The Pact

The first week of summer slips away unceremoniously in Malfoy Manor, though I suppose I should be grateful; it’s some semblance of calm and normalcy amidst the ever changing storm that seems to be my life.

Draco and I spend most days lounging around the manor, reading or practicing our various hobbies. He plays piano for me whenever I ask, and sometimes if we’re bored enough, he’ll watch me dance.

My new favorite hobby, though, is bothering Lucius.

The man is too uptight for his own good, and the lingering thoughts of the upcoming trial are clearly weighing on him. So what more could he need than a well intentioned, too-bubbly Hufflepuff to lift his spirits (or at least get his mind off things for a while)?

It starts small—little things, really. Asking him about his day while he’s deep in paperwork, rearranging his quills just slightly out of order, humming to myself in the library when he’s trying to concentrate. Subtle, playful disruptions that Draco pretends to scold me for but secretly enjoys.

Today, though, I’ve decided to be bold.

Lucius is seated in the grand sitting room, a book in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other, looking every bit the composed, aristocratic figure he prides himself on being. His platinum blond hair is, as always, perfectly arranged, smooth and gleaming under the soft glow of candlelight.

I perch on the arm of the opposite chair, grinning. “Lucius,” I start sweetly.

His eyes flick up from his book, wary. “Yes?”

I lean forward conspiratorially. “What’s your hair care routine?”

There’s a beat of silence. Draco, lounging nearby with a cup of tea, immediately snorts, poorly hiding his amusement behind the rim. Lucius, however, simply blinks at me, as if questioning whether he heard correctly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your hair,” I say, gesturing. “It’s impeccable. Always. Surely there’s some ancient Malfoy secret—special potions, enchanted combs, a blood sacrifice every full moon?”

Lucius exhales through his nose, setting his book down with painstaking patience. “I do not see how this is any concern of yours.”

“Oh, come on,” I press, swinging my legs. “I’m just trying to learn from the best.” I pause, then add with faux seriousness, “Draco’s hair is nice, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t have that… sheen.”

Draco sputters. “Excuse me?”

Lucius gives me a long, measured look, as if debating whether to entertain this nonsense or remove me from his presence entirely. I stare back innocently.

Finally, with great reluctance, he lifts his chin. “It is a combination of heritage, discipline, and superior product selection.”

“So there is a secret.” I nod sagely. “And if I wanted hair like yours—?”

“You would fail,” he replies smoothly, picking up his book again. “Quite miserably.”

I gasp, clutching my chest. “Mr. Malfoy, are you doubting me?”

“I am ensuring your expectations remain realistic.”

Draco, still reeling from my earlier comment, shakes his head. “Why do you even care about his hair?”

I grin. “Because it annoys him.”

Lucius sighs deeply, but I catch the flicker of something almost amused in his eyes before he returns to his reading.

“What book is that?”

Lucius huffs again, exasperated. “Believe it or not, it’s just a book. A simple mystery novel.”

“What’s it about?” I ask sweetly, moving to stand next to him and peering over his shoulder.

Lucius finally seems to give up, closing his book and floating it to the side table. “Y/n. Are you bored? Do you need something to do?”

I shrug, prancing back to the chair opposite him. “Wanna duel?”

Draco chokes on air, but Lucius merely shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to duel a fifteen year old.”

“You did back when you were training me.”

“Out of necessity,” he replies, rubbing his temples. “Draco, will you please entertain your fiancée?”

Draco doesn’t move a muscle. “Hey, I entertain her all day every day. It’s your turn.”

Lucius stares at his son with a look of sheer betrayal, as if Draco has just sold him out to the Ministry.

Draco, for his part, only smirks and takes a leisurely sip of his tea, clearly enjoying his father’s predicament.

I press my hands together, feigning gratitude. “Oh, thank you, Draco. How generous of you to share.” I turn back to Lucius, who is now pinching the bridge of his nose like this entire conversation is giving him a migraine. “So, what shall we do? I can give you a dance lesson. Or we can braid each other’s hair—”

Lucius gives me a withering look. “I would sooner let the Dark Lord redecorate the manor.”

Draco bursts into laughter. “Now that I’d like to see.”

I place a hand over my heart in mock offense. “Lucius, you cruel, cruel man.”

“I assure you, I do not intend to be.” He exhales slowly, composing himself. “If I agree to answer three of your questions, will you leave me in peace?”

I pretend to consider. “Only if they’re honest answers.”

Lucius gives me a measured stare, then nods. “Fine. Three questions. No nonsense.”

I beam. “Alright. First question—what’s your actual favorite book?”

Lucius eyes me warily before responding. “The Count of Monte Cristo.”

I brighten. “Oh, that’s an excellent choice. You love revenge stories, huh?”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Okay, next one,” I continue. “If you could have had any other career, what would it have been?”

There’s a slight pause before he says, “I once considered politics. International relations, specifically.”

I blink, genuinely interested now. “Huh. You’d be terrifying as a diplomat.”

Lucius raises a brow. “Thank you?”

Draco watches this exchange like it’s the most bizarre thing he’s ever witnessed.

I cross my legs and lean forward. “Last question. Do you—” I pause. “—does it bother you that I’m living here now?”

My voice comes out a touch more genuine than I’d have liked it to, insecurity layering with the playfulness I was going for. Lucius is quiet for a beat, as if considering how to answer.

“It was my idea,” he says finally, keeping his tone measured.

I blink. “Really?”

“That’s four questions,” he tuts, picking his book back up.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. That one doesn’t count.”

Lucius merely hums, flipping a page. Draco, however, is watching me with a strange expression—one I can’t quite place.

“So,” I press, leaning forward again, “you actually wanted me here?”

Lucius exhales, lowering his book ever so slightly. “Wanted is a strong word.”

Draco snorts.

Lucius shoots him a look before turning back to me. “I deemed it necessary. Your presence here ensures certain… advantages. And protections.”

I tilt my head. “Protections?”

His gaze flickers—just for a second. “You weren’t being challenged properly by Grace. And after that nasty spill she took, it would only have been worse. That’s dangerous for someone with your… talents.”

Something cold curls in my stomach at that, but I force a smile. “And here I thought you just couldn’t bear to be apart from me.”

Lucius gives me a long, exasperated look before returning to his book. “Believe whatever helps you sleep at night.”

I grin, but my mind lingers on his words. On the weight behind them.

Draco laughs under his breath, pulling me back to the present. His expression is softer now, his smirk subdued. “That’s the closest to affection you’ll ever get,” he murmurs.

I smirk back, moving to sit with him. “I’ll take it.”

Draco lets me cozy up into his side, laying my head on his shoulder and my legs over his lap. He tenses briefly, probably because his father is here, but soon gives up and rests his free hand on my knee, rubbing circles on my skin absentmindedly.

“Lucius?”

He sighs once more, not even turning to look at me this time. “Yes?”

I swallow, trying to sound nonchalant. “How long until the trial?”

Lucius stiffens, as does Draco, but he stays composed as ever. “Depends. The Ministry seems to be dragging it out—probably trying to give us time to get anxious.”

“Or time to slip up,” I offer unhelpfully.

Lucius nods. “Possibly, yes. As of right now, last I heard from our lawyer, we have about a week to prepare.”

“Right,” I hum, looking up at Draco. He seems as nervous as I feel, but he squeezes my knee reassuringly. “Is… is anyone else going to be there? For your trial, I mean.”

Lucius looks up at that, seeming to understand. “Grace wants to attend, although she isn’t sure if she’ll be able to.”

“Why not?” Draco butts in, tilting his head.

“She’s being questioned by the French Ministry. The Conseil. I’m surprised you haven’t heard, Y/n.”

“What?” I ask, sitting up. “Since when?”

Lucius quirks a brow, as if genuinely surprised by my shock. “Since she came out of the hospital, I believe. They’re questioning her for suddenly resigning from the Conseil last year because they’re suspicious of the timeline. They think she’s a Death Eater.”

“I… is she?” I trail off helplessly, unable to hide the slight shake in my voice. “I don’t know why I never thought to—I don’t know, look? Ask? Though I doubt I would have gotten very far by asking. She probably would have—”

“If you’re asking,” Lucius cuts off my rambling, raising a hand as if to slow me down, “if she took the mark, the answer is yes. Your father didn’t, but Grace—she was, let’s say, a bit more committed to keeping up certain appearances with the Dark Lord.”

I wince. “With Voldemort, you mean.”

Lucius flinches at the name, suddenly tugging down his own sleeve subconsciously. “Yes.”

“Narcissa never…?”

Draco places a hand over mine. “Mum never took the mark, no.”

“Okay, that’s one less person to worry about,” I mutter to myself, standing up to pace.

Lucius watches me suspiciously. “We’re all under investigation, Y/n. Mark or not.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I reply, tapping my wand against my palm. “Without the mark, she can wiggle out of it easily. I can get her out of it, no problem, I’m sure.”

“On what grounds?” Lucius asks, crossing his arms contemplatively.

I clench my jaw, thinking. “I’ve been on the Conseil for a bit now, and I know how the investigations work—I’m sure it’s similar for the Ministry. With a good enough lawyer and no hard evidence of corruption—the mark, I mean—she can plead not guilty by reason of coercion, like the Imperius curse, or even say she was threatened into it. But you, and my mother… that’ll be harder. I think I can get you out of it though, if I prepare my testimony properly. I need—that’s what I’ll do. I’ll owl Francis. He can help me prepare.”

“You think you can get us out of it?” Lucius echoes, sitting up straighter.

I stop pacing for a second, crossing my arms. “Narcissa will be fine. You, given my memories and you helping me play double agent, I think I can work around that. But I’m not testifying for my mother.”

Lucius narrows his eyes, his posture rigid. “You will if you have any sense. She is your mother.”

“Have you gone mad?” I scoff, arms tightening over my chest.

Lucius eyes me warily. “With you in this house? Maybe.”

I ignore him. “She effectively disowned me the moment she told Narcissa to keep me. That wasn’t a motherly act—it was pettiness.”

Lucius exhales sharply, but his expression remains composed. “She made a calculated decision. One she believed was in the best interest of your survival.”

I laugh humorlessly. “No, she made a decision to rid herself of her only child because I opposed her. You don’t get to frame it as some grand act of sacrifice when she was the one who created the situation in the first place.”

Draco shifts, his hand twitching as if he wants to reach for me, but he stays silent.

Lucius studies me for a moment, as if weighing his next words. “Regardless of your feelings, Grace’s trial is intertwined with ours. If she falls, it will make things harder for us.”

I tilt my head, mocking. “Oh, so now she’s part of us?”

His jaw tightens. “If the Conseil deems her guilty, it strengthens the case against anyone connected to her—including you.”

That gives me pause, but I refuse to let him see it. “Then I’ll make sure they don’t connect me to her.”

Lucius lets out a quiet chuckle, though there’s no amusement in it. “And how do you plan to do that, Miss Lavigné?”

I grit my teeth at the title, at the way he wields it like a dagger. “I have options.”

Lucius leans forward slightly, his voice lowering. “Do you? You believe the Conseil will ignore your lineage? Your magic?” His eyes flicker over me, as if seeing through to something I don’t want him to. “You’re too much like her, whether you want to admit it or not.”

My stomach twists. “I am nothing like her.”

He merely hums, unconvinced.

Draco finally speaks, his voice cutting through the tension. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Lucius and I both turn to him, and he shrugs. “If Y/n gets involved in her trial, it’ll bring more scrutiny. Maybe it’s better if she stays out of it.”

Lucius gives him a sharp look. “And what would you have her do? Let her mother hang?”

Draco’s mouth presses into a thin line, but he doesn’t back down. “She’s already made it clear where she stands.”

Lucius exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is reckless.”

I cross my arms again. “No. This is justice. The consequences of her own actions.”

A long silence stretches between us. Finally, Lucius stands, smoothing down his robes. “You’ll come to your senses.”

I hold my ground. “Don’t hold your breath.”

He studies me one last time before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

The second he’s gone, I let out a breath, a steady anger building up in my chest. Draco stands as well, watching me carefully.

“You alright?” he asks, voice softer now.

I nod, but my mind is already racing.

Lucius isn’t wrong. Refusing to testify could come back to haunt me. But standing by Grace’s side?

That would be a betrayal of myself.

~

Narcissa straightens Draco’s tie before fussing over my robes, making sure we all look presentable. I let her fuss, standing still as she smooths an imaginary wrinkle from my sleeve. Narcissa’s hands are gentle but firm, her expression composed despite the tension hanging over all of us.

“It’ll be alright,” she murmurs, but it feels more like a reassurance for herself than for me.

Lucius, standing stiffly beside her, checks his pocket watch before tucking it away. “We should go.”

Narcissa gives Draco’s tie one last pat before stepping back. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then reaches out and brushes a hand against my arm—a quiet acknowledgment. Then she and Lucius turn, heading toward the heavy wooden doors of the courtroom.

Draco and I remain standing as they disappear inside, the doors shutting with a final-sounding thud.

Silence.

I exhale, crossing my arms. “Well. That’s ominous.”

Draco snorts, but his usual sarcasm is absent. Instead, he sinks into the nearest bench, resting his elbows on his knees. I sit beside him, tapping my fingers against my arm.

He glances at me, his leg bouncing slightly. “You nervous?”

I consider lying, but what’s the point? “A little.”

Draco hums, nodding absently. His fingers tug at a loose thread on his sleeve, his jaw set tight. “They’ll be fine,” he says after a moment, but there’s an edge to his voice that betrays his own uncertainty.

I tilt my head back against the wall. “You say that like you believe it.”

He exhales, rolling his shoulders. “I have to.”

We lapse into silence again, the distant murmur of voices and footsteps the only sounds filling the corridor. Every so often, someone in dark robes strides past, offering us brief, unreadable glances before continuing on.

Draco shifts beside me. “What are you going to say?”

I glance at him. “In my testimony?”

He nods.

I chew the inside of my cheek. “The truth. Or at least, a version of it that keeps us all out of Azkaban.”

Draco’s lips quirk up in the ghost of a smirk. “Clever.”

“Survival,” I correct.

He leans back, stretching his legs out. “And what about her?”

I know who he means. My stomach twists, but I keep my expression neutral. “Grace can fight her own battles.”

Draco watches me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “You really meant it, then.”

I nod once. “I did.”

He studies me, his expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he reaches over, his fingers brushing against mine before curling around them properly.

And together, we wait.

The enchanted grandfather clock stood on the other end of the hall chimes on the hour—it’s five. The trial is beginning.

I can’t help but notice a man, no older than thirty, staring at Draco in contempt. I shoot the man a glare, while Draco is wholly unaware that anything is happening at all.

The black haired man turns away for a moment, whispering something to another man standing next to him. I vaguely hear “Death Eater,” and that’s all it takes for me to snap, already on edge from this stupid trial.

“Can I help you?” I ask, my voice sharp. Draco stiffens beside me, alarmed at my tone, before finally taking in his surroundings.

The black haired man sneers, looking us up and down condescendingly. “No, thanks. Don’t want anything to do with Death Eater trash like the Malfoys.”

“Excuse me?” Draco cuts in, his tone icy.

“You heard me,” the mystery man shoots back. “You’re Lucius’ kid, aren’t you?”

I stand, crossing my arms. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, sir. Why don’t you mind your own?”

He laughs—actually laughs—with his friend beside him before leveling me with a harsh look. “I don’t take directions from children, much less the children of sympathizer scum like Lucius and Narcissa.”

That does it.

“Wanna say that to their faces?” I snap, stepping closer. “Va en enfer, espèce de merde! J'espère que quelqu'un cassera votre baguette et l'a poussée dans votre—”

“Woah, woah,” Draco cuts me off, grabbing my shoulders to keep me from charging at them. “It’s fine. Theyre not worth it.”

I huff, my pulse pounding in my ears. Draco’s grip on my shoulders is firm, grounding, but my hands are still clenched into fists at my sides.

The black-haired man raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Temper, temper,” he drawls. “You Lavigné, then? Makes sense, you’re the spitting image of your mum, and with you hanging off Malfoy’s arm like that? You lot were always cozy with the Death Eaters.”

Draco stiffens beside me. “Watch your mouth.”

The man only smirks. “Oh? Hit a nerve?”

I take a step forward again, and Draco sighs, physically pulling me back this time. “For Merlin’s sake, let it go,” he mutters, voice low.

I glare at the man a moment longer before exhaling sharply. Fine. Let it go. But if he so much as breathes in our direction again, I won’t hesitate.

The man scoffs at my silence, clearly pleased with himself. His friend tugs at his sleeve, whispering something in his ear. With one last sneer in our direction, the two of them turn and walk away.

I grind my teeth. “Who the hell even was that?”

Draco sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But I know the type.”

I cross my arms again, watching the two disappear around a corner. “People like him are the reason this trial is going to be a nightmare.”

Draco is quiet for a moment. Then, in a softer voice, he says, “You didn’t have to defend me like that.”

I glance at him, my expression softening. “Yes, I did.”

His eyes flick to mine, searching. He looks like he wants to say something else, but before he can, the courtroom doors creak open.

A woman in formal robes steps out, scanning the hall. “Y/n Lavigné?”

I straighten immediately. “That’s me.”

She nods. “You’re the character witness, yes? The Wizengamot will hear your testimony now.”

I take a breath, willing my heartbeat to steady. Draco gives my hand a quick squeeze, barely noticeable, but it’s enough. I square my shoulders.

“Alright, then. Let’s get this over with.”

The older witch gives me a sympathetic smile, holding the door open for me to pass through. My Conseil issued boots click on the tiles, echoing off the stone walls.

The sound only gets louder when the door clicks behind us—the room goes dead silent.

I straighten. This is fine. I’m used to this.

I’ve done speeches for the council before, this is no different.

Except, you know, my future in-laws freedoms are on the line. No pressure.

A robed official guides me to the witness stand at the center of the vast, dimly lit chamber. The air is thick with scrutiny—I can feel the weight of dozens of eyes assessing me, picking me apart before I even say a word. The high-ranking officials of the Wizengamot sit in their elevated seats, their faces unreadable. Some are familiar, others strangers, but all of them hold power over the outcome of this trial.

I take my seat and fold my hands in my lap, making sure my posture remains impeccable. My Conseil des Sorciers uniform is stiff and formal, a stark contrast to the darker robes of the British Ministry officials around me.

An elderly wizard, who I recognize as Chief Warlock, clears his throat. “State your full name for the record.”

I meet his gaze evenly. “Y/n Lavigné.”

“And your occupation?”

I hesitate only briefly. “I am a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Additionally, I hold two seats on the Conseil des Sorciers in France.”

A murmur ripples through the courtroom at that. It’s clear that not everyone was aware of my political ties.

The Chief Warlock’s gaze flickers over my uniform before he speaks again. “I see. And your uniform—you came directly from a Conseil meeting, then?”

I nod. “Yes. The hearing was scheduled immediately afterward, and I was unable to change before arriving.”

One of the Wizengamot members, a sharp-featured witch, leans forward slightly. “You must be quite the student to balance an academic workload and a position on an international council.”

I keep my face neutral, though I know an observation like that is rarely just a compliment—it’s a probe. A test.

“I manage,” I reply smoothly.

The Chief Warlock taps his fingers against the bench. “Very well. You have been called here today as a character witness in the trial of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. You will answer our questions truthfully and to the best of your ability. Is that understood?”

I nod once. “Understood.”

“Good.” He straightens. “Let’s begin.”

A different wizard folds his hands, eyeing me curiously. “What is your relationship to the Malfoys?”

“They are family friends,” I say simply, my tone even. “Friends of my parents.”

“Your parents—Castor and Grace Lavigné?” the wizard asks.

I nod, making sure to keep my expression neutral. “Yes, sir.”

The wizard scans a parchment in front of him. “Are either of your parents available to be questioned by this court?”

I take a steadying breath. “No, sir. My father, Castor Lavigné, is recently deceased.”

A few of the officials exchange glances. Whether it’s sympathy or mere acknowledgment, I can’t tell.

The Chief Warlock inclines his head slightly. “And your mother?”

“She is a resident of France,” I answer, keeping my tone professional. “At present, she is under investigation by the Conseil des Sorciers and is unavailable to testify.”

Another murmur passes through the chamber. The sharp-featured witch from earlier folds her hands. “You are a member of the Conseil des Sorciers, are you not?”

“I am.”

“How do you feel about your own family being questioned by the very government body you serve?”

I meet her gaze evenly. “If the Conseil deems it necessary, I agree with their decision.”

There’s a slight pause. It’s subtle, but I see it—the brief flicker of surprise in some of their faces. They were expecting hesitation. Bias.

Instead, I gave them exactly what they wanted: impartiality.

The sharp-featured witch nods slowly, seemingly satisfied. “I see.”

The Chief Warlock clears his throat. “Let’s move on. We are here to assess the character of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Given your personal ties, you have been asked to provide insight into their nature. Do you believe Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy to be dangerous individuals?”

I grip my hands in my lap. This is the part that matters. The part I can’t afford to get wrong.

I inhale. Exhale. And then, I begin.

“No, sir. The Malfoys are no more dangerous than any other person wielding a wand.”

A different wizard, a stern-looking man with graying hair, leans forward. “That’s quite the statement, Miss Lavigné. Are you saying that their past affiliations hold no weight in this assessment?”

I keep my posture straight. “I am saying that an individual’s past does not always dictate their future, sir. If the question is whether they are inherently dangerous, then my answer stands—no more than any other skilled witch or wizard.”

He hums, unimpressed. “Lucius Malfoy was a known Death Eater. Narcissa Malfoy aided him. You expect us to believe that does not make them dangerous?”

I choose my words carefully. “I expect you to consider the full picture, sir. Fear and self-preservation are powerful motivators, and I believe the Malfoys acted in accordance with those instincts rather than an inherent desire to cause harm.”

Another witch, younger than the rest but with sharp eyes, tilts her head. “So, you are suggesting they were victims of circumstance?”

“I am suggesting,” I say evenly, “that their choices were made under duress. As I understand it, when a man like Voldemort demands your loyalty, refusal is not an option.”

The young witch taps her quill against her parchment, seemingly put off at the use of the name. “So, if forced, you too would have acted as Lucius Malfoy did?”

I feel my pulse quicken, but I don’t let it show. “I cannot say what I would have done in a war I was not wholly a part of, but I do know this—there is a difference between willing participation and survival.”

The graying wizard frowns. “Survival at the cost of others’ lives.”

A calculated pause. “I do not excuse the actions of the past, sir, nor do I claim to justify them. But I am here to speak on the present. And presently, the Malfoys have renounced all association with Voldemort’s cause and have not engaged in any such activity since his fall. That is what should be considered here, should it not?”

A silence settles over the courtroom. The graying wizard narrows his eyes slightly, as if looking for a crack in my argument. I keep my face carefully neutral.

“Well,” the Chief Warlock finally says, “you certainly came prepared.”

I allow myself the smallest, most polite smile. “I try my best, sir.”

One of the stern looking witches doesn’t seem amused in the slightest. “Is it true that the Dark Lord held Death Eater meetings at Malfoy Manor?”

“Yes.”

“And is it true that both your parents and the Malfoys were not only present during these meetings, but insistent that both you and the Malfoy heir, Draco, were in attendance as well?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“For what reason would a respectable, non-sympathizing witch or wizard have for forcing their child to attend such a meeting?” she asks, her tone sharp.

I shake my head. “They were following orders. Voldemort made it very clear that if Draco and I didn’t start attending, he’d hunt us down himself.”

The Chief Warlock almost laughs. “Why would the Dark Lord be so adamant about the attendance of mere teenagers?”

My hands shake in my lap, but I only clench my fists tighter. “Draco wasn’t really of any interest to him—he was just collateral to get me to cooperate—Voldemort was really only interested in me.”

“And why is that?” he asks, almost amused.

I wince. “Two reasons. One, he heard of my natural talents in wandless magic and wanted to cultivate those talents for his own purposes.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And the second?”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “He wanted an heir.”

The reaction is immediate. A murmur ripples through the courtroom, hushed whispers exchanged between the members of the Wizengamot. Even the Chief Warlock’s expression shifts, his amusement vanishing in an instant.

The young witch who had questioned me earlier straightens in her seat, her sharp gaze now tinged with something unreadable—shock, perhaps, or pity. “You’re telling us that the Dark Lord intended to force you to bear a child?”

I nod, my jaw tight. “Yes, ma’am.”

The graying wizard exhales through his nose. “And you expect us to believe that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy opposed this? That they went out of their way to protect you?”

I meet his stare directly. “Yes, sir. They did everything they could without openly defying him. They trained me in Occlumency to keep my mind protected from his influence. They encouraged me to strengthen my wandless magic, not for him, but for myself—to give me a fighting chance.” I pause, then add, “And they had nothing to gain from it. If anything, it put them at greater risk.”

A new voice speaks up, one of the older wizards sitting near the back. “You claim they trained you in Occlumency and wandless magic to protect you. But tell me, Miss Lavigné, were they not also training their son in the same manner?”

I grimace. “Kind of. Draco has been practicing Occlumency since he was very young, so he was brushing up as I took the lessons for the first time. They also encouraged him to brush up on his defensive and offensive spells, as well as dueling.”

“Then is it not possible that their motives were not as selfless as you claim? That they were merely ensuring their family’s survival in a time of war?”

I take a slow breath before answering. “That is a possibility, sir. But I know the truth, and the truth is this—when it came to me, they didn’t have to help. They didn’t have to protect me. I was not their daughter. My safety should not have been their concern.” I glance briefly at Lucius and Narcissa, seated with their lawyers, before turning back to the Wizengamot. “And yet, they still protected me. They still helped me. That is what matters.”

The room falls silent again. The Chief Warlock studies me for a long moment, fingers steepled. Then, finally, he leans back in his seat.

“Very well,” he says, voice measured. “Let us continue.”

The air in the room is heavier now, more tense. I shift in my seat ever so slightly, if only to adjust my primly crossed legs.

“In your initial questioning, you informed our aurors that both you and the Malfoys were acting as double agents of sorts. Is this true?”

“Yes,” I reply quickly, without having to even think about it.

“Would you provide us with some examples? Accounts of moments where their loyalties could have been questioned?”

With a nod, I pull out a sheet of parchment from the file I prepared for this hearing. I clear my throat, going down the list.

“To begin, the Malfoys, Lucius specifically, were the first to inform me of Voldemort’s true intentions with me and my magic. They were specifically told by Voldemort himself to keep that information under lock and key—they deemed it more important for me to be fully aware of his intentions than to keep themselves safe.”

A murmur passes through the court room, and I continue. “Next, as previously stated, they helped me train not for their own benefit but for mine. Narcissa taught me the art of Occlumency, and Lucius took over my training, as he didn’t find my parent’s approach to be adequately serving me for what may have been ahead.”

“Please explain, to the court, what you mean by training,” one of the witches says, gesturing to the room.

I look around, speaking to the room. “I have a natural talent for wandless magic that has been passed down to me on my father’s side of the family—the Alderwoods. As some of you may know, the Alderwoods are direct descendants of Merlin who branched off into France.”

Another ripple of whispers travels through the court room, with some being outwardly shocked, surprised, and even impressed, while others still seem skeptical.

“Wandless magic, although it comes somewhat naturally for me, is difficult and dangerous if not handled properly. Therefore, training is necessary for me to keep up with my own magic. It mostly consists of exercises in focus, aim, and accuracy, done on inanimate objects that have been enchanted to either fight back or block my spells.”

One of the elder wizards, his deep-set eyes scrutinizing me, leans forward. “And Lucius Malfoy, a known Death Eater, took it upon himself to oversee this training?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply evenly. “He ensured that my magic was under control, that I could defend myself if needed. He didn’t encourage me to use my talents for Voldemort. He encouraged me to use them for myself.”

A different wizard, younger and clearly skeptical, folds his arms. “Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that Lucius Malfoy, a man who willingly served the Dark Lord for years, would suddenly develop such a noble sense of duty toward you.”

I tilt my chin up slightly, maintaining my composure. “Lucius Malfoy did what was necessary to survive, like many others in this room. And when it came to me, he made a choice—to prepare me rather than leave me defenseless. Of course, I cannot say his aid was entirely selfless—by preparing me, by teaching me, he could ensure some sense of loyalty to himself and his family, meaning I would be more likely to protect them if the need arose. This concedes my overall point: the Malfoys acted not out of malice or sympathy for Voldemort’s cause, but out of self preservation, fear, coercion and survival. And whether you agree with the methods themselves or not, I am standing here today because of it.”

The murmurs grow louder now, some members exchanging glances while others jot down notes. The Chief Warlock holds up a hand, silencing the room.

“Forgive me, but I’m going to need a bit more explanation as to why the most powerful dark wizard of our time was so keen on recruiting a child—gifted or not.”

I nod, pulling out another slip of parchment and levitating it over to him (wandlessly, earning some intrigued stares). “Yes, I assumed you would need more information as to why he was so desperate to get his hands on me. The simplest way to explain it is that there was a prophecy made years ago—before I was born—stating that a lone heir to a powerful family would be the one to either kill him or take his place.”

“And this prophecy—it was referring to yourself?”

“Yes,” I say simply, “but he wasn’t aware of that immediately. There is another wizard who had a great deal of influence on Voldemort who isn’t present today. Albus Dumbledore, working with both my parents and the Malfoys, knew of this prophecy and feared that I would choose the latter option, overtaking Voldemort and becoming a new and more powerful dark witch. In order to try to prevent that from happening, he demanded that my parents change our last name and raise me in France, then chose a scapegoat to take my place as the ‘Chosen One’ in the public eye—Harry Potter.”

The courtroom erupts.

The murmurs from before turn into full-fledged discussions, some spoken in harsh whispers, others in outright disbelief. A few members of the Wizengamot turn to each other, eyebrows raised, while others scrawl furiously onto parchment. The Chief Warlock, however, remains impassive, his fingers tapping steadily against the bench as he absorbs my words.

I keep my posture straight, my face unreadable. I knew this revelation would stir the courtroom, and I had prepared for it. I had to.

One of the witches—a sharp-featured woman with streaks of gray in her dark hair—leans forward, her expression severe. “You’re telling us,” she says slowly, “that Albus Dumbledore, the same man who dedicated his life to fighting the Dark Arts, deliberately manipulated the narrative surrounding the prophecy? That he knowingly misled the public into believing Harry Potter was the prophesied one?”

“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “He feared what I could become. I do not blame him for that fear—he had no way of knowing which path I would choose. And in his mind, it was safer to guide the world’s hope toward someone more—predictable.”

A different wizard scoffs. “And you expect us to believe that the Dark Lord simply accepted this misdirection?”

I exhale softly. “Not at first. He had doubts, suspicions. But by the time he began questioning whether Harry Potter was truly the one fated to defeat him, the narrative had already been cemented. The world believed it. The Order believed it. And even if Voldemort had his suspicions, he was nothing if not methodical. He focused on Harry, putting all his efforts into eliminating him while keeping a wary eye on me.”

The Chief Warlock steeples his fingers, regarding me carefully. “And when did he realize the truth?”

I pause for only a fraction of a second. “The moment he saw me perform wandless magic in his presence at Malfoy Manor. He had expected me to be another pawn, another potential follower. But when I was forced to showcase my skills—when I cast a spell without a wand, without incantation—he knew.”

Silence.

I press on. “From that moment on, his interest in me became an obsession. He wanted to mold me, to shape me into his successor. And when it became clear that I would not join him willingly, he sought to force my hand in other ways.”

The sharp-featured witch narrows her eyes. “By making you carry his heir.”

“Yes,” I confirm. “And when that failed, when he was informed that I’m physically incapable of doing so, he turned to thinly veiled threats and coercion. He held the lives of my family, the Malfoys, even my friends over my head. He believed that if I lost everything, if I had nowhere else to turn, I would fall into step. And had it not been for the people sitting in this very courtroom, he might have succeeded.”

The weight of my words settles over the room. Even those who looked skeptical before seem to hesitate, considering the implications of what I’ve said.

The Chief Warlock sighs, rubbing his temple. “This trial was meant to assess the character of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and yet it seems we are unraveling an entirely different web of deception.” He levels me with a firm gaze. “Miss Lavigné, are you claiming that both your family and the Malfoys were not only operating under duress but were, in fact, actively working against Voldemort’s reign?”

I meet his gaze head-on. “Yes, sir. That is exactly what I am claiming.”

“And that Albus Dumbledore, one of the most powerful wizards of our time and the headmaster of your school, was the one orchestrating this—this plan? Since before you were even born?”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s no mistaking the shock throughout the room. The revelation that everything isn’t as clear cut as it seemed is surely taking a toll.

With a pensive look, the Chief Warlock sets his jaw. “For the sake of our records and my own sanity, you need to explain exactly how this is possible.”

“Of course, sir,” I say, flexing my fingers. “I’ll just walk you through it chronologically. It all started with a pact.”

~

I underestimated how long it would take to explain the intricacies of the last year to people with no prior knowledge of any of it.

Three hours. It took me three hours.

The entire courtroom listened with rapt attention, no one daring to leave for so much as a bathroom break as I explained it all. The blood pact, the prophecy, the bond, my training, and most of all, the real events of the battle at the ministry.

Lucius and Narcissa are acquitted almost immediately due to my testimony. It’s hard to argue about the true intentions of people in the war from the person who ended it—under veritaserum nonetheless, which I agreed to happily under questioning.

The moment the gavel strikes, signaling the trial’s conclusion, the courtroom erupts into movement. Wizengamot members are either whispering to each other in hushed, urgent tones or watching me with open curiosity. Some look skeptical, others awed, but I can’t bring myself to care about any of it. I need to leave.

I stand, smoothing out the front of my robes as a flood of people—journalists, Ministry officials, even some members of the Wizengamot—begin making their way toward me.

“Miss Lavigné, if we could just have a moment—”

“Miss Lavigné, what are your thoughts on Dumbledore’s legacy in light of this revelation?”

“How did you manage to keep this hidden for so long? Were there others involved?”

I steel myself, forcing my expression into something unreadable. I refuse to let them see me overwhelmed.

“Excuse me,” I say, stepping around the first journalist. Then another. Then another.

The attention feels suffocating. I’d prepared for the trial. I had not prepared for this.

I push forward, my pulse quickening as I make my way to the doors. I don’t look back—I don’t need to. I can feel their eyes burning into my back, feel the weight of the scrutiny, the sudden shift from being a figure in the war to becoming the figure.

Just as I near the exit, someone steps into my path.

My mother.

I stop short, my breath catching before I can school my expression into something cold. Unreadable.

She’s dressed impeccably, as always, her dark eyes sharp as they sweep over me. She must have arrived too late to participate in the trial, but judging by the tightness in her posture, she’s already been informed of everything.

For a moment, we just stand there.

Then she tilts her head ever so slightly, her lips curving into something that isn’t quite a smile. “So.” Her voice is smooth, measured. “This is what you’ve been keeping from me.”

A sharp spike of something—resentment, exhaustion, something in between—twists in my chest. “If you wanted to be involved, Mother, you should have been on time.”

Her expression doesn’t falter, but I see the flicker of something behind her eyes. Amusement? Annoyance?

“It appears you’ve made quite a name for yourself,” she muses, glancing over my shoulder toward the still-buzzing courtroom. “And yet, in doing so, you have ensured that you will never be left alone again.”

The words settle between us like a carefully placed dagger. And I hate that she’s right.

“I’ll manage,” I finally choke out, that same white hot anger building up in my chest.

She looks back into the courtroom then at me. “How have you been enjoying staying with the Malfoys?”

I can tell by her tone she’s expecting me to say I hate it, that they’re terrible, to come crawling back to her and beg for forgiveness—but I don’t. “It’s been wonderful. Easy, even.”

My mother’s expression flickers, just for a moment. A crack in the ice. But she recovers quickly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“How quaint,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “Living under the roof of a disgraced family, pretending they are your own.”

I refuse to take the bait. I meet her gaze, unwavering. “They’ve been more of a family to me than you ever were. Besides—you’re one to talk about being disgraced. The Malfoys have been acquitted. Haven’t you heard?”

Her nostrils flare, the only sign that my words have struck their intended mark. But instead of lashing out, she exhales slowly, as if regaining control.

“You always were ungrateful,” she says, her voice soft but sharp. “Everything I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices, the decisions I made to ensure your future—”

“My future?” I let out a bitter laugh. “You mean your reputation. Your standing. I was just another piece in your endless political maneuvering, wasn’t I?”

Her eyes narrow, the calculated patience in her expression beginning to fray. “Watch your tone.”

“Or what?” I challenge, taking a step closer. “You’ll slap me again? You’ll try to beat me into submission like before? You don’t scare me anymore, Mother.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she smooths an invisible wrinkle in her sleeve before saying, “You will testify for me.”

The shift in conversation is as expected as it is infuriating. My laugh this time is genuine, humorless. “You’re delusional if you think I’d ever do that.”

Mother’s glare is sharp, pointed. “I am still your mother.”

“No,” I say, steel in my voice. “You’re not.”

She lifts a single brow, unamused. “I was worried that you had become too soft, like your father. But you’ve overcorrected quite a bit, haven’t you?”

I scoff. “I don’t appreciate the insinuation. And no matter what you say, I’m not testifying for you. You don’t deserve anything from me, blood or not.”

Mother smirks again, regarding me curiously. “Listen to you. Cold, calculated, selfish. I can practically feel the dark magic buzzing in your veins, threatening to strangle everyone in this building.”

“How dare you?” I practically spit, my voice rising. “After everything I’ve done! I did everything I could to protect everyone I knew while I waltzed headfirst into a war that wasn’t mine to fight, killed a dark wizard at fifteen and still, you have the audacity to call me selfish? I almost died! I nearly lost my soulmate in the process! You’re a terrible, twisted, cruel woman and I want nothing to do with you.”

The chandeliers above us shake, the entire building feeling charged with my venom. My mother flies back against the wall, pinned by an invisible force that doesn’t let up. I don’t even register that it’s my own magic until I realize she’s staring at my hands, at the sparks crackling from my palms.

I can’t bring myself to care, stepping closer to her until we’re nose to nose. “I hope you disown me so I can be rid of you for the rest of my life. You deserve to burn in hell—or even better, to rot in Azkaban until a dementor sucks out your worthless soul. You deserve every terrible thing coming your way, and you know what? I’m going to smile when I see them walk you through the Conseil in chains.”

My voice comes out so harsh, so venomous, that even I’m surprised by it. I’ve been angry before, yes—but I don’t know if I’ve ever been so downright hateful.

Mother simply hums, seeming satisfied at my outburst. “Maybe you are my daughter after all.”

The words hang in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. I can feel the dark energy rising within me, that same anger that’s always simmering just beneath the surface. And for a moment, I’m not sure if it’s me or something else speaking.

My hands tremble at my sides, my heart pounds in my chest, and I pause. There’s a flicker of doubt, a moment of hesitation, that crawls up my spine. The words echo in my mind: Maybe you are my daughter after all.

I hate how much they hurt. How they sting, as though I’ve just confirmed what she’s always known about me. That dark, twisted part of me that she’s always seen—always tried to use—might actually be the only part that still connects us.

I falter, my involuntary magic deactivating instantly, as my mother collapses to the ground in an ugly heap.

She holds a hand to her chest, catching her breath, before standing, leveling me with an expression that tells me exactly what she’s thinking.

She’s won. I snapped. I let her get the best of me, again.

“All that training and for what? You nearly cracked the foundation,” she sneers, gesturing to the swinging chandeliers and sideways picture frames. “That’s all you’re good for. Throwing temper tantrums when you don’t get your way.”

My jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t crack a tooth.

My mother laughs, her eyes shining with something evil. “You already have dozens of lives on your hands. And here you are, thirsty for more. Letting the darkness consume you, letting your anger flood your senses. Wishing death on your own family? Now that, that is a new level for you, ma fille. No matter your intentions, or how righteous you think you’re being, don’t forget—blood stains.”

Under my mother’s cruel gaze, I feel my knees weaken, and for a moment, I don’t know where I am or what’s happening. The venom in her voice sinks deep into my bones, twisting and gnawing at everything I thought I knew about myself. Her words—they’re a mirror, and the reflection staring back at me is someone I can barely recognize.

I feel it, that dark part of me rising, but it’s not the usual rage anymore. No, this is something worse. It’s self-loathing, crawling up my spine like ice. It’s the realization that maybe—just maybe—she’s right. Maybe I am the monster she’s always said I was. Maybe I do deserve to feel this miserable, this empty. Maybe I’ve always been just as twisted as she is.

My hands tremble at my sides, and the surge of magic that had once felt like power now feels like a curse, as if the very energy inside me is poison.

I take a step back, unable to stop the weakness spreading through me, draining me of any semblance of strength. The coldness in my mother’s eyes—the cruelty—cuts deeper than any spell. I want to disappear. I want to shrink away, to hide from everything I’ve become, from the darkness inside me that’s threatening to consume what little is left of me.

And then, she steps forward.

My heart stutters, and I flinch. Her voice, smooth and insidious, curls around me like a snake. “You see? You’re nothing without me. Just a sad little girl lost in her own magic, unable to control it. You’ve always been a disappointment.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. The words are too much to bear. I want to crumble, to let the weight of my self-hatred crush me. For a moment, I think she might say more, might raise her hand, or even her wand. But in a split second, before she can—

“Grace.”

Lucius Malfoy’s voice is cold, laced with disgust. It cuts through the air, sharper than any blade. “Enough.”

Mother stops in her tracks, her eyes narrowing in surprise at the clear disdain in Lucius’s voice. He steps forward, his tone cold and imperious. “This is not how we conduct ourselves. After all these years of knowing each other, I must say—I’m disappointed in you.”

The sting of his words has an immediate effect on my mother. Her face twists in irritation, but Lucius’s glare silences her, and I can see it now—her control slipping.

But it’s Draco, standing next to me, who pulls me back to reality.

Before I can collapse entirely, his arm wraps around my shoulders, steady and firm. His presence is like a lifeline, pulling me out of the darkness my mother has dragged me into. His touch is warm, and when I glance at him, I see the concern in his eyes—a softness I’ve rarely seen, but a welcome one.

“Y/n,” Draco murmurs, his voice low and gentle. “You’re not her. Don’t let her get inside your head.”

Narcissa, too, steps forward, her hands soft and reassuring as they rest on my arms. Her touch is like a balm, steadying me, grounding me in a way I haven’t felt before. “You are so much more than what she says,” Narcissa whispers, her voice filled with a warmth I’ve never experienced from my own mother. “You are not your blood, Y/n. You are your choices.”

I take a breath, shaky but steadying. As I look between the Malfoys, I realize something. The darkness within me—it doesn’t define me. It’s not all of me, and it certainly doesn’t have to be my future. With them by my side, I have a chance to be more than my mother’s words. More than the expectations placed on me.

And as mother glares at me, her pride shattered by Lucius’s rebuke, I stand tall, not because I’ve conquered the darkness inside me, but because I’m no longer letting her control it—or me.

“I’m done,” I say quietly, but with a certainty that echoes through the room. “Goodbye, Mother.”

She gapes after me, muttering something to the effect of, “This isn’t over,” but it is.

The Malfoys lead me out of the ministry, through the doors and into the fresh summer air. It hits me all at once that the one person I’ve always loathed and admired, who I was so desperate to both please and get away from, has no real hold over me anymore.

It’s a miracle that I don’t collapse. Not from physical exhaustion, or magical—just from the emotional weight of it all, from the realization that my life will never be the same.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

“Thank you,” I mumble, to everyone and no one in particular.

Draco kisses my temple, Lucius just nods, and Narcissa hums. “Grace shouldn’t be your responsibility to shoulder, darling.”

“Yeah,” I say weakly, mustering a half smile for her. “You’re probably right.”

“My word,” Lucius grumbles under his breath, smoothing his already impeccable hair. “No decorum, that one. She should be ashamed of herself.”

Narcissa sighs, casting a disapproving glance back toward the Ministry doors. “Shame requires self-awareness, Lucius.”

I manage a weak huff of amusement, though it does little to mask the overwhelming exhaustion creeping up my spine. The moment feels surreal—leaving her behind, stepping into a world where she no longer dictates my every move. I had imagined this moment for years, but now that it’s here, it feels… empty. Like I should be doing something, feeling something more.

Instead, I just feel tired.

Draco must notice because he tugs me closer, his arm wrapping securely around my waist as we step toward the carriage waiting for us. His grip is firm but gentle, grounding me, and when he helps me inside, I let myself lean into him without hesitation.

The second the door shuts behind us, the exhaustion wins. My body sags against his, the last of my strength leaving me as my head rests against his shoulder. I’m not crying, not yet, but I think I could if I let myself.

Draco says nothing, just shifts so that I’m more comfortable, his arms circling me like a shield. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs after a while, his hand rubbing soothing circles against my back.

I exhale shakily. “I feel like I should be doing something. Saying something. I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says, his voice quieter now, gentler. “You just survived her. That’s enough.”

His words hit me harder than I expect. You survived her.

I close my eyes, exhaling as I curl further into him. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“It will,” he promises, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “In time.”

I don’t know how long we sit like that, the quiet hum of the carriage lulling me into something close to peace. Narcissa occasionally glances over from her seat, offering me the softest of smiles, as if to remind me that I’m not alone. Even Lucius, stiff and proper, remains uncharacteristically silent, his mere presence—while not warm—still strangely reassuring.

And Draco, ever steady, holds me like he has no intention of letting go.