The Pact

Dobby teleports us to Catherine’s, right in front of the looming wrought-iron gates. I suck in a tentative breath, scoring my shoulders, and reaching out to open it. The blood wards are back up, but now that I have access, I can bring Dobby inside without issue.

I walk up the stone path and knock on the front door. After a short moment, it swings open, and Catherine stands just in front of me, her robes the shade of ink, sweeping the floor.

“Y/n,” she says fondly, smiling softly. “You made it. Let me have a look at you.”

She places her hands on either side of my face, inspecting my features for any sign of injury. When she finds none, she turns me around by my shoulders until she is satisfied.

“I’m okay, really,” I say with an unconvincing smile. “Just really drained.”

My grandmother gestures into her estate, leading me inside. “I anticipated as much. That little surge I gave you in the Ministry was only enough to keep you upright. You weren’t meant to go defeat a Dark Lord in that state.”

If she were anyone else, I would almost feel chastised. But I sense a tinge of pride in her words—and amusement tugs at the side of her mouth.

“Well, I saw my opportunity and I took it,” I reply with a halfhearted chuckle. “Thank Merlin I had Harry’s help. I don’t know if I would’ve been able to do it on my own.”

Catherine keeps leading me deeper into her home, straight to the training room. I can already breathe a little easier—my magic humming in contentedness.

“Yes, well. We all need a little help sometimes.”

Catherine’s voice is smooth, a gentle lull that contrasts sharply with the sharpness of her gaze. Her hands rest lightly on my shoulders, guiding me through the dimly lit corridors of her estate. Each step we take seems to draw the shadows closer, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and herbs.

When we reach the door to the training room, Catherine pushes it open, the hinges sighing softly. The room inside is familiar, welcoming even. The air crackles with latent magic, dark and potent, like the charge before a storm.

“The training room is perfect for this ritual,” she says, her voice echoing slightly. “Its walls are already laced with dark magic—woven into the very foundation. It will amplify what we do here, hold the energy in place.”

I step inside, my feet finding purchase on the cool stone floor. Runes are etched into the stone, their intricate patterns stretching across the ground in a language older than I can decipher. They pulse faintly, responding to my presence.

Catherine moves to the center of the room, her robes pooling around her feet as if they have a life of their own. She extends her arm, and with a flick of her wrist, candles ignite along the perimeter, their flames a deep violet.

“Blood magic is powerful,” she begins, her tone shifting to something more formal—like a teacher explaining a particularly complex spell. “It binds, it nourishes, it sacrifices. It requires intention and focus. But more than anything, it demands a part of you. An offering.”

My mouth goes dry, but I nod, my resolve steady. “What kind of offering?”

Catherine produces a slender, curved blade from the folds of her robes. Its edge gleams, the metal etched with runes that seem to shift under the candlelight. She sets it on a small, ornate table near the center of the runic circle.

“Your blood, of course,” she says simply. “But more than just a cut or a prick. Blood magic draws on life force—the deeper the wound, the more potent the spell. You will need to open yourself to it, let your magic flow with your blood. Only then will it replenish.”

She gestures to the runic circle, her expression gentle but unyielding. “Sit in the center. I will guide you through it.”

I swallow hard and move to the center of the circle, lowering myself to the floor. The stones beneath me are cool, almost soothing against my skin. I cross my legs and rest my hands on my knees, trying to steady my breathing.

Catherine kneels beside me, the blade held delicately between her fingers. She meets my gaze, her pale eyes steady. “I will make the cut,” she says. “You must let your magic flow—no holding back. It will hurt, but only through pain can we strip away the remnants of your depletion.”

I nod, bracing myself. “I’m ready.”

Her lips curl into a small smile, approval gleaming in her eyes. “Good.”

She draws the blade across the inside of my forearm, a swift and precise movement. The sting is sharp, and then warmth blooms as blood wells up, rich and red. I grit my teeth, focusing on my breathing.

“Now,” she murmurs, “push your magic into it. Let it spill out with your blood. Feel the pull of the runes—they will draw it in, amplify it, and return it to you renewed.”

I close my eyes, reaching inside myself for the thread of my magic. It feels frayed, thin and brittle, but as I focus, I feel it stir. I guide it toward the wound, imagining it slipping free, mingling with my blood as it drips onto the stones.

The runes beneath me begin to glow, their lines filling with molten light. I feel a tug, a pull, as if the room itself is drinking me in. My breath shudders, and pain lances through my arm, sharp and insistent.

“Good,” Catherine coos, her voice a soft thrum. “Keep going. Empty yourself.”

The pain intensifies, but beneath it, something else unfurls—a warmth, a pulse of energy that feels both foreign and familiar. It rushes into the space left behind, filling me up, knitting my magic back together.

I shiver, my skin prickling as the room’s magic flows through me. It’s heavy, dark, but not unwelcome. It cradles me, cradles my magic, like hands lifting me from deep water.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to die.

I’ve come close, on many occasions. Some more recent, of course. Some not so much.

As my blood spills onto the floor, I feel the room responding. A warmth emanates up from the stone that wasn’t there before. I can’t stop myself from soaking it in—after all, I’m so, so cold.

There’s a muffled sound near my ear, but I can’t make out what it is. Surely it’s my grandmother’s voice, her words meant to guide me. But I’m losing blood at an alarming rate—less of a flow, more like it’s being pulled from me. Extracted by a force I can’t name.

There’s no pain anymore. No feeling in any of my limbs, really.

My headache is gone. Exhaustion takes over.

I’m left to my own mind, to wallow in my own emotions. I feel as if I’m greeting them one by one—joy, fear, anger. Doubt and trust, sadness and anxiety. They’re familiar, like old friends I haven’t seen in a while. But they’re separate from me, detached from my body.

Then I feel a tug behind my eyes, before the blackness turns into something else entirely.

Memories.

I’m seven years old again, standing at the edge of the grand staircase in our manor. The house is too big, too quiet, its halls echoing with the ghostly whispers of old aristocrats whose portraits line the walls. I clutch the banister, my fingers small and pale against the polished wood, and peer down into the foyer where Mother paces, her voice sharp and low as she barks at someone.

Her words are clipped, every syllable like a knife. I don’t know who she’s speaking to, but I know that tone. It means trouble. I draw back, my bare feet silent against the marble, and slip away before she can see me.

I weave through the maze of hallways, past the parlor with its immaculate furniture and the dining room where a table long enough for twenty remains set, though no one ever eats there. I find the narrow staircase at the back of the house, the one the servants use, and climb up to the attic.

The attic is my sanctuary. Dust mites dance in the light filtering through the round window, and old trunks are piled up like mountains. I crawl into my favorite corner, between a stack of faded hatboxes and a tall mirror with a crack running through it.

My knees draw up to my chest, and I press my cheek to the cool wall, closing my eyes. I can hear Mother’s voice in my head—always criticizing, always finding fault. My hair isn’t neat enough. My posture is wrong. My laugh is too loud.

But then, another voice cuts through, gentle and soft. “Ma petite?”

I open my eyes, and he’s there—Father. His silhouette fills the doorway, and I see the familiar smudge of ink on his fingers, the way his cravat is always just slightly askew. He steps inside, his footsteps quiet, and kneels down in front of me.

“Are you hiding again?” he asks, a smile curling the edges of his mouth.

I nod, my lip trembling. “She’s mad again.”

Father sighs, a deep sound that rumbles in his chest. “She is often mad, isn’t she?” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a wrapped sweet, the kind with the cherry filling I love. “Here. Don’t tell her.”

I take it, the paper crinkling in my hand. “Merci, Papa.”

But that was the last time I called him Papa.

The next memory slams into me, sharp and sudden. I’m older, maybe nine or ten, standing at the barre in the small ballet studio Father had built for me in the west wing. My leotard is black, my tights a pristine white. The room is filled with the echo of Tchaikovsky, the music slipping through the old record player like a stream.

I move through the positions, my feet blistered, my muscles aching. I focus on the mirror in front of me, on the lines of my body, on the way I can control every movement, every breath. Ballet is the only place where I feel real—where I feel like I can disappear into something beautiful.

When I dance, I don’t think about Mother’s anger or Father’s tired eyes. I don’t think about the way the staff look at me with pity, or the empty rooms of the house. I don’t think about the loneliness that curls up next to me at night, breathing against my skin.

But the door slams open, and I lose my balance. I hit the floor hard, my ankle twisting beneath me.

“What are you doing?” Mother’s voice is a whip, cracking through the room. She strides forward, her heels clacking against the wood. “You’re supposed to be studying. Not wasting time with this—this nonsense.”

I push myself up, my ankle throbbing. “Father said I could—”

“Your father is not here.” Her voice is ice, and I feel the sting of it. “He coddles you too much. You’ll never amount to anything if you spend all your time spinning like a fool.”

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. “Yes, Mother.”

“Get up,” she snaps. “If you want to dance, then dance.”

And I do. I rise to my feet, swallow the pain, and keep moving. I dance until my vision blurs, until the world fades away and there is only the music, only the rhythm of my body against the ache in my bones.

I learned that day how to dance through the pain. How to smile through it, how to make it a part of me.

Another scene flashes in the forefront of my mind. This time I’m really young, maybe five, and it’s the middle of the night. Something hits my bedroom window outside and I panic, hiding under the covers.

“Maman!” I shout, my voice small and scared.

Books start to fly off the shelves, trinkets getting tossed around the room until they’re all suspended midair, floating. Spinning around at a furious speed, the resulting wind ruffling my sheets.

My parents come running in, and my mother mutters some expletives under her breath. My father casts a quick “Immobulus,” making every last object that was suspended stop. Then it all falls. A heavy book lands right on my head, making me yelp.

That was the first time I felt my magic acting of its own accord—before I started learning how to control it. The first time my mother struck me.

It wasn’t long after that when we started my training.

The memories shift again. I’m older now, eleven and standing at the edge of the garden during a party. The estate is filled with people—strangers in glittering gowns and sharp suits. I watch them from the shadows, my fingers curled around the fence.

I had asked to wear the blue dress, the one with the soft lace and the little pearls along the sleeves. Mother had insisted on the green one instead. It pinches at my waist, the bodice too tight, the fabric too heavy.

I hear laughter, bright and careless, and I want to melt into the earth. I want to slip away, become part of the mist that rolls in off the river.

But then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Father, his expression gentle, his presence a balm. “Come, Y/n,” he says, his voice a quiet refuge. “You don’t have to stay out here alone.”

He leads me inside, his arm a protective weight around me. And for a moment, I feel safe.

The memory fades, the colors bleeding away until all that’s left is darkness.

When I open my eyes, the candles burn brighter, their violet flames steady. My wound is still open, blood sluggishly dripping, but the ache is dull now—muted by the rush of power beneath my skin.

Catherine withdraws her hand, the blade still slick with my blood. She studies me, a satisfied gleam in her eyes. “You did well. The ritual is not yet complete, but the hardest part is over.”

I nod, my voice hoarse. “What now?”

“Now, we close the wound,” she says, drawing a small vial from her robes. The liquid inside glows with a soft, golden light. She uncorks it, dipping a finger inside, and then presses it to the cut.

A coolness spreads through my arm, and the skin knits itself back together, leaving only a thin, pale scar.

“The mark of your strength,” Catherine murmurs. “And a reminder that even in darkness, you have power.”

I flex my fingers, marveling at the newfound strength that hums beneath my skin. It feels different—darker, maybe—but whole.

“So… what happened?”

She kneels beside me, fixing a strand of my hair. “The ritual purified your blood. Think of it like recycling. It emptied all of the blood and magic from your body, cleaned it, and reinfused it into your veins.”

She offers me a hand and helps me stand up. I brush off my robes, already feeling better. “I see. So… what now?”

“Now we wait until the house lets us know its ready for the second stage. Could be hours, could be days. It all depends on you.”

I meet Catherine’s gaze, a new spark of determination in my eyes. “Thank you. For this.”

Her lips curl into that same enigmatic smile. “You’re welcome, my dear. Now, rest. You will need your strength for what comes next.”

I nod, the weight of the ritual settling into my bones. The room seems to breathe with me, shadows and light mingling, and I feel—finally—like I am whole again.

~

Enora dotes on me more than my mother ever has, and I find myself wishing we hadn’t been estranged for so long. Life would have been so much better for me if I knew I had family that loved me. Who understood me on the deepest level—the magic at my core.

Enora sits beside me on the velvet settee, a steaming cup of herbal tea pressed into my hands. The tea smells of lavender and chamomile, its warmth seeping into my skin. I take a tentative sip, savoring the quiet comfort it brings.

Her fingers, adorned with thin silver rings, trace gentle circles on my back. “You did well today,” she says softly. “Blood magic is not for the faint of heart.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, the steam fogging up my glasses. I take them off, rubbing them on my sleeve. “Enora, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” She shifts, giving me her full attention, her violet eyes a mirror of our family’s legacy.

“During the ritual, I had… visions. Flashes of my childhood. Things I haven’t thought about in years.” My fingers tighten around the porcelain cup. “Why did that happen?”

She tilts her head, her expression thoughtful. “Blood magic is deeply tied to memory. Our blood carries more than just life—it holds remnants of our past, echoes of who we’ve been. When the ritual purified your magic, it stirred up those echoes.”

“So it’s normal, then? To relive those memories?”

“Normal, yes. But also significant.” She reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “It means those memories still have a hold on you. They were drawn out because they are wounds that have not fully healed.”

I swallow hard. “It felt so real. I could smell the old house, hear Mother’s voice, see Father’s tired eyes…”

Enora’s face softens, the lines around her mouth easing. “Your magic may be whole again, but your heart still carries the weight of the past. Blood magic has a way of bringing the truth to the surface, even truths we’ve buried deep.”

“What am I supposed to do with them? With all that pain?”

“You don’t have to do anything yet,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “For now, just sit with it. Let yourself feel it. You’ve spent so long pushing it away, building walls to protect yourself. Maybe it’s time to let those walls down.”

I nod slowly, my chest tight. “I just—I don’t know how. I’ve spent so much of my life pretending those things didn’t hurt me. That I was stronger than I felt.”

Enora smiles, a touch of sadness in her expression. “Strength isn’t the absence of pain, Y/n. It’s carrying it and still finding the courage to move forward.”

A tear slips down my cheek, and I brush it away quickly. “It’s hard to admit I’m not as strong as I want to be.”

“But you are.” She takes my hand, her fingers cool and steady. “You survived. You stood up to your mother’s cruelty, defeated a dark lord, let yourself love and be loved, and you forged a path of your own. That is strength.”

The room feels warmer, the shadows less sharp around the edges. “Do you think the ritual helped? That maybe now I can finally… heal?”

“I think it’s the start of something,” Enora replies. “Healing isn’t a destination. It’s a journey. And you’ve taken the first step.”

I set my cup down, exhaling slowly. “Then I guess I need to keep walking.”

She pulls me into a hug, and I let myself lean into it, absorbing the quiet love she offers. It feels like a promise—a reminder that I am not alone on this path.

“You’re going to do great things, Y/n. But never forget—you’re already something great.”

I pull back to look her in the eye. “Thank you, Nor.”

Something wistful crosses her expression at the nickname and she smiles softly. “Grace used to call me that. Before… well, everything.”

“You and mother… were you close?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.

Enora’s smile tightens, a bittersweet curve of her lips. She reaches for her own cup of tea, the porcelain clinking softly against the saucer. “We were. When we were children, at least. Grace was always the brighter star—confident, charming, everything our parents wanted in an heir.”

She traces the rim of her cup with a finger, eyes distant. “I was quieter. I liked the gardens, the library. Grace was the one climbing trees and sneaking into the kitchens for sweets. She always dragged me along, though. Said sisters should stick together.”

A soft laugh escapes her, and I catch a glimpse of what she must have been like as a girl—gentle, hopeful, not yet weighed down by loss. “She’d cover for me when I got into trouble, and I’d patch her up when her wildness caught up to her. We were a team.”

I swallow against the tightness in my throat. “What changed?”

“When our magic started to manifest.” Enora’s voice drops, a shadow crossing her face. “Grace’s power was… intense, unpredictable. She drew attention, admiration. But with it came pressure. Expectations. Our parents saw her as the future of our bloodline, and everything else became secondary.”

“And you?”

“I became the quiet one. The support. I was still loved, but not in the way she was. Not in the way that meant power or promise.” She hesitates, then continues, “But Grace… she started to change. The pressure twisted her, made her resentful. She pushed me away. The bond we had became strained, then severed.”

A pang of jealousy blooms in my chest, sharp and bitter. I try to swallow it down, but it clings to my ribs. “At least you had each other. At least, for a while.”

Enora’s eyes snap to mine, a softness there that feels too much like pity. “Y/n—”

“No, it’s fine. I just… I always wanted a sister. Or a brother. Someone who understood.” My voice comes out thinner than I’d like, and I set my tea aside, my hands suddenly restless. “My whole childhood was just… empty. Rooms too big, hallways too quiet. Even when Mother was home, she wasn’t really there.”

Enora’s expression crumples, and she reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry, my dear. I should have been there. I should have fought harder to be part of your life.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “You were pushed away, too. It was her. It was always her.”

The silence between us stretches, raw and open. And yet, beneath it, a thread of understanding weaves itself into place.

“She wasn’t always like this, you know.” Enora’s voice is barely above a whisper. “There was a time when Grace was kind. When she loved freely. I like to think some part of her still does, buried under everything she’s become.”

I don’t respond right away. Instead, I let the truth settle around me—the reality of the fractured family we share. The pieces of it that might still be mended, and those that never can.

“It doesn’t change what she did. To me. To you.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Enora agrees. “But it might help you heal. To know that it wasn’t always like this. That it wasn’t because of you.”

After a moment of intense internal debate, I finally ask what I’ve been wanting to since that day in Dumbledore’s office. “Did you know she was bound to the Malfoys? A blood pact?”

Enora pauses, furrowing her brow. “I… no, I didn’t.”

“Oh,” I reply, suddenly feeling stupid for assuming she would. That anyone would.

“How do you know she was bound to the Malfoys?” Enora asks, leaning forward.

I take a breath, twirling my wand in my fingers. “I went to talk to Dumbledore about some things. To try to come up with a plan and all. And he showed me this memory.”

“I see,” she replies thoughtfully.

Finally working up the courage, I spit it out. “When my mother was pregnant with me—and when Narcissa was pregnant with Draco—he tried to warn them about the prophecy. Said I’d be the one to kill Voldemort. And if I didn’t, I would take his place. Suggested they bind themselves together for protection.”

Enora doesn’t rush me, just nods, encouraging me silently.

“He told them I was going to be too powerful if they weren’t careful, so he basically told them to… break my spirit, I guess. And they listened. Aunt Nora, they listened. I spent my entire childhood thinking my parents didn’t love me, that I was a terrible daughter and would never amount to anything. How could they do that? Listen to him? If I had kids, I swear, there’s nothing in this world that could ever make me hurt them.”

Enora’s face falls, a deep, aching sadness settling into the lines around her eyes. “Oh, Y/n… I had no idea. If I had known… If I could have stopped them—”

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping me. “You couldn’t have. They were so wrapped up in their own fears, their own ambitions. I was just… collateral damage.”

Her grip on my hand tightens, knuckles white. “That doesn’t make it right. They should have protected you, nurtured you. Not tried to smother your light.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “I think I spent so long wondering what was wrong with me—why I couldn’t be enough. I thought if I was quieter, smarter, better, maybe they’d love me. Maybe they’d see me.”

Tears prick at Enora’s eyes, but she holds them back. “You were always enough. You are enough. Your magic, your strength—it’s a gift, not a curse.”

“I don’t feel like a gift,” I mutter, pulling my hand away and wrapping my arms around myself. “I feel… tainted. Like they planted something inside me, and no matter what I do, I can’t get rid of it.”

Enora stands, moving to sit beside me on the settee. She doesn’t touch me this time, just sits close, her presence warm and grounding. “That darkness isn’t yours. It was never yours. It was theirs—all their fears, their mistakes. They tried to bury it in you, but it doesn’t belong to you.”

“But it feels like it does. Especially when I… when I get angry. When I hurt people.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I think that’s why I saw those memories during the ritual. It was like… my magic was trying to show me where it all started. How I got here.”

Enora nods slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Blood magic is powerful. It connects to the deepest parts of you—the places even you don’t fully understand. It must have dredged up those memories because they’re part of the wound you need to heal.”

I run my fingers over the faint scar on my arm, a tangible reminder of the ritual. “So what do I do now? How do I… fix it?”

“By reclaiming your story. By deciding what your magic means, what you mean. Not your parents, not the prophecy, not Voldemort. Just you.” Her voice is steady, a quiet strength that seeps into my bones. “You’ve already started, Y/n. You’ve made choices. You’ve fought back. Now you just have to keep going.”

A strange sense of relief washes over me, like a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying has started to lift. “I want to. I just… I don’t know how.”

“One step at a time,” Enora says, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “And I’ll be here. Whatever you need, whatever it takes—you’re not alone in this anymore.”

Her words settle into the hollow places inside me, filling them with something fragile but real. Hope, maybe. Or at the very least, the possibility of it.

I feel something else then—only it doesn’t come from inside me. It’s from the house, from the magic embedded in every corner. A soft humming, a subtle warmth, a pull towards something. If I didn’t remember the chaos of the Ministry, I might’ve mistaken it for the bond with Draco.

But there’s no bond, not anymore. There’s nothing now.

Catherine strides into the room, her robes billowing behind her. She pauses in the doorway.

“It’s time.”

I quirk a brow. “It’s time? Already?”

She nods, pulling me up off of my seat. “Your magic must be very potent, dear. This is the fastest I’ve ever seen it happen. Come. Let’s not dawdle.”

Enora and I follow Catherine through the winding halls of the estate, the air thick with anticipation. I can feel the house breathing around me, its magic curling through the walls, guiding us forward. The training room looms ahead, its door already open, shadows and candlelight dancing within.

The room feels different this time—alive. The walls seem to pulse, and the dark magic that once simmered beneath the surface now hums, a low, steady rhythm that syncs with my heartbeat. My steps falter at the threshold, a chill brushing over my skin.

Catherine turns to face me, her expression unreadable. “The second part of the ritual is more intense. The first stage was about purifying your blood, but this one is about binding your magic to you—truly, irrevocably. It will strip away any lingering influence, any ties to old wounds or manipulations. It will make your magic yours alone.”

“How does it work?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

She gestures to the center of the room where a new ritual circle has been drawn. The intricate runes are etched in something dark and viscous—blood, most likely—each symbol pulsing with a faint red glow. Candles surround the circle, their violet flames unwavering.

“It is blood magic,” Catherine explains. “But this time, it’s not just about giving your blood. You must confront your fears, your past. You will bleed for them—metaphorically and physically. You will speak the truth, offer it up to the room, and in return, the magic will sever those bonds.”

Enora steps up beside me, her hand a comforting weight on my shoulder. “It will be difficult. But you won’t be alone.”

I nod, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “Okay. What do I need to do?”

Catherine leads me to the center of the circle. “Kneel,” she instructs, and I do. The stone is cold against my knees, the symbols around me flaring as if recognizing my presence.

She produces a small, ceremonial blade, its edge catching the candlelight. “You must cut your palm and let the blood drip into the circle. As it does, you must speak the truths you’ve been holding back—the fears, the doubts, the pain. You must name them and release them.”

The weight of her words settles over me, and I take the blade with trembling fingers. I draw it across my palm, a sharp sting followed by the warm trickle of blood. It splatters onto the runes, and the entire circle lights up, red and violet flames intertwining.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My mind races, a thousand thoughts crashing into each other, too tangled to unravel. I close my eyes, breathing through the chaos.

“I’m afraid,” I finally whisper. “Afraid that I’ll never be free. That I’ll always be what they made me. That I’m… broken.”

The runes pulse, the room responding to my words. My blood drips steadily onto the stone, the ritual drinking it up greedily.

“I’m angry. At my mother, at my father. At myself for believing them. For letting them hurt me.”

A wave of heat rushes through me, my blood feeling like molten metal beneath my skin.

“I feel guilty. For not being stronger. For needing help. For wishing things were different when so many people have it worse.”

The circle burns brighter, the flames licking closer, but I don’t pull back. I keep going, the truths spilling out of me, raw and unfiltered.

“I’m terrified that I’m evil. That the darkness inside of me will take over and change me, permanently, into something I’m not. Or even worse, into what I was always meant to be. I hate myself for not being able to hate my parents—for still loving them despite everything they did to me. I hate that I’m alive, that I’ve inconvenienced and burdened every person who’s life I’ve touched. I hate that I roped my friends into something they never should have been involved with in the first place. I hate that I let Dumbledore manipulate me, that I trusted him at his word.”

A force hits me, a powerful wind that nearly knocks me over, but I press on.

“I hate that Draco is my soulmate, because I don’t feel like I could ever deserve him. I lied to him about it—never even told him after I saw the memory. I’m afraid that everything I’ve done to hurt him will outweigh the good. That he’ll never be able to forgive me, and if he ever remembers me, he’ll resent me for what I’ve done. I miss him so badly, and I’m angry that I’m too stubborn to reach out to him!”

I feel Catherine and Enora staring at the revelation, but I can’t stop. I refuse to. This has to be over, once and for all.

“I miss the girl I could have been. I mourn her. I’m terrified that I’ll never find out who I really am.”

The last admission hangs in the air, heavy and true. The magic surges, a rush of energy that sweeps through me, pulling at the darkness, unraveling the knots tied into my very soul.

I gasp, my back bowing as the magic slams into me. The world tilts, shadows stretching and bending, the room a blur of light and dark. My blood is no longer just dripping—it’s pulled from me, threads of crimson winding through the air, weaving into the ritual, into the runes.

And then, with a burst of light, it stops.

The flames die down, the room still and quiet. My hand is no longer bleeding—the wound is gone, the scar a faint silver line. I feel… different. Lighter, as if a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying has finally been lifted.

The silence is deafening. My own heartbeat echoes in my ears, a dull thud that feels disconnected from the rest of me. The room is still, the violet flames extinguished, leaving only the dim glow of candlelight. I’m on my knees, slumped forward, my hands pressed against the cold stone floor. My skin is damp with sweat, my breaths shallow and ragged.

I feel empty. Hollowed out. Like everything inside me has been scraped away, leaving raw, exposed nerves behind. My head swims, and I can’t tell if the floor is tilting or if it’s just me. The room seems to breathe around me, the walls bending in and out of focus.

The weight of my own words lingers, every confession a ghost that clings to my skin. I can still feel the pull of the ritual, the way my blood had unraveled in the air, my truths pulled from my very bones. It’s as if I shed a layer of myself, and now I’m too raw, too real.

A shiver crawls down my spine, and I curl into myself, arms wrapped around my knees. The warmth that had flooded me before is gone, leaving only a biting chill in its place. My limbs feel heavy, too heavy to move, and my magic—newly bound, freshly claimed—sits quiet and uncertain inside me.

I hear footsteps, soft and measured, and then Catherine’s voice. “Y/n?”

Her tone is gentle, but it scrapes against my skin. I don’t respond. I can’t. My lips are numb, my throat tight, as if the words I released left scars on their way out.

Enora’s presence is a softer touch, a warmth that doesn’t burn. She kneels beside me, her hand a featherlight brush against my back. “It’s over, my love. You did it.”

Did I? The thought is a whisper, a question I don’t know how to answer. The ritual is complete, the magic is mine, and yet I feel smaller than I ever have. Like I’ve shrunk inside my own skin, retreating to the deepest, darkest corner of myself.

A sob escapes me—small, broken. It shatters the silence, and with it, something inside me crumbles. Tears slip down my cheeks, hot and unyielding, carving paths through the grime and blood. I want to hide, to fold into the shadows and disappear. I want to peel off my skin, crawl out of this body, and leave everything behind.

But Enora doesn’t let go. She pulls me into her arms, and I sag against her, my weight a burden I can’t carry alone. She rocks me gently, a soft hum vibrating through her chest, and I cling to her, my fingers knotted in the fabric of her robes.

Catherine sits on my other side, her cool hand brushing damp strands of hair from my face. There’s no judgment in her eyes, only a quiet understanding that makes my throat ache. She doesn’t say anything—just keeps her presence steady, a silent pillar to lean on.

Time slips away, my awareness a patchwork of moments. The feel of stone beneath my knees, the warmth of Enora’s arms, the coolness of Catherine’s touch. The weight of my own grief, my own shame, coiled tight in my chest.

Slowly, the storm inside me begins to quiet. The sobs fade to sniffles, my breathing evening out, the tremors in my limbs dulling to a low thrum. I’m exhausted—bone-deep, soul-weary—but the edges of myself start to take shape again. I am here, in this room, surrounded by the only family I have right now. And I am still alive.

Catherine speaks first, her voice a low murmur. “The ritual took what you gave it and left only what is real. It is always difficult, shedding the lies we tell ourselves. The darkness may not be gone, but it no longer owns you.”

I swallow hard, my voice a rasp. “Then why do I feel like nothing? Like I’m not even real?”

Enora pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes soft and searching. “Because you’ve spent so long building walls around yourself, love. And now they’re gone. It will take time to rebuild—but this time, you can build something real. Something true.”

I nod, the motion weak but enough. I believe her, or at least I want to. And for now, that will have to be enough.

Catherine stands, offering me a hand. “Come. You need rest, nourishment. You’ve given so much—you need to take care of what remains.”

My legs are unsteady as I rise, but their hands keep me upright. I lean on them, letting their strength fill the hollow spaces inside me. One step at a time, we leave the training room behind, the ritual circle a ghost in my periphery.

And as the door closes behind us, I feel it—a thread of hope, fragile but unbroken. The first stitch in the wound.

~

Dobby and I return to Malfoy Manor a few days later, after a lot of rest and reworking of my magic. My power is back, full strength. Now I just have to work on not feeling so… hollow.

I sit at the dining table across from Draco, with Narcissa and Lucius on either end. It’s unceremonious and simple, but I’ve never been so relieved to have a quiet, normal meal.

After a quick sip of my water, I turn. “Narcissa?”

“Yes, dear?” She sets her wine glass down, giving me her full attention.

“I hate to ask, but… can we go to the shops soon? I need some new sleepwear.”

Narcissa tilts her head, no judgement in her gaze. “Of course. But what’s wrong with the ones you have?”

I push the food around my plate, almost embarrassed. “They’re from home. Mostly shorts and t-shirts. But I need something warmer—it gets cold here at night.”

She hums thoughtfully, offering me a comforting smile. “I understand. We can—”

“No need.”

I whip my head around in the direction of the voice, only to see Draco waving a hand dismissively.

“What?” I ask, trying not to let my jaw hit the ground.

He’s spent the last few dinners since I’ve been here in complete silence—only ever speaking when one of his parents ask him something. Why the sudden change?

“There’s no reason for you to go out and buy more, unless you just want an excuse to go shopping, of course. You can just borrow some of mine.”

A beat of silence stretches across the table, the clink of silverware and the soft crackle of the fireplace the only sounds. I blink at Draco, half expecting him to take it back, to brush it off as a joke. But his expression remains steady—maybe a little guarded, but genuine.

“Oh,” I manage, my voice small. “Are you sure?”

He shrugs, popping a bite of food into his mouth. “Yeah. I’ve got more than I need.”

Narcissa hides a smile behind her napkin, her eyes flicking between us with a glimmer of something warm. Lucius just continues eating, his face a practiced mask, but I don’t miss the subtle raise of his brow. The Malfoy family is known for many things, but open generosity isn’t exactly one of them.

“Thank you,” I murmur, picking at my food. Confusion swirls in my chest, mingling with the hollow ache that’s been there since the ritual. Why is he being so kind? Why now? What changed?

We finish dinner in a comfortable silence, and as the house-elves clear the table, Draco stands. “Come on,” he says, his tone casual but his posture a little stiff. “I’ll show you.”

I follow him through the winding halls of the manor, my mind a tangled mess of questions. His stride is confident, but his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders a little too tense. It’s like he’s bracing for something—for me to refuse, maybe. Or for him to regret offering at all.

When we reach his room, he pushes the door open with his shoulder, not quite meeting my eyes. Memories flood my senses, along with the scent of his shampoo and cologne.

Merlin, I miss him.

He walks over to a large wardrobe, opening it to reveal neatly folded stacks of clothes. “Take whatever you want,” he says, a bit of an edge to his voice. “I’ve got shirts, jumpers—whatever you need.”

I hover by the door, my fingers twisting together. “Really, you don’t have to do this. I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not.” He says it so quickly, so firmly, that I look up in surprise. His jaw is tight, a muscle in his cheek ticking. “I mean it. You’re not imposing.”

I take a hesitant step forward, my fingers brushing over the soft fabric of a worn t-shirt. It smells faintly of cedar and something warm—smells like him. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

He freezes, his hand still on the wardrobe door. His expression shifts, something vulnerable and almost confused flashing across his face before he schools it back into neutrality. “I don’t know,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “I just… don’t mind.”

His honesty knocks the air from my lungs. I study him, the way his shoulders curl inward just a bit, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Like he’s bracing for me to push back, to question his motives.

“Okay,” I whisper, choosing a silk set. For old times sake, I suppose. “Thank you.”

He nods, his gaze darting away, and for a moment, I think I see relief soften the lines of his face. “Yeah. Don’t mention it.”

I retreat to my room, the clothes clutched to my chest. His warmth lingers in the fabric, a quiet comfort against the chill that’s burrowed deep into my bones. I change quickly, the soft material enveloping me, and I curl up on the bed, my thoughts spinning.

There’s something about the way he offered, the way he didn’t expect anything in return. Something in the way he couldn’t quite explain it. And beneath my confusion, beneath the ache and the emptiness, a small ember of hope glows.

Maybe the prophecy was right. Maybe we are soulmates.

I just don’t know how to tell him that.