The Pact

The Room of Requirement shifts to accommodate me, its vast stone walls flickering with torchlight as I move through the space. Trainers stand in formation before me, their faceless features indifferent to the magic crackling at my fingertips.

I roll my shoulders, exhaling slowly. I need precision. Strength. Control.

Flicking my fingers, I cast Expulso at the nearest trainer. The blast of blue light slams into its chest, sending it skidding back—but not far enough. My movements are too predictable, too easy to counter. I need more.

I adjust my stance, twirling my hand in a tight arc. This time, I layer Expulso with Confringo in a single breath. The resulting explosion is stronger, sending the shadowy figure flying into the far wall where it crumbles into dust.

Better.

I move to the next one, this time modifying PetrificusTotalus with Glacius. The moment my spell hits, ice spreads over the shadow’s rigid form, freezing it solid. I don’t even wait before sending a quick Reducto, shattering it into shards.

I pause, breathing hard. The air is thick with the scent of burnt magic. My muscles ache, but the pressure in my chest—heavy, unrelenting—hasn’t eased.

It’s not enough.

Gritting my teeth, I flick my wrist again. This time, I merge Diffindo with Sectumsempra, a horrific spell taught to me by my mentor himself. The result is terrifyingly sharp, the magic slicing clean through the next trainer, leaving deep, jagged gashes in its chest. I stare at the damage, at the brutal efficiency of the spell.

I don’t know whether to be proud or afraid.

Before I can decide, a voice echoes from behind me.

“Hey… what are you doing in here?”

I turn my head to see Harry standing in the doorway of the room of requirement, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Oh, hey,” I say simply, mumbling a quick finite to stop all my training shadows. Catherine showed me how to cast them. “Dunno. Training, I guess. Needed to blow off steam.”

Harry approaches me slowly as if I’m a dangerous animal about to attack him. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. Because how can I explain that no, I’m not okay at all, because the potion I’m supposed to use to murder our headmaster is going to be ready in a few days, and to make sure my entire plan isn’t blown to shreds, I have to meet with the Conseil des Sorciers tomorrow with my once estranged grandmother in tow?

He sees right through me, I’m sure of it. “Why are you training right now?”

I take a breath, removing the bandages I’ve wrapped around my wrists to help with the muscle fatigue from the constant unuse of my wand. “Because I feel off. Weak. It just helps.”

“That’s what your grandmother was saying, right?” Harry asks, leaning against the wall.

I nod in response, snagging part of the bandage with my teeth. “Yeah. I went so long without using it properly that my magic started to fade. I’m trying to prevent that, if I can.”

“Makes sense,” he replies noncommittally, feigning nonchalance. “And what, exactly, happens when your magic is all rejuvenated?”

I shrug, turning to face him. “Hell if I know. I’m just hoping I won’t constantly feel like the weight of a hippogriff is on my chest anymore. And that this pressure in my head will go away.”

“You never told me about that.”

“I never told anyone about that,” I shoot back, keeping my tone even. “Didn’t want to worry you all. We had bigger problems.”

Harry huffs out a sarcastic laugh. “There will always be bigger problems. That doesn’t mean the small ones don’t need tending, though.”

“Harry, I’m fine.”

“Nice try,” he quips, walking towards me. “Come on, you can talk to me. If anyone understands, you know I do.”

I worry my lower lip, warring with myself internally. I can’t really tell him what’s wrong, but it’s gnawing at me. The weight of my task is like acid in my blood, slowly eating through every inch of my body. “It’s complicated.”

“What isn’t?”

I relent, exhaling sharply. “Listen… I have to do a lot of things I don’t want to do soon. But it’s all part of the plan. As long as everyone stays out of my way—as long as everyone is uninvolved—it’ll work.”

Harry tilts his head, considering me. “What plan?”

“I can’t really tell you,” I start, trying to stay vague. “I just need you all to trust me.”

“Oh, we trust you plenty,” Harry says quickly, crossing his arms. “That doesn’t mean we’re going to let you go off and try to save the world by yourself, though.”

I huff out a shallow laugh. “You have to. It’s the only way.”

Harry’s eyes darken with something unreadable, and for a second, I think he might actually let it go. But then his jaw tightens, and I know better.

“You don’t get to decide that,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Not when it affects all of us.”

I turn away, wrapping the bandages around my wrists again just to keep my hands busy. “It’s not your problem.”

Harry scoffs, taking another step closer. “You’re my friend. That makes it my problem.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to snap at him, to push him away the way I want to push everything away. To call him a self righteous Gryffindor, to tell him to leave me alone. To tell him he isn’t really the Chosen One, he was just shoved into the role for my sake. Scratch that—for Dumbledore’s plan.

But I don’t. If I do, if I somehow lose him and my friends completely, it’ll make what’s coming so much worse.

Harry, indifferent to the battle happening inside my head, doesn’t back down. Of course he doesn’t.

“Listen,” he says, voice softer now. “I know what it’s like to carry something heavy. To feel like it’s all on you. But you don’t have to do that. Not alone.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “This isn’t something you can help with, Harry. It’s not something anyone can help with.”

“That’s bollocks, and you know it,” he fires back. “Whatever you’re planning—whatever you think you have to do—I just… I need you to trust us. Trust me.”

The words cut deeper than they should. Because I do trust him. I trust all of them. But trust doesn’t change the fact that if I let them in, they’ll try to stop me. And if they stop me, everything falls apart.

So I force a smirk, playing at nonchalance even though my insides feel like they’re caving in. “You’re really annoying, you know that?”

Harry gives me a pointed look. “Yeah, I’ve been told.”

We pause, the weight of the world on both of our shoulders for entirely different reasons. Harry has carried it for years, but now it’s my turn. My burden to bear. He just doesn’t know that yet.

“How much does Draco know?” he asks suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I quirk a brow. “Since when are you two on a first name basis?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “We’re not. I just don’t like the whole last name thing. Especially since it’s his family name, and his family is—well, you know. Anyway. Just doesn’t feel right anymore. He’s nothing like them.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, at the knowledge that the trio are finally starting to see what I’ve been saying all along. “Well, he kind of is.”

Before Harry can question what I mean, I cut back in. “He’s perceptive like his mother. Ambitious like his father. A handsome blend of both of their features. Draco is a lot like them, actually—he just took the better parts of them. Left behind the whole evil death eater thing.”

“Well, you’d know best,” Harry says, almost like he’s testing the weight of the idea. “You’ve spent a lot of time with the Malfoys.”

“I have,” I agree. “They’re actually not all that bad. They’re on the wrong side of things, sure, but I think deep down they’re good people. Even Lucius has had his moments.”

Harry looks openly shocked at this new piece of information, like it’s the first time he’s truly heard and considered it. It mellows out into a quiet understanding. “I mean, he did keep quiet about the whole council thing.”

“He still has yet to even tiptoe around it with my parents. You know that?” I reply, a subtle layer of fondness in my voice.

Harry shakes his head. “I’ll never understand the Malfoys.”

“I think I’m starting to.”

Harry studies me for a moment, his green eyes sharp with something thoughtful—something that almost looks like reluctant acceptance. “Maybe that’s a good thing,” he says eventually. “Someone has to.”

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Funny. I used to think the same thing about you.”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “And look how well that turned out.”

There’s a beat of silence before I respond. “Better than you think.”

I don’t clarify, and Harry doesn’t press. He just watches me, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that’s missing too many crucial parts.

I know I’m being unfair. That this game of half-truths and omissions isn’t just hurting me—it’s hurting them, too. But it’s necessary.

It has to be.

Harry shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “So. Draco.”

I arch a brow. “What about him?”

“How much does he know?”

It’s a loaded question, and we both know it.

“Enough,” I answer carefully. “Just as much as you all. Less than he’d prefer.”

Harry exhales sharply, clearly unsatisfied. “And that doesn’t worry you?”

I hesitate. Does it? Maybe. But not for the reasons Harry thinks.

“Draco’s not the problem,” I say finally. “He wants to help. He just… doesn’t know how. What to do.”

Harry watches me closely, like he’s weighing my words. “And do you?”

The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s unfair, but because I don’t know the answer.

I want to believe I do.

I need to believe I do.

But as I stand here, the weight of my secret pressing against my ribcage like a vice, I can’t shake the feeling that no matter how much planning I do—no matter how many pieces I move into place—this will end exactly how it’s always meant to.

Badly. With me, alone. Maybe dead. A sacrifice for the greater good.

I take a breath, forcing the doubt down. “I’ll figure it out.”

Harry doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods once, slow and deliberate.

“Just don’t shut us out,” he says quietly. “I know you think you have to do this alone, but you don’t.”

I don’t respond.

Because we both know that’s not true.

~

Catherine meets me at the front steps of the Conseil des Sorciers, just before nightfall. Most of the nonessential workers are gone for the day—only the seat holders and higher ups remain.

Catherine arrives looking like the picture of professionalism. Hair slicked back into a careful French twist, a well fitting skirt and blouse with a smart blazer over her shoulders. Everything is in it’s place, neatly tucked and pinned. Everything is perfect.

“You look just like your mother in that uniform,” she murmurs, giving me a once over. “Reminds me of simpler times.”

I smile despite myself, taking the comment for what it was meant to be—a compliment. “Thank you.”

She hums, giving me a curt nod of her head before hesitantly making her way up the stairs. I follow her closely, sticking my wand through my hair. She hates it, but it’s almost my signature here. How they know it’s me coming in the room before seeing my face.

We stride past the front desk and straight down the hall, earning a look from the receptionist before she sees me in uniform—giving me an exasperated shake of her head instead of stopping us.

As we walk, the sound of our footsteps echoes against the marble floors, a rhythmic reminder of the weight of what’s to come. A few passing council members pause mid-conversation when they catch sight of Catherine, their faces pale like they’ve seen a ghost. Whispers trail behind us, soft and urgent. I keep my expression neutral, but I can feel the way Catherine tenses beside me.

She doesn’t acknowledge them, doesn’t let a flicker of discomfort show. Of course she doesn’t. Catherine is good at keeping her mask in place.

We reach the council chamber doors, and the guards stationed outside straighten at the sight of us. One of them—a middle-aged man with a neatly pressed uniform—clears his throat. “Madame Noirval,” he addresses Catherine, his voice carefully measured. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Catherine replies smoothly, clasping her hands in front of her. “But I assume the council would not turn away one of their own.”

The guard hesitates, exchanging a glance with his partner. Then, with a nod, they step aside and push open the heavy doors.

Inside, the council room is just as it always is—vast and imposing, with a high domed ceiling and intricate chandeliers casting a dim, golden glow. The long, curved table at the center is already occupied, each seat holder dressed in their finest robes, their expressions unreadable as we enter.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, one by one, their gazes land on Catherine.

Some of them look stunned. Others wary. A few glance at each other as if to confirm that they’re seeing the same thing.

“Well,” a voice finally breaks the tension. It’s Dorian Valmont, one of the longest-seated members of the council. He leans forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he studies Catherine. “This is quite the surprise.”

Catherine inclines her head slightly. “I imagine it is.”

An older woman seated two chairs down lets out a quiet scoff. “You have some nerve walking in here after all these years.”

Catherine doesn’t flinch. “I have more than nerve. I have business.”

Murmurs ripple through the room. I stand at Catherine’s side, my hands clasped behind my back, posture rigid. I know better than to speak before I’m spoken to, but I can feel the weight of their scrutiny shifting between the two of us.

“And what business would that be?” Valmont asks, though there’s something knowing in his tone.

Catherine smiles, but there’s no warmth behind it. “The same business that has always mattered: the future of our world.”

Another ripple of murmurs. A few council members exchange glances, but no one interrupts.

Armand Brossier perks up from the side of the room, striding towards us. “Lavigné. I see you’ve become acquainted with your predecessor.”

“I have,” I reply evenly. “And as much as I would love to discuss the family reunion, we have something much more important to talk about. I think you know where I’m going with this. Why I brought her here.”

Brossier takes a step back, bristling. “I’ve told you, we already looked into the British ministry. There’s not much we can—”

“We’re way past that now,” I interject, catching him off guard.

The murmurs swell again, a current of unease rolling through the room. I can feel their resistance before any of them even voice it, but I don’t have time for hesitation.

“The war isn’t coming,” I say, letting my voice carry across the chamber. “It’s already here. And it’s happening much sooner than any of you realize.”

That gets their attention. A few of the seat holders sit up straighter, others narrow their eyes in suspicion. Brossier folds his arms, his expression skeptical. “And I suppose you have evidence of this?”

I resist the urge to scoff. “Dumbledore does.” I let that sink in before continuing. “He and I have been working on a plan for months. You already know Voldemort has been gathering forces, but what you don’t know is that he’s nearly ready to strike. The only thing keeping him at bay is the stalling I’m doing.”

More whispers. Valmont’s fingers drum against the table, a rare show of emotion from him. “And what, precisely, do you need from us?”

I exchange a look with Catherine. This is where it gets tricky.

“Our best aurors and sorcerers on standby,” I say firmly. “When the time comes, I need to know that the Conseil des Sorciers is ready to act. That you won’t sit idly by and let Britain fall, because if you do, France will be next.”

That statement sends a ripple of alarm through the council. Even those who had been indifferent before are suddenly paying closer attention.

Brossier’s jaw tightens. “That’s a bold claim.”

“It’s a fact,” I correct. “Voldemort isn’t just after Britain. He’s after complete domination. The moment he secures the British Ministry, the rest of Europe is fair game. We can’t afford to wait until he’s knocking on our doorstep.”

Catherine steps forward, her voice as sharp as a blade. “I understand that many of you have reservations about me—about my return.” Her gaze sweeps across the room, daring them to challenge her. “But whatever personal grievances you have need to be set aside. This is bigger than any one of us.”

Valmont exhales slowly. “You’re asking us to make a move that could implicate us in Britain’s war before there’s even a confirmed battle.”

“No,” I counter. “I’m asking you to be ready. To act the moment it’s needed. Because if we wait until the battle is here, we’ve already lost.”

Silence stretches across the chamber. I can feel the tension, the weight of centuries-old bureaucracy fighting against the urgency of the present.

Then, finally, Brossier looks at me, then at Catherine. He leans back, considering.

“You’re asking for a great deal of trust,” he says.

I nod. “I know.”

Another pause. Then, to my surprise, he gives a slow nod. “We’ll discuss it. But if what you say is true… we won’t be caught unprepared.”

It’s not a yes. Not yet. But it’s enough.

Monsieur Picard—first seat of defense—rises from his chair, coming down to meet me where I am. “Little sister,” he starts, placing a fist over his chest and bowing his head, a greeting that I mirror, “how are things going with the Malfoys? With the plan?”

Catherine eyes me suspiciously. “Plan?”

I wave her off for a moment in favor of responding to my fellow member. “Well enough so far. Navigating it has been cumbersome, but where we stand right now, I think I might be able to make it work.”

When my grandmother narrows her eyes, obviously not happy to be out of the loop, Picard regards her contemplatively—almost as if he isn’t sure how much to tell her. A nod of my head gives him the silent go ahead. “Mademoiselle Lavigne has been put in the unique position of being able to feed us information from the inside of You Know Who’s circle. We’re hoping she’ll be able to take it down from the inside, too.”

“If she doesn’t join them,” Madame Roche hisses.

There have been dissenting opinions about my involvement with the Death Eaters. But rather than lie to the Council, I chose to tell them as much as I could without revealing my whole hand—that Voldemort wants to recruit me, because he sees potential in my power—and that I’m going to use that fact to bring them down from the inside.

Some of my fellow seat holders think it clever—no way would Voldemort expect a little girl to double cross him, right? Others think it’s foolish. They think with enough pushing, enough influence, I’ll fall right into his clutches.

They couldn’t be more wrong.

I lift up my sleeves to show off my bare arms to Roche. “I’m clean,” I shoot back. “I’m not marked. Not bound. And I have no intention to be.”

Roche scoffs, leaning back in her chair. “Intentions mean little when facing the Dark Lord. He has a way of making people see things his way.”

I meet her gaze without flinching. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t break so easily.”

The room is quiet again, tension thick like fog. Picard, still standing beside me, tilts his head in consideration. “And the Malfoys? Do they suspect you?”

I shake my head. “Not entirely. Draco knows something is off—he’s too smart not to. But I’ve been careful. I’ve kept just close enough that they trust me.” A pause. “Lucius is the real problem. He’s skeptical by nature, and if I make one wrong move, he’ll be the first to report it.”

Catherine exhales sharply through her nose. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/n.”

I turn to her, leveling her with a steady look. “I don’t have a choice.”

Picard folds his arms, studying me. “You believe you can get close enough to dismantle them?”

“I do,” I answer without hesitation. “Voldemort is powerful, but he’s not invincible. He’s built his army on fear and blind loyalty. If we hit the right places, if we weaken the right people, it’ll start to crumble from the inside.”

Valmont hums in thought, exchanging a glance with Fournier. “It’s a high-risk strategy.”

“All war is high-risk,” I counter. “But if we do nothing, we lose before we even begin.”

Madame Roche doesn’t look convinced, but Picard steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You have my support, petite sœur.” His voice is steady, reassuring. “And if the council has any wisdom at all, they will see the necessity of this plan.”

I nod in thanks. One by one, I look at the other seat holders, measuring their reactions. Some are still hesitant, but there’s a shift—a slow, reluctant understanding that action is inevitable.

Catherine watches me carefully. I know she has a thousand questions, a thousand concerns. But now isn’t the time.

Valmont finally exhales, rubbing his temple. “We’ll prepare our forces,” he says at last. “And we’ll be watching closely, Lavigné.”

“I expect nothing less,” I reply.

It’s not approval. It’s not full trust—but it’s enough to move forward. Right now, that’s all I need.

From further up the rows, another voice chimes in. “So, Catherine. Where have you been all these years?”

I look up to find it’s owner, and I’m met with the piercing black eyes of Imelda Leroux. Sixth seat of Magical Resources and Artifact Regulation. I have yet to interact with her personally, but I know her by name. Everyone does. She has a track record for loudly voicing every opinion she’s ever had.

My grandmother stiffens, seeming annoyed. “Protecting my daughter and I from the terrorists you’re convinced are having tea somewhere.”

Imelda scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Protecting. As if anything could be more important than serving your country. You just disappeared without a trace. No letter, no resignation. Nothing.”

“I had to keep a low profile,” Catherine replies, her nose in the air. “Lest they catch me. Burn my house down like they did Enora’s.”

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the chamber, the weight of Catherine’s words settling over the council like a thick fog.

Imelda’s lips press into a thin line. “A tragic loss,” she concedes, but her tone lacks true sympathy. “Still, you abandoned your post. You left us scrambling to reassign your responsibilities. Do you have any idea how much strain that put on the Conseil?”

Catherine doesn’t flinch. “I imagine it was difficult. But I had no choice.”

“A convenient excuse,” Imelda counters, folding her arms. “And yet, you return now. Why? Because it suits you? Because you need something?”

Before Catherine can respond, another voice cuts through the tension.

“I’d also like to know.”

The speaker is Luc Marchand, Fifth Seat of Arcane Research & Spell Development. He leans forward, fingers steepled. “Your expertise was invaluable, Catherine. Losing you meant losing access to decades of knowledge. Do you know how much we’ve struggled to recover certain spellcraft advancements without your input?”

Catherine lifts her chin. “I’m sure you managed.”

Marchand frowns. “We didn’t manage. And now, after years of silence, you waltz back in, expecting to be trusted implicitly?”

From the other end of the chamber, Edouard Duplantis—the Second Seat of International Relations—adjusts his robes and clears his throat. “Trust is not given freely, Madame Noirval. Especially not after vanishing in the night. What assurance do we have that you are still loyal to the Conseil? That you are not here on behalf of… other interests?”

The implication is clear.

Catherine’s expression remains unreadable, but I can feel the shift in the air. The indignation barely contained beneath the surface. She wants to tell them off—to remind them who she is, what she has done for them. But she knows better.

She tilts her head slightly, voice smooth but sharp as a blade. “I have always acted in the best interests of our world. Whether you choose to believe that or not is entirely up to you.”

Silence stretches.

Then, unexpectedly, Valmont speaks again. “Enough,” he says, his tone carrying the weight of finality. “Catherine’s past will be scrutinized in due time. For now, we have more pressing concerns.”

It’s a dismissal. A temporary reprieve. But I can tell from the looks exchanged between council members—this isn’t the last time she’ll be questioned.

And Catherine knows it too.

~

Before we walk out, Brossier catches me, pulling me to the side with a worried look in his eyes. “Mademoiselle. Can you spare a moment?”

“Of course,” I reply politely, buttoning the clasp on my robes. “Is something wrong?”

He glances around us before lowering his voice. “What you are asking for is a great undertaking, you understand? To have aurors on call, so to speak. For something no one is even sure is happening yet.”

I shake my head, sighing. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t absolutely certain. Voldemort and his followers are already planning it. They’ve been raiding small towns and taking innocent wizards as prisoners, questioning them and forcing them to answer by means of veritaserum and… worse. I’m sure I don’t have to spell that out for you.”

He shakes his head, his face paling just a shade. “No, you don’t.”

“It’s almost time. I can feel it. The Death Eaters have been rushing around, panicking even, trying to prepare. Every meeting gets increasingly more sinister. There is even talk of—” I cut myself off, having to take a breath at the nausea the thought induces.

Brossier furrows his brow, out of confusion or worry. “Talk of what?”

I shudder involuntarily, my voice coming out small. “Voldemort wants to have a child. By any means necessary.”

“Oh,” he replies, and I can see the abject horror on his face before he quickly tucks it away.

I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. “He wants an heir. Someone to carry on his legacy. I don’t know what’s brought it on—according to the other Death Eaters he’s never mentioned it before. So if I’m taking a guess, I think he’s worried someone will kill him.”

“He’s getting suspicious,” Brossier replies flatly. “Paranoid.”

“Exactly,” I say, swallowing hard. “And when a man like him gets paranoid, people die. He’s lashing out—at his own followers, at anyone he sees as a potential threat. I think… I think he knows something is coming. Maybe not from me specifically, but he’s afraid. And fear makes him dangerous.”

Brossier exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. He looks years older in this moment, the weight of our conversation sinking into his bones. “And you’re certain there’s no chance of talking him down? Of diverting his plans?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “There’s no talking down a monster. He’s beyond reason.”

He studies me carefully, his sharp eyes searching mine for any trace of doubt. He won’t find any.

After a moment, he nods. “I’ll do what I can. But I can’t promise the full force of the Conseil—not yet.”

“I understand,” I say, though disappointment claws at my stomach. “Just… make sure they’re ready. That’s all I ask.”

Brossier places a firm hand on my shoulder, grounding me. “Be careful, Mademoiselle Lavigné. If he’s as suspicious as you say, then you’re in more danger than ever.”

I nod once, forcing my expression into something neutral. “I always am.”

Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk out the door, back to where Catherine is waiting. But Brossier’s warning lingers in my mind, curling around my thoughts like smoke.

If he’s afraid… then I must be getting close.