The Council
“Do you have everything you need?” Hermione asks, fretting over my bag.
“Yes, Mione,” I chuckle lightly.
Aurélien steps forward, adjusting my dress robes. “You have your bracelet, your pendant, and your coin, oui?”
I tilt my head affectionately. “Yes, Aury. I’ve got everything. I’ll be okay.”
“And you’ll let us know immediately if something goes wrong?” Draco questions, worrying his bottom lip.
“Guys, I’m going to be fine. It’s just an exam.”
Harry ruffles his hair. “And an induction if it goes well. Are you sure no one can come with you?”
I scan my friends faces, looping my bag over my shoulder. “I have to do this by myself. Francis said even if you lot did come, they wouldn’t let you past the front desk. This might be a whole day thing, so I don’t want you waiting there aimlessly.”
Ron frowns. “Still doesn’t feel right, you going alone.”
I reach out, squeezing his arm. “I’ll be fine. It’s just one test.”
Hermione sighs, clearly wanting to argue but knowing I won’t budge. Instead, she fusses over my robes one last time before stepping back. “Alright. Just—remember everything we went over, okay? And trust yourself.”
Aurélien presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Bonne chance, ma chère.”
Draco shifts uncomfortably, like he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. Finally, he mutters, “Don’t mess up.” But his voice is softer than usual, betraying the real sentiment behind his words.
I smile. “I’ll do my best.”
With one final glance at them all, I step into the Floo, gripping my bag tightly. “Conseil des Sorciers,” I say clearly, throwing down the powder.
The world blurs into green flames, spinning and twisting before spitting me out onto a polished marble floor.
I stumble slightly but right myself, brushing off the soot as I take in my surroundings. The Conseil des Sorciers headquarters is as grand as I remember—vaulted ceilings, elegant chandeliers, and intricate carvings in the walls depicting moments of French magical history. Wizards and witches move with purpose, their deep blue robes marking them as officials of the council.
The woman behind the front desk looks unamused as ever when I sidle up to her.
“Name?”
“Lavigné,” I say smoothly, lifting my chin with confidence.
She all but rolls her eyes. “You’re right on time.”
She gestures over the plump man from my first visit, and he inclines his head. “Where to?”
“Head of inductions,” she says flatly. “Hallway F. Take her to Brossier. He’ll be proctoring.”
He smirks slightly before gesturing for me to follow. “Come. The exam room is prepared. You’ll have two hours to complete the written portion, followed by an oral evaluation before the council members.”
A flicker of nerves twists in my stomach, but I push it down. I’ve studied for this. I can do this.
As we walk through the grand halls, passing portraits of esteemed council members and enchanted tapestries, I straighten my shoulders.
“Pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Fournier,” I say, making small talk.
He seems downright pleased. “And you as well, Mademoiselle. I knew you’d be back. Are you feeling confident?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.
I lift my chin. “Always.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced, but there’s something like approval in his eyes. “Good. Keep it that way.” Then, lowering his voice, he adds, “The council will push you, especially given your lineage. Some will want to see you succeed. Others will be looking for any reason to dismiss you. Don’t give them one.”
I nod, absorbing his words.
He studies me for a moment longer before exhaling. “Remember: clarity, composure, and control. You’re more than capable of this, Mademoiselle Lavigné.”
I let out a slow breath, then offer him a small smile. “Thanks, Monsieur.”
Before he can respond, a new voice cuts in.
“Ah, Y/n Lavigné.”
Armand Brossier strides forward, his deep blue robes pristine, his presence as commanding as ever. His shrewd gaze flickers over me, then to Fournier. “I trust she is ready?”
“She is.” He nods, stepping back slightly.
Brossier clasps his hands behind his back, regarding me with an unreadable expression. “Then let us proceed.”
I square my shoulders, following him down the hall.
This is it.
He opens the door to a small room, with a parchment and quill having been prepared for my arrival on a small desk. Brossier gestures for me to sit down, taking my overcoat and bag to a few hooks by the corner of the room for me. I cross my legs, wanting to look as professional as possible.
He clears his throat, standing in front of a slightly larger desk positioned in the front of the room. “Okay, Mademoiselle. There are two portions to the exam: the written, which you’ll be taking now, and an oral evaluation, which we will proceed to should you pass the written. A quill has been provided for you, charmed to not run out of ink. There is no official time limit, though most finish within two hours. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” I reply, holding my head high.
He smirks before sitting down behind the desk at the front of the room. He pulls out a stopwatch and tells me, “Begin.”
The moment he speaks, the parchment before me shifts, ink curling across the surface as the first set of questions appears. I take a steadying breath, gripping the quill firmly before setting it to the page.
The exam is just as rigorous as I expected—case studies, legal interpretations, and historical precedents of the Conseil des Sorciers. Some questions require me to recall specific laws, while others demand critical analysis, asking me to argue for or against certain rulings in magical governance.
But I’ve studied for this. I know this.
Time fades into the background as I work through the exam, my quill flying across the parchment with calculated precision. Years of navigating my family’s expectations, of studying under pressure, have trained me for this exact moment.
When I finally place my quill down, I realize only 45 minutes have passed.
Brossier, who had been silently observing me from his desk, quirks a brow. “Finished?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” I say, pushing the parchment forward.
His gaze flicks to the clock, then back to me, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he waves his wand over the parchment, and the ink glows faintly before fading. The exam vanishes, presumably sent off for grading.
Silence stretches between us. Then, after what feels like an eternity, it reappears on his desk and he nods once.
“Ninety percent,” he announces. “More than sufficient to proceed.”
Relief washes over me, though I keep my expression composed. Hermione is going to be so proud when I tell her.
Brossier rises, straightening his robes. “Follow me. The council is waiting.”
He hands me my overcoat and my bag once more, leading me down the long hallway. We take a lift to a different floor, and this hall only has one room. The plaque next to the entrance reads Chambres du Conseil—Council Chambers.
I take a steadying breath as the large double doors open, revealing the grand room within.
The Chambres du Conseil is even more imposing than I imagined. The domed ceiling is adorned with intricate gold filigree, enchanted to subtly shimmer under the candlelit sconces lining the walls. A long, curved table sits at the front of the room, where a panel of council members—distinguished witches and wizards in deep blue robes—watch as I enter. Their gazes are sharp, assessing.
Brossier gestures for me to step forward, and I do so with measured steps, keeping my shoulders squared and my chin lifted. Confidence, I remind myself. Ibelong here.
At the center of the table sits an older man with graying hair and piercing dark eyes—Armand Brossier’s superior, if his silver robes are any indication. He folds his hands before him, regarding me carefully.
“Mademoiselle Lavigné,” he says, voice steady and authoritative. “You have passed the written portion of your induction examination with commendable results. Now, you will undergo the oral evaluation.”
I nod, clasping my hands in front of me to keep them from fidgeting.
“This portion will assess your ability to think critically, apply legal knowledge, and demonstrate the diplomatic reasoning necessary for a seat on this council. You will be presented with theoretical scenarios and asked to respond as if you were an acting member. Answer truthfully and to the best of your ability.”
Another council member, a woman with sharp cheekbones and silver-streaked hair, leans forward slightly. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, madame,” I reply evenly.
A different man, younger than the rest but with an air of shrewd calculation, tilts his head. “Let us begin, then. Suppose a dispute arises between two wizarding families—one claiming ownership of an artifact that has been in their possession for generations, the other providing documented proof that the artifact was stolen from their ancestors during the 16th century. As a council member, how would you mediate this conflict?”
I take a slow breath, gathering my thoughts before responding. “First, I would review the provided documentation for authenticity, ensuring that no tampering or forgery is at play. If the claims of theft are substantiated, I would then examine existing magical property laws to determine whether any legal precedent exists for restitution in such cases. Given that the artifact has been in the possession of one family for generations, additional considerations must be made for potential compensations rather than immediate forfeiture.”
The woman nods slightly, her expression unreadable. “And if no clear legal precedent exists?”
“Then I would advocate for an official hearing, wherein both parties can present their cases before the council. If necessary, historical records and magical tracing could be employed to determine rightful ownership, and we would work toward a resolution that is both legally and ethically sound.”
Silence follows. Then, the man who had posed the question leans back, exchanging glances with his colleagues.
“Interesting approach,” he muses. “Not a hasty resolution, but one that ensures fairness.”
I keep my face neutral, though my pulse thrums in my ears.
Another council member speaks, this time a broad-shouldered man with a gruff voice. “You are an heir to a prominent name, Mademoiselle Lavigné. Many will expect you to follow the interests of your lineage, particularly given your father’s prior position on this council. Can you assure us that your rulings will be impartial?”
A test.
I hold his gaze steadily. “With all due respect, Monsieur, my lineage grants me knowledge and perspective, but it does not dictate my decisions. I understand the weight of my family’s history, but I am here as myself, not as an extension of my predecessors.”
The man huffs, but his expression betrays a trace of approval.
Another question follows, then another. I navigate them carefully, ensuring my responses balance diplomacy, legal reasoning, and integrity.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Brossier steps forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “That concludes the evaluation.”
The head councilman nods. “We will deliberate.”
I give a respectful bow of my head before stepping back, waiting as they confer in hushed tones. My heart pounds, but I keep my breathing steady.
A few moments later, the head councilman straightens. “It is decided.”
I brace myself.
“Mademoiselle Lavigné, by the authority of the Conseil des Sorciers, you have been deemed both sufficiently competent and impartial to warrant progression to the next steps towards becoming an official seat holder on the council. Do you wish to proceed?”
Brossier nods in approval and I have to make a conscious effort not to appear too excited.
Holy shit, I did it.
Keeping my voice steady, I reply, “I do.”
The councilman nods his head, signifying his approval. “In that case, the next step is the Épreuve de Loyauté. You will be given a task to prove your impartiality, your biases, your skills, and where your loyalty truly lies. This task is tailored to each witch and wizard.”
I watch on with rapt attention. What could the task be?
He continues on. “We have decided that your Épreuve de Loyauté will focus mainly on your skills today. Given you are underage, a charm has been placed over this room to prevent any traces of your magic being tracked by the Wizengamot or similar authorities. This will not be a permanent solution, though should you take a claim to a seat, most daily tasks will not require magic. Do you wish to proceed?”
I nod. I expected this. I’m very young, so it’s only natural they would want to see if I can hold my own. “Absolutely, Monsieur.”
The chamber is silent as the council members watch over me. One of the officials near the middle waves his hand, beckoning me closer.
“Present your wand.”
I do as I’m told, taking a few steps forward and placing my wand on the curved stone table. He picks it up with spindly fingers and starts examining it—a wand maker, maybe. Or someone with experience in the field.
“Applewood,” he muses, turning it between his fingers. “Phoenix feather core. A rare pairing—symbolic of perseverance and renewal.”
He traces his fingers along the wood, as if listening. “Responsive. Strong-willed. This wand does not yield easily to just anyone. It is deeply bonded to its owner.” He looks up, intrigued. “Fascinating.”
There are faint murmurs between the council members as he hands it back to me. One of the women from the other end of the table casts something on the floor behind me and a large, glowing sigil carves itself into the marble.
“If you would please stand on the symbol for your assessment,” she calls out, her voice low and smooth. The way she carries herself screams wealth, and something about it makes me just a touch more comfortable. I grew up around women like her.
I step onto the sigil, feeling the faint hum of magic beneath my feet. The council members watch with sharp, assessing gazes.
The woman who cast the sigil tilts her head. “We will begin with a simple spell. Lumos.”
I nod, gripping my wand—only to slip it into my robes instead of using it. A flicker of confusion crosses a few faces, but I don’t acknowledge it. Instead, I raise my hand and focus.
A soft, golden glow blooms from my fingertips. The light pulses steadily, warm and controlled.
A murmur ripples through the chamber.
The woman arches a brow. “Nox.”
I close my fingers, snuffing out the light instantly.
A different council member leans forward, intrigued. “Accio.”
I glance toward the goblet at the edge of the table, flick my fingers, and it soars into my open palm.
Now they’re paying attention.
“Protego.”
I breathe in, summoning the shield—not from my wand, but from myself. A shimmering, translucent barrier flickers to life before me, steady and strong.
A low chuckle. “Impressive.”
Another council member, an older wizard with piercing blue eyes, leans forward. “Very well. Something more difficult. Everte Statum.”
A spell designed to send opponents flying backward. Not impossible, but harder without a wand.
I take a steadying breath, lift my palm, and release the energy outward. A sharp crack echoes as the force strikes the target they set conjured before me, sending it skidding back several feet.
A few council members exchange looks.
Then, the head councilman leans back in his chair, clearly entertained. “Curious. And if I were to request Expelliarmus?”
I exhale, steadying my magic, and flick my wrist. A wand from a council member’s belt suddenly jerks free, flying into my grip. I twirl it between my fingers before tossing it back to its stunned owner.
The murmurs are louder now.
“Most witches and wizards struggle to perform nonverbal spells with a wand,” one of them remarks. “And yet you have skipped straight to wandless.”
I bow my head slightly. “It is a skill I developed over time.”
The woman who first addressed me folds her hands. “How far does that skill extend, I wonder?”
I know a challenge when I hear one.
She flicks her wand. A block of stone appears before me, thick and sturdy. “Reducto.”
Without hesitation, I extend my hand and channel the force of the spell. The stone block shatters, exploding into dust and rubble.
Someone actually gasps.
I watch as the council members confer among themselves in hushed tones. Then the woman lifts her chin.
“You have an excellent grasp on wandless magic. Tell me, do you know why your magic is so potent? Why it bends to you as it does?”
My chest constricts from the energy I’ve spent, but I refuse to show it. I simply clasp my hands together behind my back and say, “My lineage.”
The council members talk to each other in hushed tones, and I make out certain bits. “So young,” “Father’s side,” and “Merlin himself.” It doesn’t take a scholar to piece together what they’re discussing.
Suddenly I pick out, “curious jewelry,” and I tense. What did they see?
One of the council members, a man with sharp, calculating eyes, gestures toward me. “Step closer.”
I obey, keeping my posture composed as I move forward.
His gaze lowers—to my chest.
My fingers twitch. I follow his line of sight and realize, with a sinking feeling, what they must have seen.
The chain of Draco’s pendant has slipped from beneath my robes, the silver glinting in the chamber’s light.
Not just any pendant. Draco’s.
Shit.
The man’s brows furrow as he leans in slightly. “That insignia…”
A different councilwoman, a shrewd older witch, narrows her eyes. “That is the Malfoy family crest.” Her tone is unreadable.
The chamber fills with murmurs once more. I catch the words “Death Eaters” and “alliance” and feel a flicker of something sharp in my chest—panic.
I exhale through my nose, steadying myself. They’re going to find out eventually. Better they hear it from me.
Lifting my chin, I grasp the pendant and pull it free, letting the crest rest in my palm. “Yes,” I confirm. “This belongs to Draco Malfoy.”
The woman tilts her head. “And why, exactly, do you possess it?”
I don’t waver. “Because we are tied together by something. A magical bond.”
The murmuring stops.
I hold their stares. “A Blood Pact.”
The weight of my words crashes through the chamber like a thunderclap.
Several council members stiffen, and the sharp-eyed man exhales through his nose. “At such a young age? Did you cast it yourself?”
“No,” I reply quickly. “It was cast by our parents.”
Several council members seem appalled, almost offended. “Forging a blood bond between two un-consenting children often proves unstable at best—and fatal at worst.”
I tilt my head. “That was believed to be true.” I let the pendant catch the light. “But history does not account for what happens when two heirs inherit an unbroken pact.”
A beat of silence. Then—
The older woman exhales sharply, looking almost… fascinated. “Inherited?” she repeats. “You are saying this Blood Pact existed before you and the Malfoy boy?”
I nod. “Our mothers were bound before us. But the magic has never severed. It has carried on, shielding us from harm, tying us together in ways we don’t yet understand.”
The murmurs resume—louder, more intense.
“This could be an advantage,” I continue, keeping my voice steady. “There is no recorded history of a Blood Pact transferring beyond its original casters. It protects us from each other, but also from harm outside of that. In addition, we can feel each other’s emotions. The type of bond between us is unheard of. If we study it—research it—we may find a way to use it.”
The head councilman, who had been silent thus far, leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. His piercing gaze weighs heavy on me.
“This is unprecedented,” he muses, more to himself than to anyone else. “A bond that extends beyond its originators… A connection beyond blood…”
His eyes flicker with something thoughtful, something intrigued. Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at the edge of his lips.
“Tell me, Mademoiselle Lavigné,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “How far are you willing to go to unravel its secrets?”
I take a step back, brushing off my robes. If there was ever a time to show them who I really am, it’s now.
“I have been researching this bond for months and have come up nearly empty handed every time,” I begin, tucking the pendant back under my clothes. “Neither of our parents are even aware of its existence. There is a reason I’m here today, attempting to claim my seats on this council. I need your help, and until I’m properly inundated and assured that my privacy will be protected, I can only share so much.”
The head councilman studies me, his expression unreadable. Then he chuckles—low and knowing. “Cautious. Smart.”
I hold my ground. “It’s necessary.”
The older woman from before taps her fingers against the table. “And yet, you’ve already shared more than you realize.” She leans forward. “If neither of your parents know, what do they believe?”
My fingers tighten around my sleeves. Here it is. The part that will cement my position—or break it.
“They believe we will be bound in the future.” My voice is steady. “They believe we will form an alliance the traditional way—through marriage.”
A ripple of surprise moves through the council. Some exchange glances; others merely observe, waiting for me to continue.
I inhale. “Our parents have arranged for Draco Malfoy and me to be wed when we are of age. In addition, when we turn sixteen, they plan to magically bind us in accordance with their wishes.”
Silence crashes over the chamber.
The head councilman’s smirk returns, slow and knowing. “And yet,” he muses, “you are already bound.”
I nod once. “By something even they do not control.”
A man with sharp, graying features hums in thought. “You have not informed them?”
“No.”
The older woman tilts her head. “Because you do not trust them?”
My jaw tightens. “Because I do not know their full intentions. Nor do I know what they may do with it.”
Something in the air shifts. The sharp-eyed man—who had initially scoffed at the idea of an inherited pact—folds his hands together, his gaze alight with curiosity.
“This changes things,” he murmurs. “An ancient bond, passed to its heirs… A forced betrothal… Two fates unknowingly entwined.” He studies me. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Lavigné, do you wish to break it?”
I freeze. The chamber waits, expectant.
Finally, I shake my head. “No.”
A flicker of something—satisfaction?—crosses the head councilman’s face.
“No?” the sharp-eyed man presses.
“No,” I repeat. “Not until I learn more about it.” I hold my chin high. “Not until I know what we truly are.”
The older woman exhales. “You wish to control it.”
“I wish to understand it.”
The room stills. Then, slowly, the head councilman rises from his seat.
“Well, then.” His voice is smooth, laced with intrigue. “I believe we have our answer.”
He glances toward the other council members. A silent exchange passes between them before he nods, turning back to me.
“Mademoiselle Lavigné,” he says, “you have passed your Épreuve de Loyauté.”
The air shifts, but I don’t let my cool mask falter. Two tests down, one to go.
All that’s left is Sceau de la Maison—the House Seal.
The head councilman stands before me, his voice low and serious. “The Ancienne Chambre is not a place for the faint of heart. Its magic is ancient, tied to the very foundations of our society. Only those with true claim to their bloodline, those who prove their worth, are allowed to invoke it.”
I swallow, steadying myself. I’ve come too far to back down now. “I understand,” I say firmly.
He nods and gestures to the far corner of the chamber. “Come with me.”
I follow him through a narrow passageway, the walls of the stone corridor cool beneath my fingertips. We take the enchanted lift down to the very bottom, underneath even the entrance of the building. He leads me out and forward through the dark, magically charged corridor.
My footsteps echo eerily in the silence as we approach an imposing set of doors—carved with intricate symbols I don’t recognize. The air here is thick with old magic, and the very stones seem to hum with energy.
The councilman raises his hand and, with a wordless incantation, the doors creak open. The room beyond is vast, an enormous chamber with a domed ceiling that stretches so high I can barely see the top. It’s dimly lit by enchanted lanterns that flicker with an ethereal glow, casting long shadows across the stone floor. At the far end of the room stands a raised platform, upon which rests an ornate, ancient pedestal. The pedestal is carved from the same dark stone that seems to pulse with power, and atop it is a large, crystalline seal—the heart of the Ancienne Chambre.
“This is where it happens,” the councilman says softly, his voice reverberating in the vast space. “The magic will test your blood. Your ancestry will either claim you or reject you.”
I nod, trying to mask the sudden swell of nerves threatening to bubble to the surface.
He steps aside, leaving me standing in the center of the chamber. I take a deep breath and walk toward the pedestal, my boots clicking against the stone floor. The closer I get, the more I can feel the weight of the magic, and it presses against me like a physical force. I place my hand on the pedestal, the cold stone biting into my palm.
The councilman’s voice breaks through the stillness. “To invoke your lineage, you must offer something of yourself. The bloodline demands it—a part of your soul, intertwined with the magic that runs through your veins. Only then will the seal know you.”
I hesitate for a moment, thinking about what to offer. Slowly, I reach into the front pocket of my bag, pulling out what I can only describe as a symbol of my magic itself—the phoenix feather I kept from Dumbledore’s office. It represents me, the new life I’ll be entering, and my tie to something much bigger than myself. My tie to the impending war, to my friends, to everything I care about, and the evil wizard trying to destroy it all. A token of something far deeper than I can comprehend, is now my offering.
The councilman steps back, watching in silence as I kneel in front of the pedestal. I close my eyes and focus, allowing the magic to swirl around me, wrapping its tendrils around my mind and heart.
I whisper softly, my words just above a breath. “I invoke the blood of my ancestors. I claim my place among the chosen. I bind myself to this body, this power, and this legacy.”
There is a silence that hangs in the air, and then, without warning, the pedestal glows—first faintly, then brighter, until the entire room is bathed in an almost blinding light. The crystal seal pulses in time with the rhythm of my heart. My pulse quickens as the magic flares, and I feel it—feel it—working its way through my veins.
I gasp, clutching at the pedestal as a sharp pain lances through my chest. It’s like every nerve in my body is being seared, my blood and soul being laid bare to the magic that surrounds me.
The councilman’s voice rings out, distant and distorted. “The seal is choosing.”
I grit my teeth against the pain, forcing myself to remain still. This is the moment. The magic is demanding everything I am—my lineage, my soul, my essence—and I cannot falter now.
The light around me flickers, then begins to die down, leaving a strange stillness in its wake. I feel the weight of the magic dissipate, and the pedestal falls silent. But something has changed.
I feel… marked.
I lift my head, feeling the magic wrap around me, sinking deep into my skin. The seal, now glowing softly in the center of my chest, shimmers against my robes. My heartbeat slows as the last of the pain fades, replaced by a deep sense of power, of knowing my place in this world.
The councilman steps forward, his gaze scrutinizing me. “It is done.”
I stand slowly, the weight of the ritual still pressing upon me. The magic that was once foreign, once intangible, now flows freely through me. And for the first time, I truly feel like I belong here.
He nods in approval. “You are one of us now, Mademoiselle Lavigné. You have passed the test of bloodline, and you have claimed your place among the Conseil des Sorciers.”
I look at the councilman, my heart swelling with a mixture of pride and something deeper—something I can’t yet name. I’ve done it. I’ve earned my place.
The councilman gestures toward the doors, his voice filled with finality. “Come. Your future begins now.”