed, I bake. When I’m upset, I bake. And when I’m trying to process a series of frankly insane revelations… I bake.” I glance at her and Harry, then back at Draco. “It’s either this or pacing a hole into the floor.”

Ron perks up, clearly interested now. “What are you making?”

“Brownies,” I say, reaching for the sugar. “You’re welcome to stick around and have some—assuming you don’t mind watching me work through my existential crisis with chocolate and butter.”

“Brownies,” Ron repeats, like the word itself is a miracle. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

Draco snorts from his corner. “Careful, Weasley. You’re drooling.”

“Yeah, well, at least I’m drooling over the food and not her,” Ron fires back, glaring at Draco.

“Both of you, stop,” Hermione says sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Honestly. She hasn’t even put them in the oven yet, and you’re already bickering.”

Meanwhile, Harry leans his elbows on the counter, watching me carefully measure out cocoa powder. “Does this really help?” he asks quietly.

I nod, stirring the mixture with a whisk. “It does. Something about the process—it grounds me. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to have something sweet at the end of it all.”

Draco watches me from across the room, his expression unreadable. He knows this about me already, of course—I’m sure I’ve talked his ear off about it a dozen times. But something about the way he’s looking at me now feels different. Softer, maybe. Like he’s remembering all those moments we’d never admit to sharing.

I clear my throat, focusing on the batter. “So, are you all going to just sit there and stare, or are you actually going to help?”

The room goes quiet for a moment, until Ron finally asks, “What can I do?”

“Start unwrapping that chocolate bar,” I say, nodding toward a package on the counter. “And don’t eat it before I need it, or so help me—”

“Alright, alright!” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender before getting to work.

Draco steps back, taking a seat at the island in the center of the room, followed closely by Harry and Hermione. “Weasley can take this one. You’re a very demanding head chef.”

I roll my eyes but a smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. “You just hate that I’m better at something than you.”

“What?” Harry interjects, his voice light. “Malfoy doesn’t like being shown up? Now there’s a surprise.”

Draco narrows his eyes at Harry, his tone sharp but with a hint of humor. “Careful, Potter. The only thing worse than losing to her would be losing to you.”

“Oh, so you admit you’d lose to me?” I tease, carefully folding the chopped chocolate into the batter.

“Not in a duel, obviously,” Draco shoots back, straightening in his seat. “But I’ll concede that you have a certain… finesse when it comes to dessert.”

“High praise, coming from His Majesty,” Ron mutters, smirking as he hands over the freshly chopped chocolate.

“Don’t start, Weasley,” Draco warns, but there’s no real venom behind it. “At least I’m not licking the spoon like a first-year.”

All heads turn to Harry, who freezes mid-lick, the spoon still in his mouth. He slowly pulls it out, trying to play it cool. “It’s quality control,” he says, straight-faced.

I can’t help but laugh as I snatch the spoon back from him. “Quality control, huh? I’ll remember that the next time you leave your DNA on my work.”

“Come on,” Harry protests, holding up his hands in defense. “You can’t expect me to sit here and not taste the best brownies in Hogwarts.”

“Maybe let her finish baking them first, mate,” Ron says, snickering.

“I hate to agree with Weasley, but for once, he’s right,” Draco adds, smirking at Harry. “You’re shameless, Potter.”

“Shameless but honest,” Harry replies with a grin.

Hermione shakes her head but smiles, clearly enjoying the banter. “Honestly, you’re all like children. Let her work.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” I say, shooting her an appreciative look as I pour the batter into the waiting pan.

Draco leans back, arms crossed, watching me with a mix of amusement and a quiet appreciation. “Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this, Granger. You’ve been grinning since she pulled out the cocoa powder.”

Hermione flushes slightly but refuses to rise to his bait. “I just enjoy seeing my friends relaxed for once. It’s… nice.”

The room quiets for a moment, her words settling over all of us. She’s right—this small, fleeting moment of normalcy feels almost surreal given everything we’ve been through. But it’s also comforting. Familiar.

I slide the pan into the oven and dust my hands off with a sigh. “There. Now we wait.”

“How long?” Ron whines, clearly impatient.

I chuckle, setting a timer. “Long enough for us to do something fun for once.”

“Fun?” Draco questions suspiciously. “Don’t tell me we’re making friendship bracelets.”

I lightly swat at his shoulder, scrunching my nose in amusement. “My whole life doesn’t revolve around flower fields and picnics, Dray.”

“Yeah, right,” he teases, a fond smile playing on his lips. “What did you have in mind then?”

I grin, pulling out my wand and giving it a quick wave. The soft hum of a French jazz tune fills the room, and I tap my foot in time to the beat. “We’re going to dance it out.”

The blank stares I get in return are almost comical. “Dance?” Hermione asks, tilting her head.

“Dance,” I confirm, stepping away from the counter. “It’s something we used to do at Beauxbatons when things got too overwhelming. My friends and I would just put on some music and dance like idiots until we couldn’t breathe from laughing. Trust me, it helps.”

Ron snorts. “Yeah, no offense, but I don’t really see Malfoy dancing anything out.”

Draco smirks, crossing his arms. “You’d be surprised, Weasley.”

“Alright, then,” I say, pointing at him. “Prove it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Prove it?”

“Yes,” I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him off the stool before he can protest. “Everyone’s joining, no exceptions.”

Draco stumbles slightly but catches himself, clearly torn between annoyance and amusement. “You’re strange, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” I reply breezily, twirling away from him. “Now, come on! You too, Harry, Hermione. Ron, stop standing there like a lump.”

“I’m not a lump,” Ron mutters, but he reluctantly joins me, as do the others.

The next song starts—a faster, upbeat tune—and I can’t help but laugh as I spin around the room, clapping my hands to the beat. At first, everyone’s hesitant, shuffling awkwardly in place. But it doesn’t take long before Hermione starts swaying, Ron bobs his head, and Harry, bless him, throws in some truly atrocious arm movements.

“You call that dancing, Potter?” Draco drawls, though there’s a spark of humor in his tone.

“Oh, let’s see you do better,” Harry challenges, grinning.

Draco doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps into the center of the room and executes a surprisingly elegant spin before smirking at all of us. “Like that.”

Hermione gasps in surprise, while Ron bursts out laughing. “Alright, I’ll give you that one, Malfoy. Not bad.”

I clap, delighted. “See? This is what I’m talking about!”

Before long, everyone’s moving, the awkwardness replaced by laughter and a surprising sense of ease. Ron tries to spin Hermione but nearly trips over himself, sending her into a fit of giggles. Harry attempts a ridiculous series of jumps that has me doubling over in laughter. And Draco, to my astonishment, keeps up with the beat, his movements confident and smooth.

“Not bad, Dray,” I tease, spinning past him. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he replies, his smirk widening.

The song shifts again, and I grab Hermione’s hands, pulling her into a wild twirl. She laughs so hard she stumbles, and Ron swoops in to catch her, grinning. The room is filled with so much joy and chaos that for a moment, I forget about the weight on our shoulders.

Draco offers me his hand with a flourish. “Watch and learn, boys,” he gloats as I take it.

He pulls me up against his chest and leads me through a series of steps and spins that leave me genuinely impressed. It’s not formal, not ballroom—just something completely of his own making, alive and quick and fun.

“Where did you—” I start to ask, but he quickly cuts me off.

“From watching you.”

A blush creeps up my cheeks as he whips me around, speeding up with the music like it’s muscle memory. My heart flutters at his easy smile, open and real.

He kisses the top of my head before letting me go, earning a boyish, “Gross,” from Ron.

Harry perks up then, something wicked on his face. “You’re not all that, Malfoy. I could do that in my sleep.”

“Please,” Draco tries to sneer, but he’s having too much fun for his voice to have any real bite. “You’re about as graceful as a troll.”

Harry gives him a playful scowl before offering his hand to a very confused Ron. “Fine. I’ll prove it.”

Ron quirks a brow. “Uh, mate? Why don’t you ask Hermione?”

“Oh no,” Hermione chirps. “He’s forbidden from dancing with me. He always steps on my toes.”

Ron sighs, taking Harry’s outstretched hand. “Fine. But you owe me.”

The sight of Harry and Ron fumbling into some semblance of a dance sends Hermione and me into fits of laughter almost immediately. Harry’s trying to lead, but his movements are exaggerated and clumsy, while Ron is stiff as a board, clearly uncomfortable.

“Relax, Ron,” Harry says, grinning as he awkwardly spins him. “You’re too tense.”

“Tense?” Ron huffs. “You’re the one flailing around like a lunatic! What even is this?”

“It’s art,” Harry deadpans, twirling Ron with all the grace of a hippogriff on ice. “You just don’t understand my creative vision.”

Draco leans back against the counter, smirking. “You’re proving my point, Potter. You are as graceful as a troll.”

Harry stops mid-spin to glare at him. “You want to take over, Malfoy? Show me how it’s done?”

“Absolutely not,” Draco says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re doing an excellent job embarrassing yourself without my help.”

Ron groans as Harry attempts another spin, nearly knocking over a chair in the process. “For Merlin’s sake, mate, just stick to fighting Death Eaters. Dancing clearly isn’t your thing.”

Hermione claps a hand over her mouth, trying—and failing—not to laugh. “This is… this is incredible. Please don’t stop.”

“Oh, we’re stopping,” Ron says, breaking free from Harry’s grasp and taking a dramatic step back. “Before I lose the ability to walk entirely.”

Harry shrugs, unbothered. “Your loss, ginger. I was just getting started.”

“Come here, Harry. Let’s figure out why you’re so terrible at this,” I giggle, stepping towards him. “Okay, first of all, why are you holding on so tight? I’m a woman, not a wand,” I quip, adjusting his hand on my waist.

He surrenders, loosening his grip and attempting to lead me through a few steps before almost immediately stepping on my toes.

“Ow,” Draco complains, his tone sharp.

Harry winces. “Sorry.”

“I see why Hermione forbade you,” I tease, putting a bit more space between us. “Just relax. You’re overthinking it.”

Draco watches us intently, his eyes silently warning Harry not to let his hands wander. Hermione and Ron are stood shoulder to shoulder, watching with bemused smirks.

Draco’s gaze sharpens as Harry stumbles again, and he rises from his seat with an exaggerated sigh. “Alright, Potter. Move aside before you cause any permanent damage.”

Harry furrows his brow. “What? You think you can do better?”

Draco smirks, stepping forward. “Obviously. And since you seem intent on learning…” He holds out a hand, his expression daring. “Let’s go, Potter.”

The room falls silent for a moment, everyone staring in varying degrees of surprise and amusement. Harry looks from Draco’s outstretched hand to his face, clearly skeptical. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Draco replies, arching a brow. “Come on, then. Or are you scared I’ll show you up?”

Hermione snickers behind her hand, and Ron mutters, “This I’ve got to see.”

Reluctantly, Harry steps forward, placing his hand in Draco’s with a mix of hesitation and defiance. “Fine. But if you drop me—”

“I’d never,” Draco interrupts with a mocking tone, placing Harry’s hand on his shoulder. “Unlike you, I know how to lead.”

Harry scoffs. “Wait, why do I have to be the girl?”

“Because you’re terrible,” Draco replies, smirking. “Can’t have you running me into a wall.”

The music swells again, and Draco pulls Harry into a steady rhythm. At first, it’s stiff and awkward—Harry’s steps falter, and he glares at Draco with every misstep. But slowly, with Draco’s firm guidance and a few sarcastic quips (“Honestly, Potter, how do you survive duels if you can’t manage this?”), the movements smooth out.

“You’re… not terrible at this,” Harry mutters grudgingly.

“Don’t strain yourself with the compliments,” Draco retorts, spinning him in a way that’s half-graceful, half-hilarious. “But you’re welcome.”

The rest of us dissolve into laughter, Hermione wiping tears from her eyes as Ron leans against the counter for support. “This is the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Ron chokes out. “The Chosen One and the Slytherin Prince having a dance-off.”

“Hardly a dance-off,” Draco says, his smirk widening as he dips Harry dramatically. “More like me saving him from his own incompetence.”

Harry nearly trips in the process but recovers with surprising grace, his grin spreading as the humor of the situation sinks in. “You’re ridiculous, Malfoy.”

“And you’re uncoordinated, Potter,” Draco replies with a sniff, releasing him with a flourish. “But I suppose that’ll do.”

The room erupts into applause and cheers, the weight of past grudges and present dangers momentarily forgotten. Draco retreats to his seat with a self-satisfied smirk, while Harry shakes his head, grinning despite himself.

“Alright,” I say, clapping my hands to get everyone’s attention. “Now that you’ve all had your moment, who’s ready for brownies?”

“Depends,” Draco says, his tone dry but his eyes warm. “Are you going to make Potter dance for his share?”

“Careful, Malfoy,” Harry shoots back, grabbing a plate. “You’re not half as charming as you think.”

“Disagree,” Draco replies smoothly, earning another round of laughter as we all settle into the moment, letting the chocolatey scent fill the room.

The music plays on softly in the background as I dish up the brownies, handing them out to my smiling friends. We all eat them thoughtfully, just enjoying each other’s company.

Ron pushes his plate towards me with a toothy grin. “Can I have another? These are amazing.”

I laugh softly, levitating him another one. “Of course.”

“They really are good,” Draco adds, his eyes soft. “But then, we knew they would be.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes me, a quiet connection threaded between us. Mione smiles at me knowingly, while Harry and Ron are obliviously munching away.

The warmth of the moment lingers as we continue to eat and talk, but I can feel the weight creeping back in—the decisions, the dangers, the responsibilities that won’t wait. I glance around the room, at the faces of my friends, and know that as much as I want to stay in this bubble of laughter and brownies, I can’t.

I set my plate down, taking a deep breath to steady myself. “I’ve made up my mind,” I say, my voice cutting through the comfortable chatter.

Everyone turns to me, their expressions shifting from lighthearted to attentive.

“I’m going to the Conseil des Sorciers to claim my seat,” I announce, my tone firmer than I feel inside. “It’s time I use whatever influence I have to get ahead of this—to find help, allies… something.”

The quiet that follows is heavy, broken only by the faint music still playing. Hermione is the first to speak, her voice low but full of resolve. “It’s a good plan. You’ll have a seat at the table—real power. That’s more than most of us can say.”

“Are you sure, though?” Harry asks, leaning forward. “It’s risky. If anyone finds out—”

“I know,” I interrupt gently, meeting his worried gaze. “But we’re running out of time. I can’t just sit here and wait for them to make the next move. This might be our best shot.”

Ron shifts uneasily. “Will they even listen to you? I mean, you’re… you’re young.”

“I know,” I say again, though his doubt stings. “But the seat is mine by birthright. They can’t deny me that. And if I play this right, I can make them take me seriously.”

Draco’s voice cuts through the uncertainty, calm and steady. “You’re right to do this,” he says, his gray eyes locked on mine. “You’ve got the advantage of surprise.”

His confidence in me strengthens my resolve, and I nod, holding onto his words like an anchor. “I’m not going to tell my parents. Not until I’ve figured out what’s really going on with them—and with the Death Eaters.”

“We’ll help,” Hermione says immediately, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“Yeah,” Harry adds, his determination clear. “Whatever you need.”

Ron nods, though he still looks unsure. “Just don’t get yourself killed, alright?”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, trying for levity. “And if it comes to that, well, at least I know you’ll all throw a good party in my honor.”

Draco doesn’t laugh, his gaze sharp. “It won’t come to that.”

I smile faintly, grateful for his certainty. “Then I guess I better start preparing,” I say, standing up and brushing off my hands. “The Conseil isn’t going to know what hit them.”