Two days had passed since the beginning of the summer holidays at the White family's Parisian manor.
Eira awoke slowly, the soft linen sheets tangled around her legs, the warm hum of cicadas drifting through the tall windows. She stretched, yawning, her fingers brushing against the carved headboard as she let herself sink back into the pillows for a moment longer. Paris mornings always carried a particular stillness at first, before the bustle of the city rose in earnest.
Pushing herself upright, she padded across the room, the floor cool beneath her bare feet. She went to the window and drew the curtains aside. Below, the neighborhood stirred with life. Muggles moved about the cobbled streets—some with fresh baguettes tucked under their arms, others jogging past the streets . The mingled scents of baking bread, summer flowers from the garden, and faint dyes from a tapestry shop drifted up through the air, weaving a perfume of ordinary life.
Eira rested her chin against her hand, smiling faintly. As she observed the muggle livelihood for some time while enjoying the fresh breeze of the morning.
She slipped into the bathroom, showered quickly, then brushed her teeth with a peppermint potion that left her mouth cool and clean. Returning to her room, she pulled open her wardrobe and stood in thought. She had grown used to her Beauxbâtons uniforms, but now, with summer stretching before her, muggle clothes seemed easier, more comfortable. She chose a black linen shirt and white jeans, simple but elegant.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Taller now, shoulders straighter, eyes a little older than they had been when she first came to France. The girl who had arrived at Beauxbâtons three years ago seemed far away. She smiled at the reflection—half shy, half proud—then dabbed perfume at her neck and wrists before heading downstairs.
The manor's grand staircase creaked softly under her steps, the polished wood gleaming in the morning light. She entered the dining room to find her aunt, Isabella Voclain, arranging dishes across the long table. A bowl of fresh fruit gleamed beside warm bread rolls, while steam curled from a pot of tea. Isabella, elegant even in a simple morning dress, looked up and greeted her with a smile.
"Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"
Eira smiled back. "Good morning, Aunt. Yes—it was peaceful." Then She glancing around asked. "Has Emma returned from Britain yet?"
Isabella shook her head, setting down a stack of plates. "Not yet. She had another meeting with the school yesterday—something about the hippogriff. But she should return today."
Eira slid into her chair, nodding. The room smelled faintly of butter and roasted tomatoes.
"So," Isabella continued, taking a seat across from her, "what are your plans now? Will you return to Britain?"
"Yes." Eira toyed absently with her fork. "I'll transfer to Hogwarts. Most of my responsibilities here are finished—or, more accurately, Emma has already seen to them."
Her aunt chuckled. "That girl carries the world on her shoulders. Still, you've done more than you think, Eira."
Before Eira could reply, Isabella leaned back, her expression turning thoughtful. "I received a letter a few days ago. From Maximilian. He wanted to meet with you."
Eira froze, her knife hovering above her plate. She set it down carefully. "Why?"
"Nothing important," Isabella said, though her eyes glimmered. "I went to meet with him. He claimed he wished to apologize—to you, even to me. He spoke of wanting to mend relations, to act as an uncle should." She snorted softly. "As though he had ever behaved like family before."
Eira's brow arched. "And you believed him?"
"Of course not." Isabella's lips curved into a cold smile. "Maximilian has never apologized for anything in his life. I refused to indulge his charade. But his sudden change of tone told me enough."
Eira leaned forward slightly. "And what did you discover?"
Her aunt folded her hands atop the table. "After his engagement to Sophie Trévér, he grew bold and arrogant. He tried to consolidate power, flaunting the backing of both families. But he overreached. Several powerful families grew tired of his arrogance and struck back. He is now cornered, isolated."
A smirk played at Eira's lips. "So he hoped to use me as his shield."
"Exactly." Isabella's gaze sharpened. "His desperation is proof enough of how far he has fallen."
Eira took a slow bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. "Who has he crossed?"
Isabella thought for second , then said, "Four families. The most notable of them is the Delacour family."
Eira's fork paused midway to her mouth. "Fleur's family?" A low laugh escaped her. "He truly has no sense of caution. The Delacours may appear harmless, but behind them stands the Veela association. And Fleur's grandmother—Amélie Rose—leads it. A pure-blooded Veela, powerful and dangerous. Even the Ministry treads carefully around her."
"Yes," Isabella said, her tone carrying quiet respect. "The Delacours are peaceful by nature. But cross them, and you invite fire."
Eira smiled wryly. "If sides must be chosen, mine will always be with the Delacours." She speared a sausage and popped it into her mouth, savoring the crispness.
Her aunt's eyes glinted with mischief. "Of course. They are your in-laws, after all."
Eira sputtered, nearly choking. Heat surged across her cheeks, staining them crimson. "Aunt!"
Isabella only laughed, delighted by her reaction.
Eira ducked her head, but a shy smile crept across her lips. "Well… perhaps."
"Perhaps," Isabella repeated with amusement. "So, you said that Fleur will be coming today?"
"Yes," Eira admitted softly, still flushed.
"Good." Isabella's smile softened. "I would like to properly meet my future daughter-in-law."
At that, Eira hid her face in her hands, laughing despite herself, her cheeks as red as ripe tomatoes. Their laughter filled the dining hall, echoing against the high ceilings, light and warm.