The Pact

“Y/n,” Lucius’ voice rings out from the doorway to the library, nearly making me jump.

I turn to face him, and there’s a grave expression on his face. I swallow thickly. “Yes?”

“Come.”

He doesn’t say any more, just starts walking. I pull myself up off the couch and jog to catch up to him, not very gracefully, but thankfully he can’t see.

“What’s going on?” I ask politely, once I’ve managed to be only a step behind him.

Lucius turns slightly to look at me over his shoulder. “Someone is here to see you.”

I furrow my brow but don’t ask questions.

Who could be here to see me?

We wind through the corridors of the manor, all the way down to one of my favorite sitting rooms. Lucius pushes the door open and a voice floats out.

“Y/n?”

I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Without a moments notice, I immediately start tearing up.

“Maman!”

I don’t even think before I move. My feet carry me forward in a blur, and the next thing I know, I’m throwing myself into her arms, burying my face against her shoulder as the tears spill freely.

She’s thinner than I remember, frailer, but she’s here. She’s warm, alive, breathing. The scent of her familiar perfume—jasmine and something sharper, like bergamot—clings faintly to her. For weeks, I had no idea if I would ever get to smell it again, if I would ever hear her voice, if she would even—

I choke on a sob, clutching onto her tightly.

Her arms wrap around me, albeit more loosely than usual. “Ma chérie,” she breathes, her own voice wavering. “Oh, mon amour, I am here.”

She’s here.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold onto this moment despite the conflicting emotions surging inside me. Because underneath all the relief, underneath the sheer overwhelming joy that she’s alive, there’s still the pain, the fear, the betrayal of everything I’ve uncovered.

She let me believe I was safe. She let me believe I was normal. And yet, I still find myself holding her as if she’s the only thing keeping me upright.

“I thought I lost you,” I whisper, voice thick.

She pulls back just enough to cup my face in her hands, her sharp eyes softening in a way I haven’t seen in a long time. There’s a fresh scar along her cheekbone, a reminder of just how close I came to losing her.

“Je suis désolée, ma fille,” she murmurs, brushing her thumbs under my eyes to wipe away the tears. “I never meant to leave you for so long.”

I shake my head, unable to find the right words. There’s too much I want to say, too much I need to ask. But right now, all I can do is let myself feel the relief.

Lucius clears his throat behind us, a sharp reminder that we are not alone. My mother stiffens slightly, her hands falling away from my face as she straightens.

I do the same, taking a small step back, though my fingers still clutch onto her sleeve. Just to be sure. Just to remind myself she’s real.

Lucius regards us with an unreadable expression. “I will leave you both to speak.”

With that, he turns and strides out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

There’s a beat of silence before I look back at my mother, my grip on her sleeve tightening.

“What happened to you?” My voice is steadier now, but the weight behind my words is heavier. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you were okay?”

She exhales slowly, her gaze flickering away for a moment before she meets my eyes again. “Because it was not certain that I would be.”

My stomach drops.

“Y/n, I was not just injured,” she continues quietly. “I was dying.”

My breath hitches, and suddenly, I feel like the room is spinning.

“I—” My voice catches, and I swallow hard. “But you’re okay now?”

She reaches up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Thanks to the right…interventions.”

There’s something in her tone, something carefully measured. I should press her, should demand to know what kind of “interventions” saved her life. But I can’t—not yet.

Instead, I squeeze her hand and whisper, “I missed you, Maman.”

Her expression softens again, and she pulls me into another embrace. “I missed you too, my love.”

“Father, he’s—”

“I know,” she says softly, softer than I’ve heard in at least a decade. “I know.”

I take a shaky breath, pulling away to look at her. “We haven’t had the funeral yet.” My voice cracks when I say it, but she doesn’t chastise me for it. Just nods grimly.

“Narcissa mentioned that.”

A heavy silence falls over us for a moment before she breaks it again, smoothing my hair down. “Would you like to help me plan it?”

I nod hesitantly, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “I think… I think I should.”

She exhales, her fingers lingering against my temple for just a moment before she drops them. “We’ll have the funeral in two days,” she says, voice calm but resolute. “That should give us plenty of time to get everything in order.”

Two days.

I swallow. It feels too soon and yet not soon enough. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel ready.

She watches me carefully, like she’s trying to gauge my reaction. “We’ll make sure everything is as it should be,” she adds, as if that will make it easier.

I nod slowly, trying to steady the uneven rhythm of my breathing. “Where will it be?”

“Our estate in France.”

Something about that makes my throat tighten. Of course. It would have to be there. My father’s homeland. His legacy.

I should have expected it, but the thought of returning there—of standing in a place I haven’t been since before the war, since before I knew the weight of what my family was tangled in—makes my stomach twist.

My mother studies me again, and for once, I think she actually sees the conflict I can’t put into words. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” she says carefully. “But it would mean a great deal if you spoke.”

Spoke. At his funeral.

I grip the edge of my sleeve. “What would I even say?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Whatever you want.”

I almost scoff at that. Nothing about our family has ever been about what I want. But I bite my tongue, because she’s trying. Or at least, she wants me to believe she is.

She reaches for my hand again, squeezing it gently. “We will handle the details tomorrow. For now, you should rest.”

Rest. As if sleep will come easily when the weight of everything sits so heavily on my chest.

But I don’t argue. Instead, I nod, letting go of my mother’s sleeve as she steps back.

She hesitates before speaking again. “I’m glad I made it back to you.”

The words are simple, but they unravel something in me. I nod quickly, not trusting myself to speak.

And then, as she turns toward the door, I find myself whispering, “I’m glad too.”

It’s not forgiveness. Not yet. But it’s the truth. And for now, that will have to be enough.

~

After much preparation, the day comes. My suggestions were taken as gospel; almost no one knew my father as well as I did. I picked the music, the catering (not that I could stand to eat), the order of the speakers, and even the smaller details like the flowers.

All the other guests are dressed in all black—not me. I’m wearing a powder blue dress with white lace trimming the neckline and sleeves—a dress he bought for me. His favorite.

There are hundreds of people here. Some I recognize, most I don’t.

Members of the Conseil are here, paying their respects to their fallen member. None of them acknowledge me outright. They know I haven’t told my mother anything yet, though I have a feeling she might know anyway.

There are ministry members here, too. I recognize a few faces from the mixer we threw here at the manor all those months ago. There are even members of my dad’s supposed family; not that I’d know, of course. I’ve never met them.

The Malfoys came, too, of course. Lucius and Narcissa knew my father well. Draco is here too, not of his own accord, but I think he’s content to watch over me as the day progresses.

The funeral is held on the sprawling grounds of our French estate, where the grass is impossibly green and the air hums faintly with magic. At the center of it all stands a grand marble monument, smooth and glistening under the pale sunlight. Intricate runes are carved along its edges, whispering faintly if you listen closely enough—protection spells, guiding incantations, words meant to ensure my father’s safe passage to whatever comes next.

The casket itself is a masterpiece of craftsmanship, dark mahogany inlaid with silver filigree, his family’s crest subtly etched into the lid. It hovers a few inches above the ground, suspended by silent magic, awaiting the final rites before it will be laid to rest in the Alderwood crypt.

A sea of mourners gathers around, their solemn expressions reflecting in the soft glow of enchanted lanterns floating above the ceremony. Thick wisps of enchanted smoke curl through the air, scented with myrrh and lavender, warding off lingering spirits and ensuring only peaceful energies remain.

At the front, a wizard clad in deep indigo robes—one of the Conseil’s officiants—raises his wand. He speaks in low, measured tones, delivering the traditional rites of passing. His words are thick with old magic, the kind that thrums in the bones, the kind that lingers long after it’s spoken.

Then, one by one, those who wish to pay their final respects step forward. Each carries a small stone, carved with a personal sigil, and places it atop the casket. A wizarding tradition—marking one’s presence, a token of remembrance. I watch as the pile grows, as polished black and grey and white stones accumulate, each one a silent farewell.

When my turn comes, I feel the weight of every gaze on me. The world narrows to the stone in my palm—smooth, deep blue, with a single rune carved into its surface: souvenir. Memory.

I step forward, pressing the stone gently against the casket. My fingers tremble. “Je me souviens,” I whisper. I remember.

The moment I step back, the officiant waves his wand, and the stones begin to glow faintly, sinking into the casket’s surface one by one until they vanish completely—absorbed into the wood, bound to my father forever.

Then comes the final act. My mother stands before the casket, wand in hand, voice steady as she recites the ancient burial incantation. As the last syllable leaves her lips, the casket slowly descends into the ground, lowering into the crypt below. A burst of white-blue light flares, sealing the chamber shut, ensuring that no dark magic can disturb his rest.

Silence stretches in its wake. Heavy. Overwhelming.

And then, a soft chime rings through the air—gentle and mournful. The enchanted bells of the estate toll once, twice, thrice. The ceremony is complete.

I feel Draco step closer beside me, his presence grounding, but I don’t turn to look at him. I can’t.

Because it’s done. My father is gone.

And there’s nothing in the world that could ever bring him back.

I go through the motions of greeting the guests, thanking them for coming as we all file into the manor for the speeches and everything else that comes after. Draco never leaves my side, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches, guards, as if waiting for me to crumble.

Everyone takes their seats in the ball room (the only room big enough for this many guests) as different speakers go up front to say a few words about my father. Some are family, some coworkers, others old friends. Even Lucius makes a short speech, praising my father for his brilliance and aptitude for magic, deeming him as his closest and truest friend.

My mother makes a speech, too.

Draco may not know exactly who I am, but I remember him. Nothing will ever change the amount of comfort I get from being close to him—and he doesn’t protest when I squeeze his hand and bury my face in his shoulder as the tears work their way down my cheeks.

He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close and gently stroking my hair. It’s so familiar, so him, that it helps bring me down enough to stop crying.

Finally, it’s time for me to go up and speak. I have nothing prepared, no real idea of what I’m going to say. But I can’t let this opportunity pass. I’d regret it forever.

I stand at the podium, wand at my throat to amplify my voice. After taking a shaky breath, I begin, feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes on me.

“Hello everyone. Thank you for attending today. My name is Y/n, and as you may or may not know, Castor is—was, my father.”

Ripples of nods and whispers go through the crowd, some knowing who I am and others not. It doesn’t phase me.

“My father was a good man. One of the best I’ve ever known. He was fiercely loyal, incredibly brilliant, and had a wicked sense of humor when you got to know him. He gave his life in a war against the darkest wizard of all time. Gave his life defending me.”

My voice cracks as I press on, but I blink away the tears to the best of my ability. “My father told me on more than one occasion that I was his pride and joy. I’m his only child, and he was perfectly content with that. He told me when I was very young, maybe six, that he couldn’t ask for a better heir. That he knew I would do great things someday.”

I swallow hard, steadying my breath. “I didn’t understand what he meant at the time. I just thought he was saying what fathers were supposed to say. But now, standing here today, I think I finally do.”

I scan the crowd, my grip tightening around the podium. “My father believed in legacy. He believed in duty, in honor, in the weight of a name. But above all else, he believed in me. Even when I doubted myself. Even when I felt lost. He saw something in me that I didn’t always see in myself.”

I exhale sharply, my free hand curling into a fist at my side. “And I won’t let him down. I refuse to. Because to let myself crumble—to let my grief swallow me whole—would be to waste the sacrifice he made.” My voice wavers, but I press on, determined. “He gave his life to protect mine. I owe it to him to live.”

A hush falls over the room, heavy with emotion. I force myself to keep going. “I won’t stand here and tell you that my father was perfect. That he was some flawless, untouchable man. He had secrets—ones I’m only just beginning to uncover. But what I do know is this: He loved me. And I loved him.”

I finally allow myself a breath, my gaze dropping for just a second before I lift my chin again. “So today, we say goodbye. We honor his memory. And I promise you, Papa—” my voice cracks again, but I don’t stop, “je me souviendrai toujours. I will always remember.”

The silence that follows is deafening. A moment stretched too thin.

Then, slowly, the room fills with the soft sounds of wands being raised in tribute. A sea of glowing tips, shimmering gold and silver, illuminating the space in quiet reverence. A wizard’s final farewell.

I close my eyes just for a second, feeling the weight of it all settle into my bones. When I open them again, I glance toward Draco. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes tell me everything.

I’m not alone. Not yet. Not ever.

I raise my wand, a bright white glow emanating from the tip. I’m the first to cast it up, where it embeds itself in the ceiling. The other guests follow suit, until the ceiling of our ballroom looks like the night sky, littered with stars.

My father will always be embedded in this place. He’ll always be remembered.

Of course, we will have a portrait of him hung in the manor. But it will never be quite him. I’ve accepted that.

I’ve accepted a lot of things.

One, that I know almost nothing about my family.

Two, that I probably never will, and my mother will always keep secrets from me.

Three? That I love her anyway.

She may be cruel. She may be cold. She may never tell me the full truth.

But she is my mother. And she is all I have left.

I let out a slow breath, lowering my wand as the last of the enchanted lights settle into place, shimmering softly overhead. The guests begin to stir, the weight of the ceremony slowly shifting into the quiet murmurs of those preparing to leave.

My mother stands at the edge of the room, her posture poised, her expression unreadable. But when our eyes meet, something in her gaze falters—just for a moment. A crack in the perfectly maintained facade.

She turns away before I can say anything.

The reception carries on around me, but I barely register it. People approach, offering hushed condolences, polite nods, empty words that do nothing to fill the hollow ache in my chest. I smile where I must, nod when required, but my mind is elsewhere.

Draco doesn’t leave my side. He doesn’t speak much, doesn’t force me to talk, doesn’t pry. He just lingers, a steady presence in a sea of unfamiliar faces. It’s grounding.

When the night finally winds to an end and the last of the guests begin to depart, I step outside for air. The garden is quiet, bathed in the cool glow of moonlight. I let out a slow breath, wrapping my arms around myself.

Footsteps sound behind me. I don’t have to turn to know who it is.

“You did well,” Draco says, voice low, careful.

I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t even remember half of what I said.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “They’ll remember it.” A beat of silence, then, “He would have been proud.”

Something tightens in my chest. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I hope so.”

We stand there for a while, watching the stars—real and enchanted alike.

Then, wordlessly, Draco holds his arms out for me. It doesn’t take more than a second for me to bury my face in his chest, clutching onto him like a lifeline. Strangled sobs wrack my body, but he holds me up. Holds me steady.

In a world where nothing makes sense, where I always feel out of place, I know exactly where to go to fix that.

Despite all that’s happened, I will never feel more at home than I do in Draco’s arms.

~

“Grace, really. You’re in no state to care for yourself and your daughter.”

“Narcissa, please. I can handle myself.”

I knock on the door to my mother’s study, pushing it open. “You called?”

Both women look up at me, seeming only mildly surprised. My mother nods. “Yes, dear. I was just discussing with Narcissa how we’re going to move all of your things back home from their manor.”

I freeze, my mouth going dry. “What?”

“Well, you can’t think she would have let you stay there forever, do you?”

Narcissa opens her mouth as if to speak, but I cut her off. “Maman, please. I’m going back to school soon anyway. Can’t I just—”

“I won’t have my daughter burdening another family when you have a perfectly good manor to stay in—”

“Grace,” Cissa cuts in, her voice measured. “I already told you. Y/n is lovely. We’re more than happy to have her.”

My mother huffs. “Narcissa, I can’t expect you to—”

“Please, maman,” I plead, wrapping my arms around myself. “I can’t be here right now. Not without… him.”

This seems to make her pause, but after a moment, her gaze hardens almost instantaneously. “So you’d rather stay in the manor where the Dark Lord hosted meetings? Where his followers watched you confess your deepest secrets? This is—”

“Voldemort is dead!” I spit, straightening up. “I killed him, remember?”

A sharp silence falls over the room. My mother flinches at my words, but I don’t stop.

“I killed him,” I repeat, my voice unwavering this time. “And I nearly died doing it. So don’t talk to me about what that manor used to be, because I know better than anyone.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” My voice rises despite myself. “That I don’t want to be here? That I’d rather be with the people who actually—” I stop myself before the words slip out, but I know she hears them anyway.

Her expression shifts, just for a second. Something sharp and wounded flickers across her face before she schools it back into indifference.

“You’d rather be with them,” she says quietly.

I swallow hard. “I just—”

“You think I don’t know?” Her voice is controlled, but I hear the crack underneath. “That you look at Narcissa and see the mother you wish you had?”

My breath catches.

“I see the way you two talk. The way you smile at her.” She exhales, a short, humorless laugh. “It must be so easy to love a woman like her, isn’t it?”

“That’s not—”

“I am the one who raised you. I am the one who protected you from the moment you were born. Me. And now, what? You want to leave me for them?”

Her words land like blows, but I don’t back down. Not this time.

“I want to leave because I can’t breathe here.” My voice shakes, but it’s strong. “Because every room in this house reminds me of what I lost. Because I can’t stand the way you look at me like I’m disappointing you just by existing.”

“I am disappointed!” she bites out, slamming her hand on the table. “I wanted a boy! To carry on our legacy, to carry on our name.”

I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. “Which name?”

My mother freezes. “What?”

“Which name?” I repeat, stepping closer. “Lavigné? Alderwood? Or Lévèque de Noirval? Because you conveniently never told me about the last two. Tell me—was it the stigma you were afraid of? That the power would go to my head? Or were you afraid of the connections I would make?”

For the first time in my life, I watch my mother splutter, falling over her words. “That’s not—where did you—”

“Y/n,” Narcissa finally chimes in, her voice low and soothing. “Maybe you shouldn’t do this right now.”

I shake my head. “If not now, then when? With all due respect, Cissa, this is long overdue.”

“Oh, so it’s Cissa now, hm?” mother asks, her words pointed. “When did that familiarity come about?”

A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “Oh, no. You’re not changing the subject now. We have so much to talk about.”

“I am your mother! How dare you speak to me this way?” she shouts, standing up. “I will have no daughter of mine—”

“Please. I think we’re far past the formalities now, don’t you agree?” I cut her off, my voice dripping with disdain. “Tell me, maman—were you ever going to tell me about the seats on the Conseil des Sorciers?”

She freezes, her eyes narrowing to mere slits. “How did you—”

“Or about my aunt Enora and grandmother Catherine who I never knew existed?”

My mother’s jaw drops, and Narcissa looks between us with wide eyes. “Who—”

“Oh, yeah! And were you ever going to tell me about the prophecy?”

She stops, seething. “Who the hell told you about all of that?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh for Salazar’s sake. Did you think I’d never find out? That I’d never go digging? I figured this out months ago!”

My mother steps up to me, jabbing a finger into my chest. “Everything I did—everything your father and I did was to protect you. How dare you question me?”

I cast a wandless spell, putting an invisible wall between us, forcing my mother back a few paces from me. “To protect me? Well, you’ve done a wonderful job! I’ve only faced death a dozen times in the last few months, not to mention having to kill the most powerful dark wizard of all time with almost zero guidance from you.”

“We tried to train you,” my mother spits, her fingers twitching at her sides. “You were the petulant brat who didn’t want to learn!”

“You didn’t train me properly,” I reply, my voice deceptively calm. “I know what you were doing. Trying to keep me down so I wouldn’t get too powerful. If I had only gone off of what you taught me, I’d have been dead the moment Voldemort laid eyes on me.”

She scoffs. “And what do you know of proper training?”

I quirk a brow, tilting my head with a false smile. “Well at first I taught myself. Then I went to Catherine—and she showed me how to actually use my magic. How to harness it properly. Hell, I had more help from Severus and my peers than I ever would have gotten from you!”

My mother’s face twists, caught between rage and something else—something darker. “You went to her?” she hisses, as if the very thought sickens her. “That woman was kept from you for a reason.”

“Yeah?” I snap back. “And maybe if you’d been honest with me for once in your life, I wouldn’t have had to go behind your back to find out the truth!”

The room crackles with tension. Narcissa shifts beside me, a silent observer, but I know she’s ready to intervene if necessary. My mother and I stare at each other, neither of us backing down.

“You have no idea what you’re getting involved in,” she says finally, voice low and measured, like I’m some foolish child she’s humoring.

“Then tell me.” My voice is razor-sharp. “For once in your life, tell me the truth instead of locking it away and expecting me to follow orders blindly.”

Her fingers dig into her palms, knuckles white. “It was never about keeping you in the dark. It was about keeping you safe.”

I let out a sharp laugh, humorless and cutting. “Safe? You call this safe? Being lied to my entire life? Having my choices made for me before I was even born? Do you even realize what I’ve been through while you’ve been busy playing your little political games?”

She glares at me. “Everything I did was for our family’s survival.”

“No, everything you did was for power.” The words burst from me, years of resentment boiling over. “You don’t care about me. You care about control. You always have.”

“That is not true.”

“Oh? Then tell me, maman—why did you slap me at that very first meeting with the Malfoys?” I step closer, daring her to answer. “Because I was out of line? Or because I wasn’t your perfect little heir, following your every demand without question?”

Her mouth opens, but no words come out. For once, she has nothing to say.

I shake my head, the weight of everything settling on my shoulders. “You never wanted a daughter. You wanted a soldier. A doll you could mold into whatever suited your ambitions.”

“You’re wrong,” she whispers, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.

“No. I finally see things clearly,” I say, voice steadier than ever. “I was never yours. Not in the way that mattered.”

Something flickers in her eyes—pain, regret, something close to fear. But I don’t let it stop me.

“I know so much more than you think I do. Every lie you’ve strung together, that web you’ve created? I’m unraveling it as we speak.”

She blinks, taken aback. “You don’t know anything.”

I shake my head. “I know everything.”

Narcissa places a firm hand on my shoulder, trying to calm me. “We should go.”

“No,” I huff, though I don’t direct my anger at Narcissa. “Not yet. There’s still one more thing I need to ask.”

Narcissa backs off hesitantly, and my mother stares at me, her tone venomous. “What?”

“When were you going to tell me about the blood pact?”

My words seem to hit her like a ton of bricks, and she nearly stumbles backwards as if stricken. “How did you—”

“Because it passed on to me and Draco,” I shoot back, cutting her off before she can even finish asking. “And I found your letters to the Malfoys back before we were born. Oh, and I know it was all Dumbledore’s idea. That’s why you moved me to Hogwarts, right? To keep a close eye on him because you thought he betrayed you?”

She doesn’t deny it. She can’t.

“The magic passed to me and Draco. And you want to know the great part? We never would have known if you hadn’t made us duel. That’s what activated it.”

She gapes, pressing a hand to her chest as if clutching a string of pearls. “You mean to tell me all this time you’ve known and never told us?”

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” I quip, lazily twirling my wand between my fingers. “To have your family purposefully keep things from you. Life changing, potentially helpful, important things.”

My mother doesn’t speak. She just stares, her sharp features momentarily slack with disbelief. I let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of what I’m saying.

Then, just as quickly, she recovers, her expression hardening into something unreadable. “You think you know everything, but you’re just a child playing with forces beyond your comprehension.”

I laugh, sharp and humorless. “That’s rich, coming from the woman who offered me up to a blood pact before I was even born. Don’t talk to me about forces beyond my comprehension. I live with them inside my own skin.”

Her fingers curl into fists at her sides, but she doesn’t deny it. She can’t.

I shake my head. “I’m done with this.” My voice is quiet but firm. “With you. With the lies. With being something I never had a choice in.”

Turning on my heel, I stride toward the door, my heart pounding in my chest. My body is humming with too much energy, too much emotion. If I stay here any longer, I might actually implode.

I don’t look back, but I hear Narcissa shift behind me. “She can stay with us for as long as she likes. Maybe while you two cool down.” And then—

“If you like her so much, take her,” my mother spits, her voice ice-cold. “Keep her there. She’s no daughter of mine.”

I stop dead in my tracks.

For a moment, the words don’t register. Then they do. And they hurt.

Not in the way I expected. Not in a deep, soul-crushing way. But in a way that solidifies something inside me, like the final lock clicking into place.

I wait for the sting, the grief, the regret—but it never comes. Instead, there’s just… clarity.

I exhale through my nose, straightening my spine before I turn my head slightly, just enough to glance back at her from the corner of my eye. “Fine.” My voice is eerily calm. “Then don’t expect me to come back.”

Narcissa moves beside me, a quiet but powerful presence. “You’ll regret this, Grace.” Her tone is measured, but there’s an unmistakable steel beneath it. “You always wanted a child who could bring your name honor. And yet, when you had her, you were too blinded by your own ambitions to see her for what she truly is.”

I don’t wait for my mother’s response. I step forward, pushing the doors open, and leave without another word.

The moment the doors shut behind us, I feel a hand on my arm—gentle, grounding. “Come,” Narcissa says softly. “Let’s go home.”

I nod, but I look down at the ground. “Can I grab some things first? I don’t know when I’ll be back here.”

“Of course,” she murmurs softly. “I’ll wait for you in the parlor.”

With that, I split off, making my way up one of the grand staircases towards my room.

The air in the manor feels heavier than ever as I climb the staircase, my footsteps echoing in the hollow silence. Every portrait lining the walls seems to watch me, their painted eyes filled with something between curiosity and judgment.

I don’t let myself linger. I push open the door to my room and step inside, breathing in the scent of jasmine and parchment, of something faintly nostalgic and distant.

It’s strange, looking at the space I once considered my own. It still looks the same—pristine, elegant, carefully curated by my mother’s expectations. But now, it feels foreign. A place I’ve outgrown. A place I was never truly meant to stay.

I grab my trunk from the corner, flicking my wand to open it. I don’t need everything—just the things that matter.

My hands move on instinct, pulling out the few sentimental things I can’t bear to leave behind: a delicate silver pendant from my father, a pressed flower I once tucked into the pages of an old book, the letter Aurélien sent me before my first year at Hogwarts. The things that tether me to something real, something mine.

Then, my dance attire—leotards, soft skirts, the pointe shoes that have molded to my feet over the years. The silk ribbons are worn but familiar, frayed at the ends from countless rehearsals.

Toiletries, a few personal books, my wand holster. Nothing excessive, nothing I wouldn’t mind never seeing again.

I flick my wand to start shrinking the items down, my mind strangely detached, running on autopilot—until I hear the faintest shift of movement behind me.

I stiffen, fingers curling around the fabric of a sweater, my wand already at the ready. But then I recognize the presence.

Draco.

He doesn’t say anything as he steps inside, his pale eyes sweeping over the half-packed trunk, then to me. There’s no mockery in his gaze, no sharp-edged remarks waiting on his tongue. Just quiet understanding.

I swallow and turn back to my things, pretending I don’t feel the weight of his stare. “I’m going to be staying with you for a while longer. I promise I’ll stay out of your hair,” I say softly, trying to distract myself.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses the room, kneels beside the trunk, and—without a word—starts folding my clothes.

For a moment, I just stare at him. At the way his fingers carefully smooth out the fabric, at the way he organizes things without hesitation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I don’t know what to say.

So I don’t say anything.

I just keep packing, and Draco Malfoy, the boy who hated me then loved me, the boy who has become something infinitely more complicated, silently helps me.

We work in tandem, shrinking things down and rearranging them to fit. When we’re done, he takes it all, not letting me carry a single thing. To the untrained eye, one would just call it being a gentleman. But I let myself believe it’s something more, something deeper.

I let myself think it’s my Draco, still finding his way back to me somehow.

Draco doesn’t say anything as he lifts my trunk, his movements effortless, precise. He glances at me once before nodding toward the door.

“Come on,” he murmurs.

I follow him, my steps quieter than before, my mind still caught in the weight of everything I’ve left behind.

When we reach the parlor, Narcissa is already waiting, composed as ever, though her eyes soften slightly when she sees me. Lucius stands beside her, his expression unreadable, though I can feel the scrutiny behind his gaze.

No one says a word as we step toward the fireplace. Narcissa gestures for me to go first, offering me a small handful of Floo powder.

“Malfoy Manor,” I say clearly, tossing the powder into the flames. They roar emerald green, and within moments, I’m stepping out into the familiar grand sitting room of the manor.

The scent of aged parchment and polished wood greets me first. Then the warmth of the crackling fireplace, a stark contrast to the cold tension still clinging to my skin.

Draco steps out behind me, followed by his parents. Almost immediately, Dobby appears, his large eyes flickering between me and the trunk Draco holds.

“Miss is back,” Dobby says softly, bowing his head. “Dobby will take Miss’s things.”

Draco hands over my trunk without hesitation, and I watch as Dobby carefully lifts it, his small frame moving swiftly toward the grand staircase.

I exhale slowly, unsure of what to do next—what to say, how to even begin to process the reality of where I am now.

But before I can dwell too long, Draco turns to me, tilting his head slightly.

“Come flying with me.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Outside. On the manor grounds,” he clarifies, as if it should be obvious. “Unless you’d rather sit around and sulk.”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t sulk.”

His lips twitch, just barely. “Then prove it.”

It’s such a Draco thing to say—half challenge, half invitation. And for the first time all night, I feel something close to normal.

I roll my eyes but nod. “Fine.”

He doesn’t wait for me to change my mind. He just turns on his heel, leading the way outside. I follow without hesitation.

“I’m not exactly dressed for this,” I chirp, catching up to him.

Draco shrugs. “Me neither. Who cares. You wear shorts under your dresses anyway, right?”

I blink. “I… do. How did you know that?”

He turns as if to make some witty remark before his face settles into genuine confusion. “I… don’t know, actually.”

Merlin, I just know he’s in there somewhere. It’s just a matter of when he’ll come back out.

“You’re a good guesser,” I deflect, offering him a smile.

“Yeah. Yeah…” he trails off, seeming distracted.

Draco shakes his head slightly, as if trying to clear it, and turns away. “Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, picking up the pace.

I let the moment pass, even though my heart clenches. He’s so close—I can feel it. Little pieces of him slipping through the cracks, like sunlight breaking through a storm. But it’s fleeting, and just like that, he’s already moving on.

When we step outside, the night air is crisp, tinged with the scent of damp grass and cool stone. The manor grounds stretch out before us, vast and silent beneath the starlit sky.

Waiting near the broom shed, propped neatly against the stone wall, are two sleek broomsticks. Draco strides toward them, running his fingers absentmindedly over the handle of one before tossing me the other.

“You up for a game of snitch?” he challenges, his smirk returning like second nature.

I scoff, mounting my broom with ease. “Please. Try not to fall behind.”

For the first time all night, I see it—the glint in his eyes, the thrill of competition, of something familiar.

“I should warn you, I’m a brilliant seeker,” he preens, casting a charm on the snitch to make it glow softly. “Even better than Golden Boy.”

I roll my eyes, chuckling. “You mean Harry?”

“If that’s what you call Saint Potter, sure,” he sneers, though I can tell it’s playful.

I laugh, shaking my head as Draco releases the snitch into the air. It flutters between us for a split second before zipping off into the night, vanishing against the vast stretch of sky.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Then—

“Don’t cry when you lose, Malfoy,” I taunt, kicking off the ground.

Draco snorts. “I don’t lose.”

We shoot up into the sky, the cool wind rushing past us as we weave through the open air. The snitch flickers in and out of sight, dipping between tree branches and soaring over the moonlit lawn.

I dive first, reaching out—just as Draco sweeps in from the side, cutting me off with a sharp turn.

“Oh, come on!” I groan, swerving to avoid colliding with him.

He only grins. “You’ve got to be quicker than that, Lavigné.”

I narrow my eyes, pushing my broom to its limit, speeding ahead just as the snitch darts between us again. Draco reacts instantly, shifting to follow—but at the last second, I feint right, making him veer off course.

He lets out an irritated growl. “That was dirty.”

“All’s fair in love and Quidditch,” I call back, laughing as I chase after the snitch.

We keep at it for a while, circling the manor grounds, diving and climbing, pushing each other to the edge of our speed. But as time drags on and the night settles deeper around us, the snitch becomes less important.

At some point, Draco pulls back, slowing his broom until he’s drifting lazily in the air. I hover beside him, catching my breath.

“Giving up already?” I tease.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head back, gazing up at the endless stretch of stars above us.

I follow his gaze, and for a while, we just sit there, suspended in the sky, surrounded by nothing but the quiet hum of the night.

“Look,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to point. “Do you see that?”

I squint, trying to follow the line of his finger. “See what?”

“There,” he insists. “That constellation—Orion.”

I smirk. “Nerd.”

His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile as he feigns offense. “It’s not my fault my mother made sure I knew. It’s kind of a Black family thing.”

He shifts slightly, pointing out another cluster of stars. “Like… that one is Canis Major. The brightest star there—Sirius.”

I want to comment, want to relate him to Harry, but I can’t risk pushing. Instead, I just nod, playing dumb. “That name sounds familiar.”

“Yes,” he cuts in, his voice softer now. “He’s mum’s cousin.”

A quiet pause settles between us, filled only by the distant rustling of the trees.

Then, in a much lighter tone, he adds, “I have a constellation too, you know.”

I chuckle, grinning up at him. “Yes, I know that much.”

He leans to the side, getting closer to me as he traces it with his pointer finger. “It’s just there. The dragon. Stupid, I know.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “It’s not stupid. Your family just seems to enjoy a good theme.”

“You’re not wrong there,” he laughs—actually laughs—before pointing to another constellation, and another, and another after that.

There’s something about this moment—floating under the stars, listening to Draco ramble about constellations, feeling the quiet shift in the air between us.

It’s easy. It’s peaceful. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like us.

I look back at Malfoy Manor, then at Draco, his cheeks tinged pink from the wind as he explains more for me, trying to distract me from all the doom and gloom inside my head.

With a crooked smile, I realize home doesn’t have to be the place I was born. It can be the place I choose.