The Pact

The potion is coming along nicely by the time spring break rolls around. If I were a normal teenager, I’d be counting down the days until it ends and I have to get back to my classes with dread. But no, I’m counting down the days until I have to kill my headmaster, and after that, the number of days until the inevitable war that’s brewing.

Why does it always have to be me?

I finish packing up my things and meet the group in the ROR like usual, although this time, we’re all dressed casually. The trio are in muggle style streetwear—denim and t-shirts, that is. Draco and I, having never been given the option of anything less than pure blood standards, are in similar aesthetics. He’s in loose cream trousers and a lovely navy button up, linen, not too warm and not too breezy. I’m in tights, a simple brown skirt, and a black blouse. Nice and flowy, just in time for spring.

“Everyone ready?” Draco asks, adjusting his sleeves. We all nod, stepping towards the floo.

Draco eyes down the trio, before explaining how the floo works condescendingly. “You have to say it just right, or you’ll end up at the wrong place. Got it?”

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Ron mutters, rolling his eyes. “We’re all wizards here. And witches. Wix. Whatever, you know what I’m saying,” he finishes, his cheeks tinging pink.

Draco simply shrugs, a satisfied smirk playing across his lips. “Suit yourself, then. If you wind up in Egypt—not my fault.”

I step in next to Draco, bags on either side of us as he picks up a handful of floo powder. As he throws it down, he exclaims, “Chateau Malfoy!”

The green flames roar to life, and within seconds, we’re sucked into the Floo Network, twisting and tumbling through a tunnel of emerald fire. I brace myself, keeping my elbows tucked in to avoid an awkward landing. The moment we spill out onto the stone floors of the Malfoy vacation home, I stumble slightly, only for Draco to steady me with a firm grip on my wrist.

The room we arrive in is grand yet distinctly more relaxed than Malfoy Manor. The walls are a soft ivory, the ceiling lined with carved beams, and large French windows let in the golden afternoon light. A crystal chandelier hangs above a plush sitting area, and an ornate fireplace—the one we just emerged from—takes up most of the far wall.

Draco dusts off his shirt, not a wrinkle in sight, while I shake the soot from my skirt. Moments later, the fireplace flashes green again, and Hermione arrives with practiced ease. Ron stumbles out after her, coughing and swiping at the ash on his jeans. Harry is last, landing with a slight skid before straightening up and pushing his glasses back into place.

Ron glares at Draco. “Egypt, huh?”

Draco smirks. “Still time for a detour, Weasley.”

Hermione sighs. “Can we not do this already?”

Draco rolls his eyes but relents, turning towards the grand arched doorway leading out of the sitting room. “Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms before we go over the plan.”

We follow him up a curved staircase, the polished wood gleaming under our feet. The hallways are lined with old portraits, though most of the frames are empty—likely enchanted to only reveal themselves to Malfoys. Sunlight spills through the windows, casting long golden streaks across the floor.

Draco stops in front of a set of doors. “Potter, Weasley, Granger—you’re in these rooms. Y/n, yours is across from mine.”

I nod, stepping inside my assigned room. It’s elegant but understated—a large, four-poster bed, a writing desk by the window, and a wardrobe that I suspect has been charmed to hold more than it appears. The window overlooks a sprawling garden, the hedges carefully sculpted into intricate designs. Beyond them, I can see the rooftops of the nearby village, our true destination.

A quiet knock sounds at my door before Hermione steps in, shutting it softly behind her. “Are you okay?” she asks, voice low but concerned.

I swallow, turning to face her. “Yeah, fine. Just… nervous, you know? Potentially meeting my grandmother for the first time. And trying to convince her to help me when she may not even know I exist. It’s more than a little intimidating.”

Hermione studies me for a moment before offering me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure that no matter what happens, it’ll be fine. We’ll make it work.”

“We always do,” I reply, trying to sound a little more upbeat. It seems to work as the tension in her shoulders eases ever so slightly.

She looks around my room for the first time, running her fingers along the bed frame. “This room is way bigger than the rest of ours. Draco must have given you the nice one.”

I chuckle lightly. “Probably. Girlfriend privileges and all that now, you know.”

“Mm,” she hums thoughtfully, sitting on the bed. “Speaking of. How’s that going?”

“Well,” I reply, continuing to unpack. “He’s really attentive and protective, but that’s not new. The gifts though…” I trail off, laughing as I hang one of the dresses he bought me. “I think gift giving is his love language.”

Hermione grins knowingly. “Oh, absolutely. He’s like that with Pansy, too—though in a more ‘here, take this expensive nonsense and stop nagging me’ kind of way.”

I snort. “Yeah, that checks out. With me, it’s more like ‘I saw this and thought you’d like it, so now you own it.’” I gesture to the dress in my hands. “Honestly, I think he likes spoiling me more than I like being spoiled.”

Hermione flops back on the bed with a dramatic sigh. “Must be nice. Ron still flinches whenever he reaches for his wallet.”

I giggle, joining her. “To be fair, he’s got a lot of siblings. He probably grew up counting every Knut.”

“True,” she concedes. “And, well, I suppose I don’t need gifts to know he cares.”

“Yeah, you two are more about bickering until one of you eventually cracks and admits how much you actually adore each other.”

Hermione covers her face with her hands, groaning. “It’s so frustrating. He drives me mad, and yet…”

“You’re obsessed with him,” I tease, nudging her with my shoulder.

She peeks through her fingers, cheeks flushed. “I am not obsessed.”

I give her a pointed look. “Right. So that sweater you ‘borrowed’ from him and sleep in every night?”

Her blush deepens. “It’s comfortable.”

“And the way you were practically vibrating with jealousy when that Hufflepuff girl got too close to him after Gryffindor won the quidditch match last fall?”

“I was not vibrating,” she huffs, sitting up. “I was—okay, fine, maybe a little.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s okay, Hermione. He’s just as obsessed with you. I mean, the way he looks at you? I’m surprised he hasn’t tripped over his own feet from staring too hard.”

She bites her lip, trying to suppress a smile. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “You two are kind of adorable in a ‘will they, won’t they’ kind of way.”

Hermione rolls her eyes but grins. “And you and Draco are what, the brooding anti-hero and the only person who can tolerate him?”

“Something like that.” I laugh. “Or maybe I’m just the only one who figured out that underneath all that arrogance, he’s a total sap.”

Hermione hums thoughtfully. “You’re good for him, you know. He’s been different this year. Lighter. Well, as light as Draco Malfoy can be.”

I smile, heart warming at the thought. Before I can say anything, a voice echoes down the hall.

“Ladies,” Draco calls, an edge of impatience in his tone. “This isn’t a bloody sleepover. Get down here.”

Hermione and I exchange amused looks.

“Well,” I say, standing and smoothing down my skirt. “He’s not wrong.”

She sighs, shaking her head as she follows me to the door. “You do realize we’re going to give him hell for that later, right?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

We giggle as we walk down the corridor, following the sound of the boys bickering with each other about the plan until we reach one of the main sitting rooms. It’s light and airy, very coastal, and completely the opposite of anything you’d assume the Malfoy’s would like. I immediately know it was Narcissa’s touch.

Hermione clears her throat as we stand in the doorway, the boys stopping mid argument to look at us. “What’s all the fuss about now? We leave you three alone for five minutes…”

“It’s Malfoy,” Ron whines. “He’s insufferable.”

“You mean practical, you overgrown toddler,” Draco sneers, narrowing his eyes. “Why don’t you tell your girlfriend about your genius plan, hm?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Not his girlfriend.”

Ron flushes a deep red but mutters under his breath, “Yet.”

Hermione pointedly ignores him and crosses her arms. “Well? What’s this genius plan you’re arguing about?”

Harry sighs, rubbing his temples like he’s already exhausted. “Ron wants to just go into town and start asking around about Catherine.”

Draco scoffs. “Yes, because nothing says ‘subtle’ like a bunch of teenagers barging into a quiet village and asking if anyone has seen a mysterious old woman.”

Ron scowls. “I wasn’t saying we should barge in, I was saying we should start with the local shops. Someone must know something.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, because a woman who’s potentially been hiding for decades is definitely going to be a known regular at the bakery.”

Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay, okay, both of you stop. We need an actual plan, not just arguing over whose idea is worse.”

Ron grumbles something under his breath, but Draco interjects. “What if we split up? Some of us can blend in and casually ask around while the rest of us focus on research. There must be records, archives, something that could give us a lead.”

Harry nods thoughtfully. “That’s actually not a bad idea. We could check if there’s a town hall or a library.”

Draco sighs, rolling his shoulders. “As long as we do it discreetly.” He glances at me. “You and I should take the research route. No offense, but Potter and Weasley aren’t exactly subtle.”

Ron glares. “Oh, sorry, Malfoy, I forgot you’re the epitome of subtlety.”

“Actually,” I start, walking past them to look out the window, “she’s my grandmother. So we’re doing this my way.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Harry says sarcastically. “Just what I was hoping for. Another half-thought-out-potential-death-trap-Y/n-special. Because hanging out with Death Eaters alone and breaking into legal offices just isn’t enough for you, huh?”

I furrow my brow at his curt tone. “You haven’t even heard it yet, a. And b, check the attitude. I don’t know why you’re lashing out at me.”

Harry scoffs at me. “Maybe I’m tired of following your every whim knowing it nearly ends in disaster every time.”

“Potter,” Draco drawls, his voice low and warning.

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, shooting Draco a look. “I get it. This year has been a lot. And I’ve dragged you all into a lot more than I wanted to. But in case you forgot, I was more than happy to go it alone. You insisted on tagging along. But if you’re so tired of me, I’m more than okay with looking for Catherine by myself.”

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Harry exhales sharply, rubbing his face with both hands before looking at me again, his anger dimming into something else—exhaustion, maybe guilt. “That’s not what I meant.”

I cross my arms, arching a brow. “Sure sounded like it.”

He shakes his head. “I’m just—I’m tired, Y/n. Of all of this. The secrets, the running, the fact that every time we think we can catch a break, something else comes up. You have to admit, your plans tend to be… reckless.”

I inhale slowly, forcing myself to stay calm. “You think I want this? That I like dragging all of you into danger? I’d give anything for this to be easy, but it’s not. And it never will be. If I have to be reckless to get answers, then so be it.”

Draco steps closer, standing just behind me, a quiet show of support. “No one is forcing you to be here, Potter.” His tone is deceptively light, but there’s an edge beneath it, sharp and cold. “If you’re so tired of this, why don’t you leave?”

Harry glares at him. “Because I don’t want to leave.” He turns his gaze back to me, softer this time. “I just… I don’t want to lose anyone else. And every time we do something like this, it feels like we’re one step closer to that happening.”

My frustration flickers, shifting into something gentler. “I know. But that’s why we have to be careful. That’s why I do think things through—even if it doesn’t always seem like it.”

Ron sighs from his place by the fireplace, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, can we just—can we stop fighting, please? We’ve got enough on our plates without turning on each other.”

Hermione nods in agreement. “We all want the same thing. We need to work together, not against each other.”

Harry blows out a breath, then finally nods. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry, Y/n.”

I offer him a small smile, some of the tension easing. “It’s alright. Let’s just focus on the plan, yeah?”

Draco’s fingers brush against mine, a fleeting touch, but enough to ground me. “So, your way then?”

I smirk slightly. “My way.” I turn back to the group, my confidence returning. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

With a flick of my wrist I summon a stack of parchments from my room and lay them out on a nearby table with a satisfied smirk. “Here’s everything the Conseil had on Catherine before she disappeared. Personal information, legal documents, ledgers, paystubs, and research. Anything she’s ever been interested in or worked on is in this file.”

“Woah,” Ron gapes. “How’d you get all this?”

I tilt my head, feeling slightly cocky. “I have my ways. And resources now that I’m a council member.”

Hermione and Draco both nod, looking subtly impressed. Harry matches Ron’s expression, openly shocked that I even have it.

“But here’s the kicker—I took over her seat, remember? So everything she did for the faction of International Affairs I have open access to. And here’s what she was working on right before she disappeared.”

I spread out a series of documents, yellowed with age but still perfectly legible. At the top of each page, the insignia of the French Conseil and the British Ministry of Magic intertwine—an official collaboration.

Hermione leans in, eyes scanning the pages with lightning speed. “This… this is a record of intergovernmental discussions about the war,” she murmurs, flicking through with growing urgency.

Harry frowns. “You mean this war? The one we’re about to fight?”

“No,” I correct, tapping one of the pages. “This was before Voldemort’s first rise to power. Catherine was working on something between the Conseil and the Ministry—classified diplomatic negotiations.”

Draco shifts beside me, his fingers ghosting over one of the documents. “There’s talk of military alliances, intelligence sharing… a proposal to unify magical law enforcement across Europe?”

I nod. “She was involved in something big. And then, suddenly, she disappears. No trace, no warning. The project she was leading was abandoned. That can’t be a coincidence.”

Ron exhales sharply. “So what are we saying here? That she was—what—silenced?”

Harry’s jaw tightens. “Or she ran before someone could get to her.”

Hermione’s fingers dance over the script, her lips moving as she pieces things together. “These meetings—some of them were with high-ranking officials from both countries. But look, this last one—” she taps a specific entry, her voice lowering, “—was with someone who wasn’t part of either government. ‘Special Advisor.’ No name listed.”

Draco leans in, his brows drawing together. “That’s suspicious as hell.”

I nod. “And it gets worse.” I reach for the final document, unfolding it carefully. “Catherine wasn’t just mediating. She was investigating.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. “Investigating who?”

I hesitate for only a second before answering. “The British Ministry.”

The silence is deafening.

Harry is the first to break it. “You’re telling me she was looking into our government? Why?”

I meet his gaze, the weight of my next words pressing down on my chest. “Because she suspected someone high up was sabotaging the war effort. On purpose. And given what we know is happening right now…” I look at Draco, and he immediately picks up on what I’m saying.

“Death Eaters,” he says breathlessly, carding a hand through his hair. “The corruption has been happening for far longer than we thought.”

Hermione holds her hands up. “Wait, wait, wait. Y/n, not to be insulting, but isn’t your mother’s side of the family known for their… dark magic? Why would Catherine want to investigate Voldemort’s followers if she was on his side?”

“That’s the thing,” I reply, my brow furrowed. “This whole time, I thought the Norival’s would be tangled up with Voldemort just because they practiced dark magic. But think about it—why on earth would an aristocratic French family share their secrets with an outside cult in another country? Even more so, what would they have to gain?”

Harry stiffens, and I can see the wheels turning. “So your mother’s family was always self-serving. It had nothing to do with Voldemort at all.”

“Now you’re getting it,” I say, crossing my arms. “My mother married my father for power. But it wasn’t ever about winning the war—it was about extending her bloodline.”

Draco exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Which means Catherine wasn’t just defying the Death Eaters—she was likely going against her own family.”

Hermione’s expression is unreadable as she processes the information. “And if that’s true… then she wasn’t just at risk from the Ministry. Her own people could’ve wanted her gone.”

Ron lets out a low whistle. “Blimey. So she either ran before they could take her out, or they did take her out, and no one ever found the body.”

The words make my stomach churn, but I force myself to focus. “That’s what we need to figure out. If she disappeared willingly, then there has to be a trail. If she was taken—” I swallow hard. “—then we need to find out by who.”

Harry glances down at the documents again. “You said she was looking into someone in the British Ministry. If she found something, then there has to be a record.”

Draco nods. “And I know exactly where we can start.”

I raise a brow. “You do?”

His smirk is humorless, his expression turning sharp. “If someone in the Ministry was working against the war effort, they wouldn’t leave a paper trail in official archives. But there is one place where corruption always leaves a mark.”

Hermione catches on first, her eyes widening. “The financial records.”

Draco taps the documents. “Exactly. If there were bribes, secret transactions, funds disappearing—there will be records somewhere.”

I nod, determination setting in. “Then that’s our backup plan.”

“Backup plan?” Hermione echoes, eyeing me curiously. “We don’t have a main plan.”

“We don’t need one yet,” I smirk, pulling out one last sheet of paper. As they all look down at it, eyes wide, I can’t help but feel pretty clever. “I have her address.”

Ron sputters. “You what?”

I grin, tapping the parchment. “Well, her most recent address, at least. It’s from before she disappeared, but if we’re lucky, someone there might know something.”

Harry scans the document, his brows furrowed. “This is in the middle of nowhere. Rural Loire Valley.”

Draco leans in, reading over his shoulder. “Makes sense. If she was hiding something—or herself—she wouldn’t be in a city.”

Hermione still looks skeptical. “And what if this is a dead end?”

I shrug. “Then we go back to the financial records. But if we do find something… well, I’d rather talk to someone who knew Catherine personally than dig through years of Ministry cover-ups.”

Harry sighs, rubbing his temples. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… fine. We check the house first.”

Ron groans. “More travel. Fantastic.”

Draco smirks. “Oh, don’t worry, Weasley. Loire Valley is only a town over.”

Ron glares at him. “If you so much as suggest we walk all the way there—”

I clap my hands together, cutting off the brewing argument. “Alright, let’s focus. We leave first thing in the morning. We’re going to apparate.”

The room falls into a pensive silence, the weight of what we’re about to do settling over us. This is it—the first real step in finding Catherine.

I just hope we’re ready for whatever we uncover.

~

“Okay, everyone, scooch in. You all have to be touching me,” I quip, pulling out my wand.

Hermione shuffles closer, her hand on my shoulder. “You’re sure you know how to apparate? We could get splinched if you’re not careful.”

“This is the way high class families travel, Granger. We’ve both known this spell since we had training wands,” Draco boasts, holding on to my waist.

Ron and Harry get closer, too, a hand on either arm.

Rolling my eyes at Draco’s bragging, I focus on our destination. “Just hold on tight and don’t let go until we land.”

With a sharp crack, the world twists around us, and a split second later, we land just outside the perimeter of Catherine’s estate. The moment we touch down, I feel it—the hum of protective wards in the air, powerful and deeply ingrained in the land itself.

Hermione stumbles slightly, but Draco keeps her upright with an annoyingly smug expression. “See? Perfect landing.”

She glares at him. “I still have all my limbs, so I suppose I should be grateful.”

Harry scans the area, his wand in hand. “Alright, we’re here. Now what?”

I take a deep breath and point toward the looming silhouette of the manor in the distance. “Now we walk.”

The estate is nestled between thick, ancient trees, their branches curling overhead like silent sentinels. The path leading up to the house is uneven, lined with overgrown hedges and wildflowers that haven’t been tended in years. It looks untouched, almost forgotten, and yet… something about it still feels watched.

Ron shudders as we step onto the path. “Anyone else feel like we’re about to be cursed into oblivion?”

Draco scoffs. “That’s just the wards. If we cross the boundary uninvited, then yes, you might end up as a very unfortunate garden statue.”

Ron goes pale. “Not funny.”

Hermione ignores them, her focus sharp. “The wards are strong, but they’re not active yet. Someone still lives here.”

My pulse quickens at her words. If Catherine is still inside, then we’re closer than I ever expected to finding her.

“Alright,” I say, adjusting my grip on my wand. “Let’s hope they’re in a welcoming mood.”

And with that, we start to trudge up the hill and towards the estate, silent save for the sounds of our shoes rustling the grass.

The closer we get, the more I feel it—like a thread pulling taut beneath my skin, the magic woven into the land recognizing something in me. I don’t know if it’s calling me forward or warning me away, but either way, I don’t stop.

When we reach the garden gate, I hesitate for only a moment before pushing it open. The wrought iron creaks slightly, but it gives way without resistance, as if it had been expecting me.

I take a step through—and then suddenly realize I’m alone.

Turning back, I find the others stuck just beyond the gate. Ron scowls, pushing against an invisible barrier. “Oh, come on.”

Draco narrows his eyes, pulling out his wand and running a hand through the air in front of him. “Blood wards.”

Harry huffs, clearly unimpressed. “Great. So we came all this way just to get locked out?”

Hermione tilts her head, analyzing the magic. “No… she’s not locked out. Y/n, you walked through without any trouble.”

My stomach flips as I look down at my hands, flexing my fingers. The estate accepted me because of my blood—because I belong here.

“Okay,” I say, swallowing hard. “This isn’t a problem. I’ll just—”

But before I can finish my sentence, something stirs from the house. A flicker of movement in one of the high windows. A shift in the air, as if someone is watching.

Then, the front door creaks open.

I freeze. My friends, stuck behind the gate, tense immediately. Draco’s hand clenches around his wand.

A figure steps forward, shrouded in the dim light spilling from the entrance.

“Can I help you?”

The voice is smooth, careful. Familiar, despite never having heard it before.

Catherine Lévèque de Noirval stands at the threshold of her home, looking at me as though she can’t believe her eyes. I can’t much believe mine, either.

The resemblance is uncanny. We share nearly every feature—eyes, lips, nose, even our figures are nearly identical. The only difference, of course, is age.

I force myself to take a step forward, my hands trembling. “Hello. My name is Y/n Lavigné. Or, I suppose you’d only recognize Alderwood.” I pause, swallowing thickly. “I’m… your granddaughter.”

Catherine doesn’t react at first. She just stands there, her sharp gaze sweeping over me, studying every detail as though trying to find a flaw in my claim.

Then, she exhales softly—a slow, careful breath. “My granddaughter.” Her voice is even, but something flickers in her expression, something just barely concealed.

I nod, gripping my wand tighter to steady myself. “Yes.”

For a moment, neither of us speak. The weight of the years between us hangs thick in the air.

Behind me, the others shift uncomfortably, still trapped behind the invisible barrier. Catherine’s gaze flickers toward them, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Your friends cannot enter.”

I glance back at them, at Draco’s barely restrained frustration and Hermione’s wide, assessing eyes. “I noticed.”

Catherine hums, her gaze returning to me. “Then you should step inside. If you’re truly who you say you are, we have much to discuss.”

I hesitate, my pulse hammering. This is it—the moment I’ve been waiting for. The moment that could change everything.

With one last glance at my friends, I turn back to my grandmother, take a deep breath, and step across the threshold into the house.

The door closes behind me and I jump, not sure what to do. I didn’t think I’d get this far. I didn’t think finding her would be so… easy.

Her estate was grand from the outside, but the inside is even more so. The architecture is ornate, with large arches and columns scattered throughout the open space. There is a grand staircase on either side of the foyer, leading upstairs to the second floor. The floors are marble, sparkling brightly as if freshly cleaned. Every surface is spotless, gleaming, and I come to the immediate conclusion that she must have house elves.

Catherine sweeps past me, her robes brushing the floor. “Welcome. Would you care for a spot of tea?”

I blink at her, still trying to wrap my head around the situation. “Uh, yes, thank you,” I manage to say, my voice a bit unsteady.

I follow her into the sitting room, where the light from the tall windows casts soft, warm beams across the space. The room is just as grand as the rest of the house—richly decorated with heavy velvet curtains, polished wood, and soft leather chairs that look both comfortable and regal at once. It’s a far cry from the stone walls of Hogwarts or the more modern, less refined places I’ve known.

A house elf, small and quick, appears in the corner, carrying a silver tray with delicate teacups and a steaming pot. It nods at Catherine, its large ears twitching. “Tea, Miss? For the young mistress as well?”

“Yes, please,” I manage to say, even though my throat feels dry. My eyes glance around the room, every inch of it too perfectly arranged, too controlled. It doesn’t feel like a home—more like a display case, a place for keeping up appearances.

Catherine takes a seat in one of the plush armchairs near the windowsill and motions for me to sit opposite her. The house elf pours the tea into the cups, and I gingerly take mine, feeling the warmth seep into my fingers.

I can’t shake the feeling I have that first started when I walked through the gate—that hum of magic running beneath everything. It’s dark and ancient, but there’s something oddly comforting about it. Like it’s woven into the very walls, coursing through the floors, surrounding me.

I take a sip of the tea, trying to ignore the unease settling in my stomach. The magic here is undeniable, thick and almost tangible in the air. Part of me wants to pull away, to leave, but the other part—the part that shares her blood—feels inexplicably drawn in. It’s both unsettling and strangely soothing at the same time.

Dark magic has always been a part of me. A large part, at that. I always knew that. But to confirm the truth I’ve feared for so long, that I actually feel more at home around it than I do light magic, makes me nauseous.

Catherine watches me carefully, her sharp eyes never leaving my face. “So,” she finally says, breaking the silence, “You’ve come to find me. I’d like to know why.”

I set my cup down, steadying myself. “I came to ask for your help.” I pause, feeling the weight of the words. “The war. We’re fighting a losing battle, and I think you know more about it than you’ve ever let on.”

Her lips curve just slightly, but there’s no real warmth in the smile. “Of course I know. It’s always been my responsibility to know. But you’re right about one thing, Y/n.” She leans back in her chair, fingers lightly tapping the armrest. “You need help.”

Before I can confirm, she continues. “Your magic is waning. Weak. I can sense it. Why have you not cultivated it? Why hasn’t Grace?”

Puzzled, I set my tea down. “Excuse me?”

She sighs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve been trained to feel people’s power—I can sense it, almost like an aura. You have the gift. You carry the magic in your blood, but it seems as if it’s dimming. Tell me, dear—why is your gift so unused?”

I blink, taken aback by her words. The notion that my magic could be waning is unsettling, but it makes a twisted sort of sense.

“I didn’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I do use it… but how much am I supposed to?”

Catherine studies me, her eyes piercing. “Has your mother not explained this to you? Do you not train?”

“Yes,” I say slowly. “I train. Or I do when I’m at home, anyway. Mother has me practice my wandless magic on targets and such.”

Catherine’s curiosity piques. “Wandless, you say?”

I pause. “I… thought that was the gift?”

She shakes her head, leaning forward as if to study me better. “Oh no, dear. The Noirval gift is a natural affinity for dark magic—blood magic, rituals, offensive spells, dueling. It lives in you. I can see it. But wandless… that must be Castor’s blood. Merlin’s.”

My stomach twists at the mention of my father’s name. “What do you mean?”

Catherine’s gaze remains intense. “Surely you know of your father’s lineage?” I nod, and she presses on. “Well, wandless magic is a rare talent indeed. It usually takes a very powerful person and decades of experience to master. But you, you’re only—how old are you, Y/n?”

“Fifteen,” I reply, watching her warily.

“Fifteen,” she repeats, seeming almost wistful. “I remember when Grace was your age. She was gifted, but very defiant. Head strong, much like my late husband.”

I nod, picking up my tea once more. “What… happened to him?”

Catherine sighs, looking out the window. “He was an auror. Killed in the line of duty. He was always very heroic. Selfless, even. I never understood why he wanted to get involved with a family like mine.”

“I see,” I say softly, taking a tentative sip from my cup. Chamomile. “Your marriage—was it a good one?”

She turns to face me, something unreadable in her expression. “Did we love each other, you mean?”

I nod, and she turns to look out the window once more. “After a while, I’d say. It was arranged. Much like your parents, and you, I’m sure.”

“I’ve already been set to marry the Malfoy heir,” I respond, leaning back. “He’s one of the ones who came with me today. The blond.”

“A Malfoy,” she says, sounding entertained. “Now what would your mother want with a family like that?”

I shrug, though she isn’t looking at me anyway. “Power, I’d guess. Alliances, maybe. I don’t really know. She doesn’t tend to explain much to me.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Catherine replies evenly, turning back to face me. “She has kept you weak. Clueless. It’s a shame, really. You have such potential.”

The words linger in the air for a long moment before I break the silence. “Forgive me for asking, but… why have we never met before?”

Catherine’s gaze sharpens, and a shadow passes over her features. “Your mother has always been protective, Y/n. She made choices to keep you away from our world, and perhaps from me. It was her way of shielding you from what she deemed dangerous.”

Before I can respond, the door swings open again, and another woman steps into the room. She looks to be only slightly younger than my mother, with long dark hair cascading down her back and striking features that mirror those of Catherine and me.

“Is everything alright in here?” the newcomer asks, her voice melodic and warm.

“Enora,” Catherine says, a hint of annoyance creeping into her tone. “You’ve arrived just in time to witness our little family reunion.”

Enora’s eyes flick to me, and she smiles, a genuine warmth radiating from her. “Ah, you must be Y/n. It’s lovely to finally meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I reply, a bit taken aback by her kindness.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” Enora continues, settling gracefully into a chair across from me. “I’m glad to see you’ve come to find us. It’s about time you learned the truth about your family.”

I glance between the two women, each representing a different facet of my heritage. “I don’t understand why I was kept away. What’s so dangerous about knowing my family?”

Catherine purses her lips, her expression unreadable. “Knowledge is power, Y/n. And power can be a double-edged sword, especially in our world.”

Enora leans forward, her gaze earnest. “Your mother feared that knowledge would lead you to a path she could not control. But we’re not here to harm you. We want to help you embrace your magic, not run from it.”

“Exactly,” Catherine adds, her tone softening just a fraction. “But you must be prepared. Understanding your lineage and the magic within you comes with its own challenges.”

I feel a rush of determination. “I want to learn. I want to understand who I am and what I’m capable of.”

“Then we will teach you,” Enora says, her smile brightening the room. “Together, we can help you unlock your potential. But you must also be willing to confront the truths about our family and our legacy.”

I take a deep breath, my heart racing with both excitement and trepidation. “I’m ready.”

Catherine studies me for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Very well, Y/n. But remember—this path will not be easy. There are secrets that you may not wish to uncover, and the darkness of our past runs deep.”

“Every family has its shadows,” Enora replies, her tone reassuring. “But the light can shine through if you let it.”

I nod, studying the woman before me. “You said we’re family?”

Enora smiles, though it looks a little sad, almost regretful. “We are. Your mother—Grace—is my sister.”

I have to stop myself from choking on air. “Wait… I have an aunt?”

“Of course,” Catherine says softly. “You had an uncle, too. He was my eldest.”

My head is reeling from the new information but I can’t stop myself from asking, “What happened to him?”

The two women look at each other before turning back to me. Enora reaches out, placing a gentle hand on mine. “It’s quite the story. Are you sure you want to know?”

I look at her hand and then back up at her face, my jaw tight. “Positive.”

She swipes her thumb over the back of my hand a few times before pulling away. “Right, then. My brother, Matias, was a gentle soul. He fell for a woman named Morana in his school years, but when she came of age, she accepted a place as a Death Eater.”

“Oh,” I say dumbly, my eyes wide.

“Yes,” she says simply. “He loved her so much that he vowed to follow her anywhere, even to Voldemort himself. Matias fell for their promises of glory and power and joined as well. He even went so far as to try to convince Grace and myself to join.”

Catherine tenses, and I can see the resentment on her face as she finishes the tale for her daughter. “Grace took the bait—Enora didn’t. Matias was murdered at the hands of his lover when she feared he was leaking information about the Death Eater’s whereabouts. That’s when I began investigating the ministry. There was intel from a source we could not place that Voldemort’s followers had infiltrated the government. And they were right.”

“Then why did you disappear?” I ask with baited breath.

Catherine steels her gaze onto me. “Because the leak came from your mother. From the inside of his circle. But the investigation was relayed to Voldemort with me at the head of it. Grace told Enora the only way to keep her safe was to join them—Enora refused. Death Eaters destroyed her house searching for her when all along she was here, with me. Your mother never did tell them where I lived. A small mercy to attempt to make up for the mess she dragged us into.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, my chest tightening. “My mother—and father—are part of The Order. The group fighting against Voldemort. Leaking the information about them in the ministry makes sense, but why would she allow them to attack her family? Her own sister? And why would she keep me away from you?”

Enora presses her lips together in a thin line. “Your mother was distraught when Matias died. She personally tortured and killed Morana and invited me to come along. I refused. Our gifts may be dark, Y/n, but you must understand—we are not evil. So I told mother what happened.”

Catherine stands up abruptly, making me flinch with the ice in her tone. “Grace stepped over the line between dark magic and evil magic. I told her not to contact us until she changed her ways and defected from the Death Eaters. She never did.”

“She couldn’t,” I reply, suddenly defensive. “Because of the prophecy.”

Catherine’s head whips in my direction, as does Enora’s. “What prophecy?”

I pause. “She didn’t tell you?”

Catherine laughs a cold, mirthless laugh. “Your mother hasn’t spoken to us since before you were conceived.”

Enora leans in, looking both scared and hurt. “What prophecy, Y/n?”

I take a breath, steadying myself. “It’s about me. I’m destined to either kill Voldemort or…”

I don’t have to finish my sentence as Catherine presses a palm to her mouth. “Replace him.”

The room falls silent, the weight of the revelation hanging in the air like a thick fog.

“That’s why she kept you away,” Enora whispers, her eyes wide with concern. “She thought she was protecting you.”

“I need to warn them,” I say suddenly, a sense of urgency flooding my veins. “I need to tell the Conseil des Sorciers about the impending war and the fact that Death Eaters have infiltrated the British Ministry.”

Catherine’s brow furrows as she considers my words. “You’re planning to go there?”

“Yes,” I reply firmly, my heart racing. “If they know what’s happening, they can prepare. We can’t let Voldemort’s followers gain any more power.”

Catherine’s gaze sharpens. “You’re still just a girl, Y/n. This is not a game; it’s a matter of life and death. You’ll need more than just determination to convince them. Besides, they won’t allow a non-member to walk in off the street and make these wild claims.”

“I know that,” I say, my voice steady. “I’ve already claimed your seat since you abandoned it, and my father’s since he stepped down. I’m the youngest witch in history to hold a seat on the council and the first to ever hold two at the same time. I have a little bit of sway for that alone, but I don’t think it will be enough. If I add you, given your experience and how much they trust you, I think they’ll take it more seriously. I just can’t do this alone.”

Catherine’s expression softens just slightly. “You want me to come with you?”

“Yes,” I reply, my heart pounding in my chest. “You’re my grandmother. You know the stakes better than anyone. You were a seat holder for decades and you lead the first investigation into the British Ministry. If anyone can help convince them, it’s you.”

Enora nods in agreement, her features earnest. “We need to stand together. Our family has faced enough division; it’s time to unite against the darkness.”

Catherine looks between us, her expression a mix of contemplation and concern. “Very well. I will accompany you. But understand this, Y/n: there are risks involved, and you must be prepared for the consequences of the truth.”

“I am,” I assure her, my resolve solidifying. “I’m ready.”

As the three of us sit in the grand, dimly lit room, a sense of purpose settles over me. I may be stepping into a world filled with shadows, but I’m not alone. With my family by my side, I feel a flicker of hope igniting within me, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead.