The days following Valentine's blurred into a haze of soft smiles and golden light. Spring had not yet fully claimed the gardens of Beauxbâtons, but the air was warmer, and every breath of wind carried with it the scent of thawing earth and faint blossoms. Eira found herself laughing more easily, smiling without effort, her steps lighter than they had ever been. Fleur was the reason.
The two of them had grown closer, inseparable in a way that even their classmates had begun to get tired of hearing about their gossips. They ate together, traded quiet teases in the common hall of the Ombrelune', and walked the length of the school gardens when lessons ended. Sometimes Fleur would slip her hand into Eira's and like lovers kiss each other boldly in front of others.
The evenings were the sweetest. They would sit by the fountains or beneath the lanterns in the cloisters, their voices low, trading thoughts about classes and dreams. Fleur's laughter often spilled into the night, silver-bright, and it had lodged itself somewhere deep in Eira's chest.
Life felt simple. Almost too simple.
It was nearly March when the quiet was disturbed.
That evening, Eira returned to the Ombrelune dormitory after Charms class, her books tucked beneath one arm, her thoughts still caught on the way Fleur had brushed a lock of hair from her face at supper kissed her on her lips. She pushed open the door to her room and stopped. Two envelopes lay upon her pillow.
Her brow arched. One bore Hermione Granger's neat, meticulous handwriting. The other was sealed in white wax, the crest of her House pressed into the circle.
"Two letters?" she murmured, crossing to her bed. She gathered them up, her pulse quickening with curiosity. It wasn't often she received news from Britain and France at once.
She broke Hermione's seal first. The parchment smelled faintly of Hermione's perfume which indicated that she still smelled the same scent when Eira had seen her last time.
********************
Dear Eira,
How are you? I hope all is well at Beauxbâtons. I miss you terribly.
Classes are going well, though difficult, of course. Though I think you know that since you are Hogwarts governor. But I must tell you about something very serious that happened in Care of Magical Creatures.
Hagrid was introducing us to Hippogriffs—magnificent creatures, really, with wings like storm clouds. He was showing us how to bow, how to treat them with respect. Everything was going fine until Draco Malfoy decided to provoke one. He insulted it, and naturally, the Hippogriff—Buckbeak—reacted. It scratched Draco's arm. Only a scratch! Nothing serious at all.
But Draco made a scene, as always, and now his father, Lucius Malfoy, is demanding Buckbeak's execution. It's ridiculous! Buckbeak is innocent, but they want him put down for nothing. Hagrid who is my close friend is devastated. I've never seen him like this.
Do you think there's anything we can do? Anything you could do? I know it's selfish of me to ask when you're so far away, but the thought of Buckbeak being killed makes me sick.
Please write soon. Tell me everything—your studies, your days with Fleur ( and send her my regards even though it's look like she doesn't like me 🥲), and everything else. I miss you.
With love,
Hermione
⸻
Eira sighed, folding the parchment carefully. Typical Malfoy arrogance. Draco provoked the creature and now wanted its blood. But Hermione's plea lingered most. Buckbeak—such a creature deserved freedom, not a blade.
She placed Hermione's letter aside and turned to the second envelope. The seal of the White family cracked under her thumb, and Emma Bloom's firm, elegant script filled the page.
**************
My lady ,
I trust this letter finds you well. Matters here have been eventful, and I thought it best you hear them directly from me.
First: the rumors you may have heard are true. Lucius Malfoy is indeed pressing for the Hippogriff's execution. Minister Fudge has aligned himself with Malfoy in this, more out of convenience and cowardice than conviction. They seek not merely a creature's death but a way to weaken Dumbledore. This is no small matter—it is part of a larger move to erode his standing.
You must keep this in mind, My lady : at Hogwarts, nothing is ever only what it seems.
Now, to matters closer to France. Since Alina Trévér's death, our family's fortunes have doubled. Trade routes once obstructed by her influence are clear, contracts once frozen are flowing again. For the first time in years, our coffers overflow, and our name is spoken without hesitation in the salons of Paris where the Trévérs ruled .
But peace is never simple. Maximilian Voclain has grown… ambitious. He has met privately with the new French Minister on more than one occasion. The subject of these conversations remains hidden from me, but I suspect it is no trifle. He schemes, and when Maximilian schemes, the ripples spread far.
I assure you, all assets are secured, and I continue to act in your stead with vigilance. But be mindful, my lady. You need only focus on your studies—and perhaps, on enjoying the small joys of youth. You deserve them, even if you will not grant them to yourself.
Yours faithfully,
Emma Bloom
*************
Eira lowered the parchment slowly, her brows drawn together. Malfoy and Fudge circling Dumbledore, Maximilian whispering with ministers… The world beyond Beauxbâtons was shifting, dangerous currents rising.
And in the middle of it, Hermione begged for a Hippogriff's life.
Eira set the letters side by side on her desk. For a long time she sat there, staring at them, weighing the balance of duty and friendship. Finally she reached for her quill.
If the Ministry wanted Buckbeak dead, then she would give them no room to act. There was one way to protect the creature: ownership.
Her hand moved swiftly, decisively, as she began to draft her replies.
⸻
To Hermione:
My dearest Hermione,
Your letter reached me tonight, and I read it twice before I let myself breathe. I miss you, too—more than words will carry. Be assured of this: you are never selfish for asking my help. You are my friend, my sister in all but blood, and I will never turn from you.
I read of Buckbeak with both anger and sorrow. Anger at the Malfoys, who twist every misstep into a weapon; sorrow for Mr.Hagrid, who does not deserve such grief. But know this—Buckbeak will not die. I give you my word.
I will write to Emma at once. The White family has means, and I will see Buckbeak purchased in my name. If the Ministry attempts to interfere, let them. If Lucius Malfoy dares protest, remind him simply: Buckbeak belongs to Eira White. He will not risk open insult to my family.
So dry your tears, Hermione. Buckbeak's wings will beat the sky again, free of their gallows.
As for me, I am well. Studies are demanding, as always, and Fleur continues to be my companion in nearly everything. (And I don't think she hates you just on the day that we were walking together at Paris she wasn't in a good mood so don't worry 😉 ) Life here feels gentler than in Britain, though storms always gather on the horizon.
Be strong, Hermione. Write soon.
With all my affection,
Your friend Eira
⸻
When the ink dried, Eira folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with the White crest. Then she turned to her second letter. Her reply to Emma had to be precise—businesslike, yet leaving no room for doubt.
**********
To Emma Bloom, White Manor, Paris
My dearest Emma,
Your letter reached me tonight, and as always, your words steady me. I am grateful for your vigilance—for both our House and myself.
You spoke of Malfoy's maneuvering with Minister Fudge. Hermione has written to me as well, with details of the Hippogriff, Buckbeak. The matter is simple. He must not die. I instruct you, as Matriarch of the White family, to see him purchased at once. Use our coffers without hesitation. Place the deed of ownership in my name.
If the Ministry resists, remind them it is not their place to dispute the private acquisitions of House White. If Malfoy objects, let him choke on his own pride. He will not risk insulting me publicly, not when our name holds weight in both Britain and France.
Do this swiftly. Send me confirmation when it is done.
As for your other news: I am glad of our doubled fortunes, though I know well such gains stir envy. Watch Maximilian closely. If he conspires with the French Minister, then his aims are no small matter. Find what whispers you can, but do not expose yourself recklessly.
Emma—you say I must live my youth. Perhaps you are right. Yet I cannot set aside my duty. Still… I will try. There is one here who makes it easier. You will meet her soon enough, and I think even you will smile.
Yours always,
Eira White
⸻
She set the quill down at last, flexing her ink-stained fingers. The candles had burned low; the dormitory was hushed in sleep. Only her desk glowed with the quiet fire of written words, the weight of decisions made.
Eira sealed the letters, laying them side by side once more. Hermione's plea would be answered, Emma would act, and Buckbeak would be safe.
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Fleur's laughter still lingered in her mind, bright as sunlight. Hermione's faith in her warmed her chest.