The Pact

Draco eyes me suspiciously. “A meeting with Dumbledore? About what?”

I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. “I’m not sure. Probably something to do with my mentorship with Snape. I skipped a few of our meetings when you were… what are we calling it? Love drunk?”

“Don’t bring it up,” Draco whines, covering his face in embarrassment. “I’d prefer we didn’t have a name for it, thanks.”

I chuckle to myself, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll be right back, promise. I’ll meet you before dinner.”

Draco still doesn’t seem to fully believe me, but he relents, knowing whatever it is, I wont budge. “Fine. But for the record—I still don’t trust him. Take everything he says with a grain of salt.”

“Duly noted,” I muse, mustering up a small smile. “See you in a bit.”

He gives my hand a squeeze before letting me go, watching me walk away.

The corridors feel suddenly much too short for my taste, because I get to Dumbledore’s office in record time. I’ve been putting this off for the last couple of days, but I don’t think I have much more time to lose.

The door creaks open before I get a chance to knock on it—he was expecting me.

“Miss Lavigne,” Dumbledore drawls, his blue eyes twinkling with recognition. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I stride in quickly, with a purpose, closing the door behind me. “I’ve been given a task.”

Dumbledore nods, unfazed. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been anticipating as much.”

I blink, stunned at his casual demeanor. “By… You Know Who, sir.”

“As I expected,” he says serenely, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat.”

My throat goes dry as I move towards him, lowering myself into the seat. My knuckles turn white from gripping the armrests so hard. “I suspect you already know what I’ve been asked to do, then.”

He smiles, folding his hands on the desk. “Perhaps.”

“He wants me to kill you.”

Dumbledore exhales slowly, as if he has just been told something as mundane as the weather forecast. His eyes remain steady on me, calm and piercing all at once.

“Yes,” he says softly. “That, too, I have expected.”

My breath catches. “You knew? And you—you’re just sitting here, waiting for it?”

His smile is tinged with something unreadable. “I have known for quite some time that my fate was sealed, Miss Lavigne. The question was never if, only when—and who.”

I shake my head, a cold sweat breaking over my skin. “I can’t do it.”

“I believe you can,” Dumbledore replies, almost gently. “And I believe you must.”

My stomach twists violently. “No.” The word is barely more than a breath. “There has to be another way.”

His expression does not change, but there is something resolute in the way he straightens ever so slightly. “I am afraid not. Voldemort does not tolerate failure. If you refuse, he will kill you. Or worse.”

I flinch at the name, at the weight of his words.

Dumbledore leans forward slightly, his voice lowering. “But there is a way to do this that ensures your survival. And more importantly, the survival of others.”

“What are you saying?” I whisper, dread clawing up my spine.

His eyes darken with something solemn. “I have a… condition.” He lifts his hand slightly, and I understand at once. It’s blackened—cursed. He must be weak. “I have known for some time that my life is waning. This… will only hasten the inevitable.”

My stomach churns. “You want me to go through with it?”

“I want you to live, Miss Lavigne.” His voice is steady, unyielding. “And I want you to understand that mercy sometimes comes in the form of a terrible choice.”

Tears burn at the edges of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “I don’t—” My voice cracks. “I don’t think I can.”

“You can,” Dumbledore insists, softer now. “But you will not have to do it alone.”

The fire crackles behind him, casting long shadows across the room. The air feels too thick, the walls too close.

Somewhere deep inside me, I already know I have no choice.

“I… I was hoping that, if I warned you… maybe you’d have a plan to stop it. To work around it, even. But you’re saying there’s nothing? Nothing at all?” I ask, pleading. “You know I’m supposed to kill you and you’re just going to let me?”

He settles back into his chair, giving me an almost pitying look. “Y/n. I think you’ve known this day would come for a long time now, am I correct?”

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I nod, unable to speak.

Dumbledore presses on. “I believe you will be the catalyst for great things—but every chain reaction must begin somewhere. The safest way for you to end this war is to take down Tom and his followers from the inside.”

“Tom, sir?”

A knowing look crosses the headmaster’s face. “Before he was Voldemort, Tom Riddle was once a student of mine. I always knew, deep down, what he would become. But you… you possess nearly as much power as he does now at only fifteen. Yet it does not make you boastful. You do not flaunt your power—you hide it.”

My chest constricts as I anxiously play with Draco’s necklace. “He… said the same thing. To me. That I hide.”

Dumbledore’s gaze flickers to the movement of my fingers, to the necklace, then back to my eyes. “Yes. And I suspect he finds that very curious.”

A shiver runs down my spine. Voldemort’s words echo in my mind—You are not like them. You were never meant to be like them. He had seen through me so easily, had known, just as Dumbledore seems to, that I am capable of so much more than I let on.

I swallow hard. “Is that why you’re asking me to do this? Because you think I’m like him?”

Dumbledore exhales softly, shaking his head. “No, my dear. Quite the opposite.”

That takes me aback. “Then why?”

“Because power is not inherently good or evil. It is a tool, wielded by the intent of the one who possesses it.” His fingers drum lightly against his desk, thoughtful. “Tom sought to twist his power into fear, control, and dominance. But you—you fear it, because you do not wish to become him. That is precisely why you must step into this role.”

I look away, my throat tightening. “I don’t want to be a killer.”

“I know,” he says gently. “But consider this: would you rather take a life in order to end many deaths, or refuse to act and allow the suffering to continue unchecked?”

I hate that question. I hate that it makes sense.

I shake my head. “There has to be another way. There has to be.”

Dumbledore watches me for a long moment before he stands, moving toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “I once told Harry that it is our choices, rather than our abilities, that define us. That still holds true.” He turns his head slightly. “I am giving you a choice now, Y/n. But if you wish to stop Tom Riddle, if you truly wish to see this war come to an end, you must understand the weight of what is at stake.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Somewhere deep in my chest, I know I’m already lost.

Dumbledore turns back toward me, his piercing blue eyes shining with something unreadable. “Severus will assist you in this.”

I stiffen. “Snape?”

As if summoned, the door creaks open, and the man himself strides in, his expression already set in a familiar scowl.

“If I had known you were going to let the girl believe she actually had a choice in this, I wouldn’t have waited outside,” Snape drawls, coming to stand beside the desk. His dark eyes land on me, unreadable as always. “I assume you’ve already realized there is no alternative.”

My fists clench. “Why do you two always act like we’re all just pieces on a chessboard? Like none of us have lives outside of this war?”

Snape raises a brow. “You don’t have a life outside of this war. None of us do. Not anymore.”

Dumbledore lifts a hand, a silent request for calm. “Severus will help you ensure that, when the time comes, it will be relatively painless.”

My heart stutters in my chest. “How do you mean?”

Snape gives me a sharp look. “The killing curse—although you have already mastered it, according to your parents—is not the only way to end a life. There are other methods. One potion in particular, a poison, technically, is more akin to falling asleep and never waking up. It’s a complicated brew, but it is much more… humane.”

Dumbledore smiles slightly, though there’s something deeply sad behind it. “You see now, don’t you? Why it must be you?”

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. And when I open them again, I nod.

“The poison. How long does it take to brew?”

Snape looks at Dumbledore, then back at me. “Three weeks. Right before your deadline.”

Realization slowly creeps across my face as I stare at the pair in front of me. “This… was the plan all along, wasn’t it? This is why Snape asked to be my mentor.”

Dumbledore doesn’t deny it. He only watches me with that infuriatingly knowing look, as if he’s been waiting for me to piece this together.

Snape, on the other hand, snorts. “You think too highly of yourself. You were a liability from the moment the Dark Lord set his sights on you. Someone had to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed before you could be useful.”

I bristle, but before I can snap at him, Dumbledore interjects, “Miss Lavigne, you must understand that everything has been leading to this moment. Your skill, your position… You were always going to be given this task. We had to ensure you were prepared.”

My stomach twists. “Prepared to kill you?”

Dumbledore smiles—smiles—as if this is all just another day for him. “Prepared to do what must be done.”

I glance at Snape. He isn’t looking at me, instead staring at some fixed point on the wall, his face carefully blank.

Something doesn’t add up.

“You’ve both thought of everything, haven’t you?” My voice is quieter now, my mind racing. “The poison, my training, making sure I go through with it…” My breath catches. “But if you’re so willing to die, why the elaborate plan? Why not just let me use the Killing Curse?”

Dumbledore’s gaze flickers for the briefest moment. It’s barely noticeable, but Snape stiffens slightly beside him.

And then I know.

Something isn’t right.

The way Snape mentioned the poison being “complicated.” The way Dumbledore insisted it had to be me. The way they’re both watching me now, waiting for my reaction.

I swallow hard. “You’re hiding something.”

Silence.

Then, Snape turns sharply to Dumbledore. “This is ridiculous. We do not have time for doubts.”

“She is entitled to the truth,” Dumbledore says, still looking at me.

Snape scoffs. “The truth? The truth is she is in an impossible position, one that will only be made worse if she starts asking the wrong questions.”

I push myself to my feet, my chair scraping against the floor. “I won’t do this unless you tell me everything.” My voice wavers, but I stand firm. “What aren’t you saying?”

Dumbledore’s expression softens, and I hate it. I hate that he looks proud of me.

“Miss Lavigne,” he says gently. “I believe it is time you understand everything.”

The finality in his tone gives me pause, and the confusion and anger turn into morbid curiosity. I back up against the seat, my eyes flickering back and forth between them. “Everything, sir? There’s more?”

Snape stiffens, seeming dreadfully unprepared to have this conversation—whatever it is.

“Allow me to show you something, Y/n. I believe you will find it most enlightening.”

Dumbledore rises from his seat and leads me through his office, back into the corner with his Pensieve. I gawk at it for a moment, memories of when I broke into his office flooding back to me.

He wanted me to, didn’t he? He had it planned all along.

Without saying anything, Dumbledore pulls a glimmering memory out of his temple and places it gently into the water, gesturing to it.

“Go on,” he encourages me.

I take a deep breath before gripping the edge of the basin and pressing my face in, the water swirling around me like ink before I’m pulled into the memory.

Dumbledore—much younger—sits on his desk, feet dangling over the side in front of four very familiar faces.

My parents… and Draco’s.

The four young adults look collectively horrified. My father is the first to speak.

“Albus… what are you saying?”

Dumbledore sighs, offering him a glowing orb—a prophecy.

“Castor, Grace, you will have a daughter. She will be an even combination of your respective bloodlines. Castor, from your side, she will inherit great power. It will take a lot to control. It will be even dangerous at times if not handled properly. And Grace… no doubt you know what she will inherit from your blood.”

My mother nods, looking like she’s going to be sick. “The darkness.”

Dumbledore gives her a tense smile. “Unfortunately, she will harbor great potential to turn to the wrong side of the war. If she realizes her strength too soon, it is highly likely that she will want to harness her power and become drunk with it. You mustn’t allow her to truly understand the extent of her abilities until she comes of age.”

My father exhales sharply, reeling. “And how, exactly, are we meant to accomplish that?”

“You must break her spirit,” Dumbledore replies sadly. “Keep her weak. Ignorant. It is the only way.”

“My word, Albus,” Lucius hisses, his hand clutching Narcissa’s tightly. “You cannot ask that of a parent. Of a person.”

Dumbledore’s expression does not waver. His hands remain folded, his face calm, composed—determined.

“I am asking for the safety of our world, Lucius,” he says evenly. “And for the safety of your son.”

Narcissa clutches Lucius’s arm, her eyes wide with horror. “We’ll have a son?” she whispers.

Dumbledore nods solemnly, lifting the prophecy slightly, letting the golden mist swirl ominously inside the glass. “Your son will be drawn to her, whether you like it or not. Trelawney has seen it… soulmates. Their magic will seek each other out, and should they unite—truly unite—it will be beyond our ability to control.”

Lucius’s grip on Narcissa tightens, his knuckles turning white. “And what happens if we don’t follow your plan?”

Dumbledore’s lips press into a thin line. “Then one of two things will happen. Either Y/n—that’s what they’ll name her—will rise and take the Dark Lord’s place, and this war will never end…” His eyes darken, their blue depths like ice. “Or she will be the one to end him, but we will lose our strongest weapon before the battle is truly over.”

A silence settles over the room, thick and suffocating.

My mother swallows hard. “And their son?” she presses.

Dumbledore’s gaze flickers to her, then back to Lucius. “You must ensure that he does not form a bond with her. Keep them apart. Keep him beneath her, just as you must keep her beneath us all. If they are allowed to grow together, if they find strength in each other… everything will fall apart.”

Lucius exhales sharply, running a hand through his platinum hair. “You’re asking me to crush my own son.”

Dumbledore inclines his head slightly. “I am asking you to keep him safe.”

My parents exchange a look, something heavy and unspoken passing between them. My mother is the first to nod. “We’ll do what must be done,” she says, though her voice is barely above a whisper.

Lucius turns away, jaw clenched, but Narcissa… she looks ill.

Dumbledore continues, his voice careful, measured. “To ensure that your families are protected, I propose a blood pact. A magical binding between the Alderwoods and the Malfoys—soon to be the Lavignes, for the sake of anonymity. This will shield you from suspicion, but more importantly, it will tie you to each other. If one family is threatened, the other will feel it. And if either of you betray the terms of this arrangement…” He trails off meaningfully.

Lucius exhales heavily. “It will kill us.”

Dumbledore nods.

Another silence. Another choice.

Slowly—almost reluctantly—Lucius extends his hand. My father does the same. Their wives watch, silent, as a small silver dagger materializes in Dumbledore’s palm.

“This will not be easy,” Dumbledore murmurs. “And I do not expect you to enjoy it.”

Lucius lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You’re a cruel man, Albus.”

Dumbledore does not deny it.

He only pricks their palms, lets their blood mix, and seals their fates.

After the ritual, there is a tense silence in the room.

“We will do our part,” Lucius finally says, breaking it. “But how can we ensure that the Dark Lord will not find her regardless? Will not use our son as a gambling chip?”

“I will throw him off your scent,” Dumbledore replies coolly, as if he knew they would ask. “There is another boy, who will be nearly as powerful as Y/n, and in the same year. Harry Potter. His fate is just as intertwined with Voldemort’s, as he will be responsible for keeping him at bay when he reaches school age. The Potter boy will share many connections with Riddle—including a wand. The brother, if you will, of Voldemort’s. In order to keep Riddle from seeking out Y/n, I have orchestrated a plot to keep him… occupied, until she is of age.”

Narcissa shifts uncomfortably, her fingers tightening around Lucius’s sleeve. “And when she is of age?”

Dumbledore’s expression darkens. “Then, I’m afraid, the choice will no longer be ours.”

My father exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You said she would either defeat him or become him. What if, despite our efforts, she chooses the latter?”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes glint in the dim candlelight. “Then we will have created something far worse than Voldemort himself.”

A shiver runs through the room.

Mother crosses her arms, her nails digging into her sleeves. “And what of us? You speak of shielding her, of keeping her weak, but you also said she will be the one to end this war. How can both things be true?”

Dumbledore sighs, weighing his next words. “Because, despite all of our interference, she will come into her own. It is unavoidable. But if we control the manner in which she does, we may still guide the outcome.”

Lucius scoffs. “Manipulation by another name.”

Dumbledore does not disagree.

Instead, he lifts the now-dim prophecy and sets it on his desk. “There is one more thing you must know.”

The room stiffens.

“There will be betrayal.”

Narcissa’s breath catches. Mother’s face pales. Lucius and my father share a look of quiet understanding—men who have played too many dangerous games to be surprised by this revelation.

“By whom?” my father asks, his voice tight.

Dumbledore shakes his head. “I do not know.”

Lucius’s jaw clenches. “Then what good is your warning?”

Dumbledore gazes at them evenly. “Because, when the time comes, you must be ready. Your families—both of them—will be placed directly in the path of ruin. The war will hinge on the choices your children make. And in the end…” He exhales, as if the weight of the knowledge is finally pressing down on him. “Y/N will be responsible for both my death and the Dark Lord’s.”

A sharp silence follows.

My mother sways slightly where she stands, gripping my father’s arm. “That’s impossible.”

“It is inevitable,” Dumbledore corrects gently. “And in nearly every iteration of it happening, the most dreadful outcome remains. She may not survive.”

Lucius narrows his eyes. “And what of Draco? Where does he stand in this… fate you have so carefully constructed?”

Dumbledore studies him carefully before answering. “If we have done our job right… he will stand alone. Relatively… uninvolved.”

A sick feeling settles in the air, heavy and suffocating. No one speaks.

Finally, Dumbledore straightens. “You have your orders. The next twenty years will not be easy, but they will be necessary. I suggest you prepare.”

With that, he waves a hand, and the memory ends.

I am ripped from the past, yanked back into reality with such force that I stumble backward, gasping for breath.

The walls of Dumbledore’s office feel too close.

My heart is hammering. My hands are shaking. My head is spinning with the weight of what I have just seen.

A lifetime of pain, of loneliness, of purposeful suffering—designed.

I whirl on Dumbledore, my vision blurring with rage. “You planned this,” I choke out, my voice shaking. “My parents, the Malfoys, everything—you made them break me.”

Dumbledore does not flinch. “I did what was necessary.”

A broken laugh escapes me, bitter and hollow. “You used me.”

“I protected you.”

I snap. “You raised me to be killed!”

Silence crashes down between us.

And suddenly, I understand—everything. The betrayal. The war. The poison. The lies.

And above all, why it has to be me.

I stumble into the main part of his office, collapsing into the armchair. Snape and Dumbledore follow me closely, and I swear I can see something resembling regret and pity on Snape’s face.

Breathing heavily, pulling my knees up to my chest, I stutter out, “All this time? My—my parents? And Draco’s? Snape, you too? You—you’re all—”

“Part of The Order,” Snape finishes for me, his voice low and sharp.

I let out a hollow laugh, running a hand through my hair as the weight of it all crushes me. “So that’s it, then? My whole life—every choice I thought was mine, every pain I endured—it was all just a part of your grand design?”

Dumbledore watches me carefully, his expression unreadable. “Miss Lavigne, I know this is difficult to accept—”

“Difficult?” I snap, my voice shaking. “Difficult is thinking my parents resented me for no reason. Difficult is spending years trying to be good enough, strong enough, just to realize you never wanted me to be.” My throat tightens, my nails digging into my arms. “Difficult is realizing I was never a person to you. Just a weapon.”

Something flickers in Dumbledore’s eyes, but he does not deny it.

Snape shifts slightly, his gaze darker than usual. “You were not the only one who suffered in this arrangement,” he says quietly. “Draco. Potter. Even myself. We all had our roles to play.”

I shake my head, something bitter and broken clawing its way up my throat. “Draco,” I whisper. “He—he was meant to be alone. You made sure of that.”

Dumbledore nods, as if this is just another lesson I must learn. “Draco’s destiny was always tied to yours. But if he had stood beside you, if he had fought for you, rather than against you, then—”

“Then we would have burned it all down,” I finish for him, realization settling in like ice. “We would have seen through the lies. We would have fought back.”

Dumbledore doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

My hands clench into fists. “And now, after everything, you expect me to just go along with it?” My voice is rising, raw and furious. “To kill you, to kill him, to do exactly what you wanted all along?”

Dumbledore leans forward slightly, his blue eyes piercing. “I expect you to decide, finally, what you will become.”

My breath catches.

And suddenly, I see it—the final choice laid bare before me.

They spent my whole life trying to keep me from my power, trying to mold me into the perfect weapon against Voldemort, but in doing so, they gave me something more.

They gave me rage.

They gave me a reason to fight.

I lift my head, meeting Dumbledore’s gaze with a clarity I have never felt before. “I’ll do it,” I whisper. “I’ll kill you.”

Snape inhales sharply, but Dumbledore only nods.

I stand slowly, straightening my shoulders, feeling the weight of my fate settle around me like a cloak. “But Draco, my friends, my classmates—they stay out of it. Harry, too. He’s suffered long enough. You have to promise me that no matter what happens to me, you protect them. You protect Draco.”

Snape’s expression flickers—something unreadable, something dangerously close to sympathy—but he does not hesitate. “If it comes to that,” he says, his voice measured, “I will protect him.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s not good enough.”

Snape exhales sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What do you want, then? A signed contract?”

I step forward, fire burning in my veins. “A vow.”

The words hang between us, heavy and irrevocable.

Snape’s jaw tightens. “Do you understand what you’re asking?”

I glance at Dumbledore, who watches us both with quiet intrigue. My fingers twitch at my sides. “Do you?”

Snape studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “Very well.”

Dumbledore retrieves his wand and moves to stand between us, his expression solemn as he extends his free hand. I step forward, mirroring Snape as we each raise our left arms. His hand is cold as I grip his wrist, and when he clasps mine in return, the air shifts—like the room itself knows what we are about to do.

Dumbledore raises his wand.

“Miss Lavigne, state your terms.”

I take a steadying breath. “You will protect Draco Malfoy,” I say, voice strong despite the storm in my chest. “If he is in danger, you will keep him safe. If he is given a task he cannot complete, you will ensure he is not punished for it.” I swallow hard. “No matter what happens to me, you will not let him fall.”

Dumbledore turns to Snape. “Do you make this vow?”

Snape meets my gaze, his dark eyes unreadable. “I do.”

A ribbon of fiery magic slithers from Dumbledore’s wand, wrapping around our joined hands.

I press forward. “If he has to run, you will help him.” My voice wavers slightly, but I force myself to hold steady. “If the Dark Lord turns his fury on him, you will take the consequences in his place.”

Dumbledore repeats the question, and Snape—without a flicker of hesitation—says, “I do.”

Another ribbon of light coils around us, tightening the bond.

My pulse is hammering. I force out the last, most damning words. “And if it is you who is ordered to kill him, you will turn your wand on someone else before you lay a finger on Draco Malfoy.”

A tense silence follows.

Dumbledore watches Snape carefully, and for the first time since I’ve known him, Snape looks uncertain.

The room seems to hold its breath.

Then, finally, with something like resignation in his voice, he murmurs—

“I do.”

The final ribbon binds us, glowing bright before vanishing into our skin. A sharp pulse of magic bursts between us, and the vow is sealed.

I release his wrist, my breath unsteady, my hands shaking.

Snape exhales, flexing his fingers. “Satisfied?” he mutters.

I meet his gaze and nod.

Then I turn to Dumbledore. “We will start the potion tonight.”

Dumbledore inclines his head, the ever-present twinkle in his eyes dimming just slightly. “Very well.”

Snape crosses his arms. “I will retrieve the necessary ingredients. You will meet me in my office after curfew.”

I nod, feeling the weight of the decision settle in my chest. It’s done. The plan is in motion.

But before any of that—before I mix poison meant to mimic death itself—I need to see Draco.

“I should go,” I murmur, stepping back toward the door. “I have—things to take care of.”

Dumbledore doesn’t stop me. Snape only watches with an expression I can’t quite read.

I push open the door and slip out into the corridor, my mind reeling as I walk. My heart is pounding in my ears, but my footsteps are steady. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act normal when nothing about this is normal, but I have to try.

I find Draco in the library, seated at a far table with his back to the door, his head bent low over a book. The moment I see him, guilt claws its way up my throat. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. And if I told him—if I let slip even a fraction of what I’ve just learned—I don’t know what he’d do.

I force myself forward, sliding into the seat across from him. “Hey.”

Draco glances up, his expression carefully guarded at first—until he realizes it’s me. His shoulders relax slightly. “There you are. I was about to send out a search party.”

I force a small, amused huff. “Sorry. Meeting was a little longer than I anticipated.”

His eyes flicker over my face, searching for something. I wonder if he can tell. If he knows that something is off.

“You look tired,” he says quietly. “Everything alright?”

Lies press against my tongue. I want to tell him no. I want to tell him everything. That our whole lives were orchestrated before we were even born. That our parents made a vow in blood. That I made one of my own not an hour ago. That by this time next month, Albus Dumbledore will be dead by my hand.

But I can’t.

So I settle for a small, exhausted smile. “Yeah.”

Draco gestures for me to come over to him, definitely not believing me. “Talk to me. What happened?”

I settle into his lap, curling up in his arms. I have to blink away the tears that start to form. “Nothing new. Just need to stop skipping classes is all. They’re catching on to me,” I say, forcing a small chuckle.

“Right,” he responds, his voice soft but disbelieving. He doesn’t push it. “Want to get some dinner?”

I shrug. “I’m not really hungry. Can we just… stay like this for a little while?”

Draco doesn’t answer right away, but his grip around me tightens, one hand curling over my back while the other moves to the nape of my neck, fingers threading gently through my hair. I breathe him in, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his touch—anything to ground me.

“Yeah,” he murmurs finally. “We can stay.”

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against his shoulder, my hands clutching at the fabric of his robes. I wish I could freeze this moment. Hold onto it forever. Because soon—too soon—I’ll have to lie to him in ways I never have before.

Draco exhales, his lips brushing against my temple. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” he says quietly, “but I know something is.”

I don’t respond. I can’t.

His hand drifts down my spine, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to soothe whatever storm he knows is brewing inside me. “I just…” He hesitates, then sighs. “I don’t want you to shut me out.”

I swallow hard, forcing myself to lift my head just enough to meet his gaze. His grey eyes are searching, filled with concern he won’t voice out loud.

“I’m not shutting you out,” I lie. “I just need a little time to… process everything.”

Draco studies me for a long moment before nodding, though I know he doesn’t believe me. “Alright,” he says simply. “Just… promise me something?”

I tilt my head. “What?”

He hesitates, his fingers tightening slightly where they rest against my side. “When you’re ready—whatever it is—you’ll tell me.”

My chest tightens.

I should promise him. I should tell him yes, that when the time comes, I will tell him everything. But I won’t. I can’t.

So I do what I’ve been doing a hell of a lot more lately. I lie.

“I promise.”

Draco watches me for another moment before nodding again, seemingly satisfied. He presses a lingering kiss to my forehead and shifts slightly, pulling me even closer against him. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Then we’ll just stay like this.”

And I let him hold me, let myself pretend—for just a little while—that everything is okay.