The Pact

“Ah,” a deep, velvety voice coos from inside the room.

When I fully walk in, I take in the man behind the desk. He seems no-nonsense, but his eyes are still betraying him with a hint of warm kindness I’m not used to from many of the adults in my life.

His gaze matches mine with an equal curiosity; though he seems to know much more about me than I ever could about him.

He’s well put together. His suit is sharp, perfectly tailored, though not by magic. The suit itself has been tailor made, it seems. An expensive French brand that only the wealthiest of the wealthy would even recognize.

I read the name plate on his desk: Armand Brossier. His name suits him, I think. Sophisticated. Strong. Matches his salt and pepper slicked back hair and the strong jawline underneath it.

His mouth curves up into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Miss Lavigné. Do forgive me, I’m sure you hear this often, but you are the spitting image of your mother.”

Without waiting for a response, he gestures to the seats in front of his desk. “Please, sit down. We have much to discuss.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” I reply politely, lowering myself into one of the chairs. Aurélien settles in next to me, watching Armand protectively.

He nods. “But of course. And who might this be?”

Aury reaches out a hand. “Aurélien Bordeau. Pleasure to meet you.”

“As I live and breathe,” Brossier replies, returning the handshake. “You are Francis LeBlanc’s nephew, non?”

Aurélien’s lips twitch upward. “Guilty as charged.”

Armand Brossier chuckles lightly before shifting his gaze back to me. “Now, Miss Lavigné, I imagine you have not come all this way merely for pleasantries.”

I steel my shoulders, meeting his gaze with unwavering confidence. “No, I haven’t. I’m here to claim my father’s seat on the Conseil des Sorciers—and my grandmother’s as well.”

The room falls silent for a beat. Armand folds his hands atop his desk, expression unreadable. Then, he exhales slowly, studying me as if weighing my words with great care. “Both seats?”

“Yes,” I affirm. “I know that my father stepped down, but his seat was never dissolved. And my grandmother—her place has remained untouched. By bloodright, they belong to me, and I intend to claim them.”

Armand tilts his head slightly, intrigue flashing in his eyes. “You do realize what you’re asking for, don’t you? Holding even one seat comes with immense responsibility, let alone two. It is no small thing, Miss Lavigné.”

“I understand,” I reply evenly. “But that does not change my request.”

Aurélien, who has remained quiet until now, leans forward. “She’s not here to make empty demands, Monsieur Brossier. She has every intention of fulfilling her role.”

Armand studies me for a long moment before finally speaking. “I do not doubt your conviction, Mademoiselle. But conviction alone does not grant you power here.” He leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. “There is precedent to consider. A formal petition must be reviewed. You will need allies—supporters who will back your claim.”

I straighten. “Then tell me what I need to do. If it’s proof of my ability, I’ll provide it. If it’s support, I’ll earn it. But I will not walk away from this.”

A slow smile creeps onto Armand’s lips, one that does not feel mocking, but rather impressed. “Determined. Just like your grandmother.” He pauses, then nods. “Very well, Miss Lavigné. Let us begin.”

I watch in anticipatory silence as he rifles through his desk drawers and pulls out an overflowing file, followed by an old, definitely enchanted book.

He turns the book towards me and opens it to the cover page. A small oval near the bottom catches my eye—it glows incessantly, shimmering with a spell I can’t name.

“Before we begin, we must officially catalogue you as the next in line. This book has kept track of every witch or wizard who has ever held a space on the French Conseil since its creation. In order for us to proceed, it requires a drop of blood—to determine your lineage, you see.”

Aurélien tenses beside me, and I swallow. What kind of magic is this? “Blood, you say?”

He pulls out his wand and holds his free hand out to take mine. “I can draw a drop with a spell. To save the barbarics of a wound.”

“No,” I say, a little too quickly. It won’t work, I can’t be harmed. Instead, I pull back my hand and the pin from my shirt—the star Aury gifted me. “I’ll do it. I’d prefer something more official. To show you my commitment,” I stammer, desperately hoping he doesn’t pick up on the real reason.

Armand raises a brow but says nothing, merely inclining his head in silent approval. Aurélien, however, shifts beside me, his jaw tight. He knows. He knows I can’t be harmed by a spell—the pact ensures it—but he doesn’t say a word.

I press the pin’s sharp point to the tip of my finger and push down without hesitation. The pain is barely noticeable—nothing compared to what I’ve endured before. A bead of crimson wells up, stark against my skin.

I barely register the faint warmth on my wrist until I feel the slightest tap against it. My breath stills. Draco.

Tap. Tap. “Are you okay?”

Of course, he would notice. He can feel it.

I’m just confused why he cares after the fight we had. 

I push the thought out of my mind and ignore the sensation, keeping my expression carefully neutral, and let the droplet fall onto the book’s shimmering surface. As soon as it lands, the glow intensifies, spreading outward in intricate, branching lines. The pages flip of their own accord, stopping suddenly on a gilded page, letters burned into the parchment with magic older than anything I’ve ever seen.

A name appears somewhere in the middle—my grandmother’s. Catherine Lévèque de Noirval. And below it, branching down like the roots of an ancient tree, my mother’s name. Grace Alderwood Lavigné. A branch from her name ties to another—Castor Alderwood Lavigné.

Then, as if the ink itself recognizes me, a new name begins to form. The letters carve themselves into existence, glowing bright gold before settling into deep black.

Y/n Lavigné.

The moment my name is fully written, I feel something shift. A tether tightening, an ancient magic acknowledging me, binding me to a history I never knew was mine to claim.

I trace the lines up to the top of the page, to past names I’ve never heard. My ancestors. Each name is unique, tied to marriages and children with swooping black ink. Only the names of those who served on the Conseil are listed, so the branches are partially incomplete. But I see the links between Alderwoods—now Lavignes—and Lévèque de Noirvals all the same. I feel a pang of curiosity deep inside my bones.

Did they grow up like me? Were their parents kind? Did they have siblings, friends, aunts and uncles and cousins they were close to? It almost feels unfair.

Armand watches carefully, his sharp gaze flickering between me and the book. Then, slowly, he nods. “It is done.”

I remain still, watching as the book hums with residual magic before settling.

Armand clasps his hands together. “Welcome, Mademoiselle Lavigné, to the catalogue of the Conseil des Sorciers.”

I look up at him and offer a nervous smile, nodding my head. I press my fingertip on the underside of my skirt—a dull pain makes itself known but I don’t show it.

Tap. Tap. “Are you okay?”

Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I subtly tap back. Tap. “Yes.”

Aurélien notices out of the corner of his eye, but instead of rolling his eyes or stiffening like I anticipated, he instead clears his throat. “So, that’s it? A drop of blood and she has the seats?”

“Not quite,” Armand replies, “but at the very least her spot is now claimed. The Induction is the process that comes next, where the board will determine if she’s competent and able enough to handle the responsibility.”

He turns to look at me now, his voice gaining a serious edge. “And it is quite the process, like I said before.”

“That’s perfectly fine by me,” I shoot back, my voice much steadier than I feel. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Monsieur Brossier gives me a long, measured look, as if weighing the resolve in my words. Then, with a nod, he gestures toward the book still open before me.

“The Induction consists of several steps, each designed to test your knowledge, your judgment, and—most importantly—your allegiance. The Conseil des Sorciers does not take new members lightly, even those with a rightful claim.”

Aurélien tenses beside me, shifting ever so slightly closer, but he doesn’t interrupt. I glance down at the names in the book again, feeling the weight of generations pressing upon me.

“What kind of tests?” I ask, keeping my tone steady.

Armand lifts a hand, and with a flick of his fingers, the book seals itself shut. A faint pulse of magic ripples outward before settling into silence. “There are three.”

He turns and moves toward a nearby desk, opening a drawer and retrieving a stack of parchment bound with a deep blue ribbon. He places it on the table between us. “First, the Examen Magistral—a written and oral examination covering laws, policies, and historical precedents that govern the Conseil. You will be expected to know your lineage’s role in its proceedings and how they influenced wizarding law in France, as well as demonstrate a general knowledge of the way laws are formed and passed. Passing this will prove that you have the intellectual capacity and awareness to hold the position.”

I swallow but nod. A test. I can handle a test.

“The second,” he continues, “is the Épreuve de Loyauté—the Trial of Loyalty. This is where most fail.”

“Fail how?” Aurélien asks sharply.

Armand’s gaze flickers toward him before settling back on me. “The Conseil will test your values, your alliances, your skills, and your willingness to act in the best interest of our society. Some have been made to duel. Others have been asked to retrieve certain artifacts or demonstrate their commitment through…” He pauses, considering his words, “less conventional means. The trial is unpredictable, but one thing remains certain: the Conseil does not trust easily.”

A slow, cold dread curls in my stomach, but I push past it. “And the third?”

Armand’s lips press into a thin line. “The Sceau de la Maison—the House Seal. Before you can assume your place, the ancestral magic tied to your bloodline must accept you. This is done through a formal ritual. Your blood was the first step, but the seal requires more.”

He steps forward, lowering his voice slightly. “You must present yourself before the Ancienne Chambre—the chamber where the original founders of the Conseil bound their magic to this governing body. There, you will invoke your lineage, and if the magic deems you worthy, the seal will be placed upon you.”

I frown. “And if it doesn’t deem me worthy?”

Armand’s expression doesn’t change. “Then your claim will be rejected, and you will be barred from ever attempting again.”

The weight of his words settles heavily between us. There will be no second chances.

I lift my chin. “When do we start?”

Armand’s eyes glint with something unreadable before he gestures to the stack of parchment. “The Examen Magistral must be completed within three days. I suggest you begin immediately.”

Aurélien mutters a curse under his breath. “Three days? You’re joking.”

Armand gives him an unimpressed look. “I do not joke about matters of governance.”

I shift forward, resting my fingertips on the parchment. My heartbeat is steady, my mind already shifting into focus. “Then I suppose I have some studying to do.”

Aurélien sighs beside me, rubbing a hand down his face. “Good thing it’s a weekend, oui?”

“Definitely,” I reply, taking a steadying breath. “Okay, Monsieur. Thank you very much for your time.”

I stand up to meet his eyes, reaching out a hand. He shakes it firmly, though not in a way that screams I’m trying to intimidate you. It’s the mark of a true leader—respectful and respectable all the same.

When our hands drop, he leads Aurélien and I to the door, pausing before opening it.

“Miss Lavigné.”

“Yes, Monsieur?” I ask, shifting my weight.

He seems to tense, but only for a moment. “You should know that if you are to pass the tests, you’ll be the youngest witch to ever grace a seat on the Conseil. This decision is not to be made lightly. Are you absolutely certain you would like to continue down this path?”

“I’m positive,” I reply without even thinking. “As a Lavigné, this is my duty. But as myself… I want to make a difference. A positive one. Something real.”

Monsieur Brossier studies me for a long moment, his sharp gaze searching mine for any hint of hesitation. When he finds none, his expression softens—just slightly. It’s the closest thing to approval I imagine he ever gives.

“Then I hope you are prepared for what comes next,” he says. “Because once you begin, there is no turning back.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I reply.

A small nod. A silent understanding. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the door swings open, revealing the dimly lit hallway beyond.

Aurélien and I step out, but before the door closes behind us, Armand speaks once more.

“Study well, Mademoiselle Lavigné. I wish you luck.”

Then the door clicks shut, leaving us alone in the corridor.

For a few beats, neither of us say anything. The weight of what just happened settles over me like a heavy cloak. The Induction. The youngest ever. Three days to prepare. It’s overwhelming, but beneath the nerves, something else flickers—excitement.

I glance at Aurélien, who is watching me with an unreadable expression. “Well?” I prompt.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his curls. “I was going to say this is absolutely insane, but I know you too well to think that would stop you.”

I grin. “You’re right. It won’t.”

A reluctant chuckle escapes him. “Then I suppose we better get started, mon amie. If you’re going to pass this ridiculous test, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

I nod, determination settling deep in my chest. “Let’s do this. Are you coming back to school with me?”

“Of course,” he quips, seeming offended that I even asked. “But we are stopping by my uncle’s first.”

The plump man with the walking stick from earlier reappears, as if having been summoned by our voices. “Heading out?” he asks, still eyeing me curiously like earlier.

“Yes, thank you,” Aury replies, turning on the charm. “It’s wonderful you’re here, really. We would have gotten very lost.”

The man—I never got his name—smiles, seemingly despite himself. “Yes, this building is rather large. Fifteen stories, at least eight halls in each, and around five doors per hall.”

Aurélien lets out a low whistle. “Mon dieu, that’s scarily expansive. And you know this entire building well, don’t you? Color me impressed.”

The man straightens slightly at the praise, his mustache twitching as he lifts his chin. “I should hope so. I’ve worked here for over thirty years. It would be rather embarrassing if I didn’t.”

I smile, stepping forward. “I never got your name, Monsieur.”

His eyes flick to me, and for a moment, there’s a pause—as if he’s debating whether to answer. Then, with a small incline of his head, he replies, “Bertrand Fournier.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Fournier,” I say sincerely, extending my hand. “For your guidance—and your patience.”

He eyes my hand for a beat before shaking it firmly. “You’ll do well here, Mademoiselle Lavigné. I can tell.”

I hold his gaze, committing his name and face to memory. An ally, no matter how small, is still an ally.

He leads us down and out, back to the entrance. “Are you walking home, or will you be taking the floo?”

“The floo, if you please,” I say sweetly, offering him my best smile.

He shoots one back, gesturing toward the hallway. “The Floo chamber is just ahead. I do hope to see you again, Mademoiselle.”

“You most certainly will,” I reply. “Thank you again.”

I nod in thanks, and Aurélien and I start down the hall. The moment we’re out of earshot, I glance at him. “Why do we need to go to your uncle’s?”

Aurélien smirks, hands in his pockets as he strides beside me. “He’s a lawyer, chérie. Where else are we going to find the best study material?”

I blink. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.” He tosses me a look. “The Examen Magistral isn’t just about history. It’s about understanding the Conseil’s legal foundations. You’ll need actual cases, rulings, precedents—things a textbook won’t teach you.”

Realization dawns, and I nod slowly. “So, we’re basically raiding your uncle’s files.”

“Raiding is such an aggressive word.” Aurélien grins. “I prefer ‘borrowing indefinitely.’”

I huff a laugh. “He’s going to love that.”

“Oh, he’ll survive.” Aurélien waves a hand. “Besides, if I frame it right, he might even help us.”

I raise a brow. “You mean if I frame it right.”

He snaps his fingers. “Exactly.”

I shake my head but don’t argue. If we’re going to do this, we might as well do it right.

“Fine,” I say, stepping into the Floo chamber. “This will be interesting.”

He chuckles, taking a handful of floo powder as I settle in next to him. “LeBlanc and Associates!”

The green flames roar to life, pulling us through the network until we land in the foyer of the office building—the one we raided just days ago. My stomach churns with anxiety.

Aurélien, ever the one to notice when I’m feeling apprehensive, brushes himself off and offers me a hand, pulling me out of the floo. He smirks in that playful, mischievous way I’ve grown to know and love.

“Come, mon étoile. He’ll be happy to see us, I’m sure.”

I don’t let go of his hand, and I’m thankful he doesn’t seem to mind. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Just act natural,” he whispers, pulling me along to the front receptionist.

The woman behind the counter reminds me of the one at the Conseil—annoyed at our presence and the fact that she has to do her job.

“Who are you here to see?” she drawls, looking bored.

Aurélien flashes her a smile. “My uncle, Francis LeBlanc. Would you kindly let him know Aurélien is here to follow up on his case?”

She quirks an eyebrow, seeming confused as to why a teenager would need a lawyer, but she complies nonetheless. “Take a seat.”

We wait out in the foyer, with the woman glancing over at us every so often. I keep my voice low. “Your case?”

He chuckles. “I don’t have a case, soleil. It’s code. He told me if I ever have an emergency, that’s the quickest way to get to him at work.”

“This isn’t an emergency,” I quip. “You’re going to get him worried for nothing.”

Aurélien shakes his head. “Emergency is a relative term, non? Besides, you don’t have very long. I’d consider this important enough to constitute some haste.”

I roll my eyes. “Being around officials always makes you talk like them. It freaks me out.”

He laughs, then squeezes my hand apologetically. “I apologize, mon étoile. I’ll tone it down just for you.”

Before I can respond, a door down the hall swings open, and the tall, impeccably dressed Francis steps out. His sharp eyes sweep the room before landing on Aurélien with a knowing glint. He adjusts his cuffs as he strides toward us, his expression unreadable.

“Emergency, is it?” Francis LeBlanc’s voice is smooth, measured. “I assume you’re not here to report a crime, Aurélien.”

Aurélien grins, rising from his seat with an easy confidence. “Not unless you count our utter lack of knowledge on French law as criminal.”

Francis exhales sharply through his nose—something between a sigh and a chuckle. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re not here to actually borrow money or evade a contract. Come along, then.” He turns on his heel and leads us down the hallway without waiting for a response.

I hesitate, exchanging a quick glance with Aurélien before following. He gives me a reassuring wink, but my mind races. Did Francis actually buy our excuse, or is he just humoring us?

Once inside his office, he gestures for us to sit. The space is familiar, though I only saw it at night—lined with towering bookshelves filled with case files, thick tomes, and neatly stacked scrolls. The rich scent of parchment and ink lingers in the air, mingling with the faint trace of cologne.

“Hello again, Y/n. How have things been?”

I put on my best smile, an unspoken understanding between us. “Bonjour, Monsieur. I’ve been fine. Just the usual. School, reading, projects.”

Francis leans against his desk, arms crossed, studying me with mild curiosity. “So,” he says, “you suddenly need to brush up on French legal proceedings?”

I meet his gaze, keeping my expression neutral. “Yes. For research.”

His lips twitch, and for a brief moment, I think he might actually laugh. Instead, he reaches into his desk drawer, retrieves a thin business card, and holds it up between two fingers.

“Here,” he says, flicking it onto the polished surface. “Look familiar?”

I tense, avoiding looking at the card as if it will incriminate me. “Your business card? Yeah, sure. You leave them around Aurélien’s estate all the time.”

“Mm,” he hums, seeming to read between the lines. “Remember, I haven’t told you anything, but I can’t prevent you from finding things out on your own.”

“Of course, I remember,” I reply nonchalantly, fiddling with my wand.

Francis’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in his eyes—something sharp and assessing. “If you’re serious about this, you’ll need more than a handful of stolen documents and secondhand accounts. French magical law isn’t just about rules—it’s about power, history, and the people who know how to wield it.”

He straightens, moving toward one of the shelves. “Fortunately for you, I happen to be one of those people.”

Aurélien grins. “So you’re going to help us?”

Francis pulls a heavy tome from the shelf and drops it onto the desk with a resounding thud. Dust flutters into the air as he meets my gaze once more.

“I’m going to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” I shoot back, my tone hurried. “Your… guidance is more appreciated than you know.”

He seems to soften, if only a little. “That’s what I do, Y/n. And please, call me Francis. I’ve known you much too long to still accept such formality.”

The adults around me really seem to want me to use their first names. Francis, Narcissa, even Florian. The air of familiarity it brings to a conversation is an added layer of trust and intimacy I’m not always ready for, but I appreciate it nonetheless.

Francis watches me for a moment longer before turning back to the towering shelves behind his desk. He runs his fingers along the spines of several books before selecting a few with the precision of someone who knows exactly what they’re looking for. One by one, he sets them down in front of me.

“These will cover the essentials,” he says, tapping the first book, a thick volume bound in deep green leather. Les Fondations du Droit Magique Français. “A comprehensive guide to the origins of our legal system—the Conseil des Sorciers, the formation of magical statutes, and the separation of magical and non-magical governance.”

He moves to the second book, a thinner yet still formidable-looking text. Décrets et Jurisprudence. “This will help you understand the major rulings that shaped our laws. Pay close attention to the cases from the last century—especially anything regarding magical bloodlines, inheritances, and political appointments.”

My fingers skim over the embossed title, my chest tightening slightly at his emphasis.

Finally, Francis slides over a stack of parchment-bound case files. “These are older, unclassified cases—public records. They’ll give you insight into how the Conseil handles disputes, trials, and political maneuvering.”

Aurélien flips through a few pages, whistling lowly. “This is quite the crash course.”

Francis smirks. “You need to understand more than just the words on the page. The Conseil operates on precedent, tradition, and—most importantly—power. Laws are written, yes, but they’re also interpreted. That’s where real influence lies.”

I glance up at him. “So, it’s not just about knowing the law. It’s about knowing how to use it.”

Francis nods approvingly. “Exactly. Anyone can read a statute, but only a few know how to turn it into a weapon—or a shield.”

I take a steadying breath and sit back, absorbing the weight of his words. This isn’t just about learning the rules. It’s about understanding how to navigate them, manipulate them if necessary. If I’m going to claim my place within the Conseil, I can’t just study. I have to strategize.

Francis seems to sense my thoughts. “You’re stepping into a world where perception is just as important as truth. If you’re going to make a move, make sure it’s deliberate.”

I nod slowly. “I understand.”

“Good.” He leans back against his desk, arms crossing once more. “Now, tell me—where do you want to start?”

Aurélien watches me, seeming curious. I pull out the stack of parchments. “Case files. Your specialty, Francis.”

He smirks at me, then hands me a blank piece of parchment and a quill. “Magnifiqué. Let us begin.”

~

We pour over files and excerpts from the texts for hours—long enough for moonlight to swallow the corridor outside of his office door, shimmering on the tiles.

Francis neatly stacks the cases up and binds them with twine, then closes each book, placing everything in a neat stack for me to take with me.

“You’re a fast learner, Y/n. Much like your father,” he quips, helping me place all the materials into my bag. “I have no doubt you will make quick work of this if you stay focused.”

I smile up at him, an easy truce settling over the room. “Thank you. I’ll take all the encouragement I can get. I’m going to need it.”

Aurélien yawns, stretching his arms over his head. He fell asleep about an hour ago, and Francis and I didn’t have the heart to wake him.

“Why are you standing, mon amour? What time is it?” he asks blearily.

I chuckle softly. “Time to go, troubadour. Are you ready?”

Aurélien rubs his eyes, blinking as he takes in the scene. Francis smirks at him, clearly amused, before handing me my now-full bag.

“Get some rest,” Francis tells me, his tone softer now. “And be careful.”

I nod, tightening my grip on the strap. “I will. Thank you again.”

Aurélien stretches once more before rising to his feet, offering his arm for me to take. Ever the gentleman, even half asleep.

We walk out to the front of the building, only to see that it’s so late all the other workers have left. Not even the bored receptionist lingers.

I step into the floo with him,  grabbing a handful of Floo powder. “Room of Requirement!”

The green flames consume us, and in an instant, we’re swept away from the pristine elegance of Francis’s office back into the warm, ever-shifting sanctuary of the Room of Requirement.

The moment I step onto the rug, I freeze.

Curled up on the couch, his glasses slightly askew, is Harry. He’s asleep, his arms loosely folded across his chest. That alone doesn’t shock me. What does is the boy sitting stiffly beside him, looking about three seconds away from hexing someone—or throwing up.

Draco.

His shoulders are taut, his usual smirk absent, replaced with a tight line. His fingers drum against his knee in an uneven rhythm. As soon as he spots me, his pale eyes narrow into something sharp, unreadable.

“What the hell took you so long?” His voice is low, harsh, but there’s something underneath it—something frayed at the edges.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

Aurélien steps forward smoothly, ever the one to defuse tension. “Bonsoir, Draco. Lovely to see you too.”

Draco ignores him, his gaze locked onto me, scanning my face, my hands, my entire posture like he’s checking for something.

Then, suddenly, he stands. His movements are too quick, too tense, and before I can react, he’s grabbed my wrist and turned my hand over, inspecting my fingers.

I yank back, startled. “What—Draco, what are you doing?”

His jaw clenches. “You pricked your finger.”

It’s not a question.

Understanding dawns, and my stomach twists. I forgot about it completely—he definitely felt it, and I suppose the anxiety in my stomach wasn’t my own after all.

“I’m fine,” I say carefully. “It wasn’t serious.”

Draco scoffs, stepping back and running a hand through his hair. “Not serious? You disappeared all day, and suddenly I feel—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply. “You should be more careful.”

My temper flares at the implication. “Oh, forgive me, Draco, for not checking in with you every time I breathe. I didn’t realize I needed to report my whereabouts to you.”

His gaze darkens. “Maybe if you weren’t running off Merlin-knows-where, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Aurélien clears his throat pointedly. “Alright, that’s enough tension dramatique for one night, non?”

Draco barely acknowledges him. “What were you doing?”

“I was at the Conseil. You know that,” I shoot back.

“Yes, I know that,” he snarls. “I meant after. I know you weren’t at the Conseil for six hours straight. So let me ask again: what were you doing?”

I lift my chin. “Studying.”

“For what?”

“For the Examen Magistral,” I reply with an eye roll.

Something flickers in his expression—something I can’t quite place. He doesn’t push further, but his frustration doesn’t ease.

Aurélien sighs. “Mon dieu, you act as if she threw herself into a battlefield.”

Draco whirls on him, voice sharp. “That’s exactly what she’s doing.”

The words hang heavy in the air, more truthful than I care to admit.

A beat of silence.

Then, Draco exhales, turns on his heel, and stalks toward the door. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Next time, don’t be reckless.”

He slams the door behind him.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Aurélien glances between me and the now-empty doorway, then shakes his head with a smirk. “He loves you.”

I glare at him. “Shut up.”

Harry shifts on the couch, groggy. “What’s going on?”

I sigh. “Nothing. Just Draco being Draco.”

Harry grumbles before hoisting himself up on the couch. “Makes sense.”

Aurélien takes my bag for me and busies himself with his dress robes, peeling off the top layer while I sit next to Harry. “I’m shocked you two were in here alone. What’s that about?”

Harry takes his glasses off to rub a hand over his face, seeming a bit exasperated. “Malfoy was pacing back in forth in the library like a madman, mumbling to himself and checking his watch every few minutes. He caught sight of Mione, Ron and me and interrogated us about you.”

I groan, throwing my head back. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he answers quickly. “He just thought we’d know more about what was going on since we saw you off.”

“Well, he could’ve known just as much if he bothered to show up.”

Harry snorts. “You didn’t want him here. He was giving you space.”

“Space,” I scoff. “No, he’s being stubborn.”

“Then you two are a perfect match, aren’t you?” he teases.

I swat at his arm. “You’re not funny.”

“He’s a little funny,” Aury chimes from across the room.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Both of you are getting on my last nerve.”

“You know who can usually fix that?” Harry coos, a sarcastic smile plastered across his face. “Malfoy.”

I huff. “Oh, please.”

Harry leans in, his voice dry. “No, really. He’s been driving us mental, going on about how you’d be the first to reach out. We had to sit in the damn library with him in case you coined us instead of ‘tapping’ to him, whatever that means.”

I stare at him, thrown off. “He—he what?”

Harry shrugs. “Made us wait with him. Said if you didn’t tap to him, you’d contact us, and he wasn’t going to miss it.”

Aurélien lets out a low whistle. “Mon dieu. Sounds very stubborn to me.”

I cross my arms. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Harry snorts. “Right. Just like how you glaring at the door doesn’t mean you wanted him to stay.”

My jaw tightens. “Why are you even defending him?”

Harry’s expression hardens, his voice cutting. “Because for once, Malfoy isn’t the only one being an idiot. You’re both impossible.”

I glare. “Oh, so now I’m the idiot?”

“Yes,” he deadpans. “You love him. He clearly loves you. And yet, here we are.”

My blood boils. “What do you want me to do, Harry? Go running after him?”

“I don’t know, maybe stop pretending you don’t care?” he fires back. “Or at least stop acting like he’s the only one who’s being an arse.”

Aurélien watches us, amused, as if we’re a live duel he doesn’t want to interrupt.

I exhale sharply, looking away. “This isn’t—”

Harry huffs, cutting me off. “Look, I don’t like him, alright? Never have. But I’m not blind. He’s worried about you. Even when you basically told him you wanted nothing to do with him, the only thing he can think about is you and your safety. You’re avoiding what that means.”

I chew the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to hear this. Especially not from Harry.

“It’s just the bond. If we break it—”

“You’d still care just as much about each other as you do now, you just wouldn’t be invincible,” he cuts me off, frustrated. “If you want someone to coddle you and tell you that you’re right and he’s wrong, go talk to Hannah. But I’m not going to lie to you. I like to think we’re close enough for me to be honest with you by now. Be mad all you want—you two need each other and you make each other better. Probably always will. Just accept it.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. My chest tightens as I stare at him, jaw clenched so hard it aches.

Aurélien lets out a low whistle. “Merde, Potter. That was quite the speech.”

Harry doesn’t acknowledge him. His green eyes stay locked on mine, unwavering, challenging me to argue.

I want to. I need to.

Because if I don’t—if I let his words sink in—then I have to admit he’s right.

And that terrifies me.

I force a laugh, though it comes out hollow. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Harry tilts his head. “Don’t I?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I hate this. I hate the way he’s looking at me, like he sees right through me. Like he knows I’m grasping at straws.

Aurélien hums thoughtfully. “I, for one, am very interested in hearing how you’ll deny this, ma belle. Please, do continue.”

I shoot him a glare, but he just smirks.

Harry crosses his arms. “You can keep pretending, but it doesn’t change anything. And it won’t make it hurt less.”

My throat tightens. “It’s not that simple.”

He sighs. “I know.”

And that—that—makes it worse. Because he’s not mocking me. He’s not trying to rub it in. He’s just right.

I swallow hard, shaking my head. “I don’t—”

The low rumble of the door cuts me off. We all freeze.

Aurélien raises an eyebrow. “Well, well. Who could that be?”

My stomach twists, because I already know.

Harry smirks. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

I feel his presence before I see the white blond hair charging into the room in a fury, stopping right in front of Harry and I where we sit on the sofa. Draco plants his feet centimeters away from mine, crossing his arms.

He’s not in his uniform anymore—rather, he’s changed into sweatpants and a soft looking t-shirt. Both are high quality, of course, and they fit him well. If I wasn’t so mad at him I’d be able to appreciate how good they look on him.

Not the time.

“You know, I just think it’s funny that you get to go off on your own and do all these missions by yourself but if I got the bright idea to try you’d probably follow me like a stalker,” he starts, the tension in his shoulders noticeable. “But if I even suggest that you shouldn’t go alone, suddenly I’m trying to control you?”

“Draco, I—”

“And you can throw an honest mistake in my face like it’s nothing just to prove a point but if I did—”

I cut him off, rising to my feet. “An honest mistake? That was intentional. You knew exactly what you were doing. So don’t make it out like you spilled some water! You told everyone something I didn’t—”

“You would have done the same,” he retorts, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I did it to protect you! Do you know how much more information I could finally share with your friends—who you always insist on involving, by the way—after I did?”

I shake my head, taking a step forward and forcing him to back up a step. “You know you still haven’t said sorry?”

He scoffs. “Is that what you want? You want me to say sorry? Will that make you stop pushing me away?”

“Not if you don’t mean it,” I shoot back, my voice rising. “It’s not about the stupid secret, or even the apology, Draco. It’s the principle! I thought that when we started getting closer it meant we were each other’s top priority. That if I asked you not to share something—”

He catches my wrist in the air as I jab my pointer finger into his chest. “You didn’t tell me not to share it.”

“I shouldn’t have to!” I spit, yanking my wrist from his grasp. “In what universe would I ever want other people to know what I did? You knowing was already too much for me to handle, and now… now everyone knows,” I finish, my voice cracking slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

Draco’s expression shifts—just barely, but I catch it. A flicker of something softer beneath his frustration.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” he says, quieter now, but still firm. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Then why did you?” My voice is sharp, demanding. “You didn’t think about me at all, did you? You thought about what was useful.” I shake my head, taking another step forward, daring him to meet my eyes. “You thought about winning, Draco. About strategy. But not about me.”

His jaw clenches, and I see the war in his eyes. I know him too well now. Know that he hates when I call him out like this—when I force him to feel instead of just react.

“I—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Damn it, do you really think I don’t care?”

“Not enough,” I whisper, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said all night.

The words hit their mark. His entire body tenses, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He looks at me like I’ve wounded him, like he doesn’t know how to defend himself against this.

And for once, he doesn’t have a clever response.

The silence stretches between us, thick and unrelenting.

Aurélien shifts across the room, murmuring, “Should I leave, or is this part of the show?”

Neither of us acknowledge him.

Draco takes a breath. Steadies himself. And when he speaks again, his voice is different. Lower. More careful.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

I shake my head, suddenly exhausted. “It’s not about one thing you can do, Draco. It’s about whether or not I can trust you.”

He flinches. Just slightly. But I see it.

I exhale, my voice softer now, but no less certain. “And right now, I don’t know if I can.”

His eyes search mine. I see the panic creeping in, the realization of what I’m really saying.

And for the first time since he stormed in here, Draco Malfoy doesn’t have an argument.

“Even if you don’t trust me,” he murmurs, shifting almost imperceptibly closer to me, “can you please stop throwing yourself into potential death traps just to prove a point? Because whether you hate me or not, I can’t lose you.”

My breath hitches at the honesty in his tone, and I have to restrain myself from reaching out to him. My fingers twitch at my sides. “I could never hate you.”

I can’t meet his gaze, the guilt and anxiety and the missing him starting to cloud my judgement when I look into those stormy grey eyes. He, on the other hand, can’t take his eyes away from me. Like he’s afraid if he stops looking at me for a second I’ll disappear.

The way his voice wavers when he opens his mouth hurts me. “I’m sorry I broke your trust. But I’m not sorry I did it. If I had to burn the world down to protect you, I would. If it took you hating me to know you’re safe, I’d make peace with that. A thousand times over.”

My heart clenches painfully. His words shouldn’t make me weak. They shouldn’t make me want to forgive him. But they do.

I shake my head, swallowing the lump in my throat. “That’s not the point, Draco.”

His jaw tightens. “Then what is?”

“That I don’t need you to burn the world down for me.” I exhale sharply, searching for the right words. “I need you to stand beside me in it. I need you to trust me enough to let me make my own choices, even when you don’t agree with them.”

His brows knit together, and I see something I don’t expect—fear. Real, unguarded fear.

“I do trust you,” he says, almost desperately.

I lift my chin. “Then act like it.”

The weight of my words settles between us. He looks at me like I’ve shattered something inside him—something he’s trying to piece back together before it’s too late.

“I don’t know how,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Not when it comes to you.”

It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said to me.

And damn it all, it makes me want to pull him into my arms and never let go.

Instead, I take a slow, steady breath. “Then learn.”

Draco exhales shakily, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t dare.

Aurélien, who has been uncharacteristically quiet this whole time, finally claps his hands together. “Well. That was sufficiently heart-wrenching. But ma belle, you’re exhausted. And your dear Malfoy looks ready to either pass out or punch a wall.”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Aury.”

“That’s me,” he says with a grin. “Now, are we done breaking each other’s hearts for the night, or shall I fetch popcorn?”

Draco shoots him a glare but doesn’t rise to the bait. His focus is still entirely on me, waiting for something.

I hesitate, then finally sigh. “I need time.”

He nods, solemn, understanding. “Take it.”

Neither one of us moves.

Harry seems to take that as his cue, shifting on the couch and standing up. “Aurélien,” he says, his voice nonchalant, “I’ll take you to the Gryffindor dorms. Neville is with his nan for the weekend. You can stay with me.”

I break eye contact with Draco to look over at Harry and Aury, who seem to silently tell me they understand.

“Of course,” Aurélien replies, coming to stand next to me. “I’m going to turn in, mon soleil. Will you be okay here?”

I nod my head, stepping away from Draco. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Goodnight.” I wrap my arms around his middle, ignoring the pang of jealousy in my chest. Aury holds me tightly for a few moments before letting go, shooting me a smile and following Harry out.

When the door scrapes closed once more, the silence in the room is absolutely deafening as Draco’s gaze burns into the side of my skull.

I meet his eyes once more and wordlessly sit down on the sofa. He does the same.

Draco takes care to sit a bit of a ways from me, far enough that I can’t feel his body heat like usual. I spell over one of the large books from Francis’ office, letting it open in my lap and begin to read. Draco eyes it curiously.

“What’s that?” he asks softly, craning his neck to see over my shoulder.

I lift up the cover of the book to show him, and he reads it out loud. “Les Fondations du Droit Magique Français. Sounds riveting.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. His dry humor always gets me, and he knows it. I clear my throat, trying to slip my annoyed mask back on, but the faint pink blush on my cheeks betrays me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Draco visibly relax. The air feels less charged, less heavy.

It’s not quite forgiveness, not yet anyway. But for right now, it’s enough.