Snow fell on Paris as if the city had been dipped in white silk.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Eira awoke to the muffled hush of snowfall outside her bedroom window. The roofs of the neighboring city houses were blanketed in white, and the great courtyard of the White Manor looked untouched, pristine — save for the faint pawprints of a wandering fox that had ventured too close in the night.
It had been a strange few days. Since the funeral, Eira, Emma, and Isabella had rarely been apart. Isabella seldom left her room except when Emma coaxed her downstairs for tea or dinner. Most evenings ended with the three of them by the drawing room fire, speaking little, each absorbed in her own thoughts. The heavy silence of grief had settled into the house like an uninvited guest.
But this morning was different. On the little table beside her bed sat a neat stack of wrapped boxes and envelopes, their paper glimmering faintly in the winter light. She hadn't expected so many — most were from classmates at Beauxbatons, likely left by owls in the early hours.
She unwrapped them slowly, one by one:
• a set of enchanted quills that would never run out of ink, from Mia Saint-Clair;
• a book on rare magical creatures, its cover inlaid with silver filigree, from Marin Lefèvre;
• a bottle of warming draught for the winter months, from her friend Lisette.
And then her fingers brushed a smaller box — navy velvet tied with a silver ribbon. The card was written in a hand she knew instantly: Fleur Delacour.
Inside lay a ring.
It was delicate yet striking, with a band of fine gold that twisted into the shape of a blooming lily, a small moonstone set at its center. When she slipped it onto her finger, the metal seemed to warm instantly to her skin. For a moment, her lips curved into the first true smile she'd worn in days.
Then she noticed another box.
This one was larger, wrapped in shimmering crimson paper with no card. The weight of it was uneven in her hands, and something inside shifted when she tilted it. Cautiously, she opened it —
— and froze.
Inside was what at first looked like an elaborate glass ornament, but the glass was too thin, too sharp, the inside swirling with something dark and moving. A faint hiss escaped as she lifted the lid, and she felt a sudden prickling on the back of her neck — the unmistakable signature of dark magic.
Her breath steadied. She drew her wand with her free hand and murmured a counter-charm, then another. The thing shuddered, hissed louder, then went still. A final flick of her wand sealed it inside a protective warding case. She set it far back on her desk, resisting the urge to throw it into the fire immediately.
It was not a random threat. It was deliberate, personal.
Later that afternoon, the answer came.
An enchanted note appeared in midair before her, curling open as though invisible fingers held it. The words formed in a faint green shimmer:
"A little something to remember me by. Your grandmother's screams were exquisite. Merry Christmas, darling. – A."
The paper dissolved into ash before it touched the floor.
Eira stood very still. Her pulse didn't quicken, her expression didn't change. She had learned long ago that people like Alina thrived on reactions. But her grip on the armrest of her chair tightened, just once, before she released it.
She could already hear Alina's voice in her mind — the gleeful lilt, the cruel satisfaction. The gift had been a weapon, but the words… the words were a declaration.
By the time Emma and Isabella joined her for the evening's quiet supper, the dangerous thing from the box was locked in one of the Manor's warded vaults. Eira said nothing of the note. Not yet.