The emerald flames of the Floo Network flared to life inside the grand fireplace of the White Manor's main hall. A gust of warm ash swirled outward, spilling faint sparks that shimmered against the polished marble floor. From within the green blaze, Eira stepped forward.
Behind her, Fleur appeared gracefully through the flames, brushing a strand of silvery hair from her face. She landed light on her feet, as if the fire itself had been charmed to respect her poise. She adjusted the hem of her blue traveling cloak and offered Eira a bright smile.
"The way those green flames light you up… it makes you look so sinfully tempting, I could take you to bed right now and show you exactly what I mean," Fleur whispered, her voice thick with heat.
Eira let out a sultry little laugh, her breath warm as she leaned closer, the fatigue of the long day melting into something far more dangerous. "Then tell me…" she whispered, her voice velvet-dark, "exactly what you'd do to me if you dragged me to bed. Don't hold back—name every sinful thing you crave." Her lips ghosted over Fleur's in a slow, deliberate brush, a teasing spark that begged to be claimed.
Fleur leaned in, her lips pressing against Eira's in a searing, electric kiss that stole her breath. The first touch was soft, almost hesitant, but the electricity between them made every nerve in Eira's body hum. Fleur's fingers curled into the nape of Eira's neck, tilting her head with a possessive gentleness, while her other hand traced the line of Eira's collarbone, lingering just enough to make her pulse quicken.
The kiss deepened slightly, teasing and demanding at once, a delicious friction that left them both trembling. Fleur's lips moved with an intoxicating mixture of softness and hunger, pulling and coaxing, letting Eira feel the weight of everything she wasn't allowed to give just yet. Eira's hands instinctively reached for Fleur, feeling the warmth and tension radiating off her, yet Fleur drew back just enough to keep the ache simmering, unbearable in its restraint.
When Fleur finally parted from the kiss, her breath was ragged, and her eyes glimmered with desire. "I wish I could," she murmured, voice husky, letting her lips brush Eira's lips. "I would do… so many things to you." Her fingers lingered on Eira's skin, sending shivers down her spine. "But… not now. You're still too young."
Every touch, every heated glance was a promise, a delicious torment of what might come. Fleur's restraint made the air between them almost unbearable, a heady tension that left Eira acheing, craving, and helplessly aware of the dangerous pull that this forbidden desire had already taken over them both.
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The hall was quiet, yet alive with the familiar scents of polished wood, enchanted lavender oils, and the faint aroma of something cooking deeper in the manor. Eira's fingers lingered on the carved banister near the fireplace, grounding herself after the heady, electric kiss she had just shared with Fleur. She could still feel the warmth of Fleur's lips, the teasing restraint that made her pulse race.
Fleur, standing beside her, watched her with smoldering, obsessive eyes, and without a word, let her fingers brush briefly against Eira's. The touch was light, fleeting, yet it sent a shiver down Eira's spine. Together, they moved toward the dining hall, each step a quiet, intimate rhythm, hearts beating just a little too fast, aware of the tension that still crackled between them.
Before they had even reached the tall oak doors, they heard her.
"My lady! Miss Delacour!" Emma's voice rang out warmly from within.
When they entered, Emma was already rising from her seat at the long dining table. She looked every bit the commanding acting matriarch of House White, dressed in elegant but practical midnight-blue robes. A quill and several parchment sheets rested beside her untouched goblet of wine — clear signs that she had returned earlier to settle matters of the family.
Crossing the room swiftly, Emma drew Eira into a firm embrace, pressing her cheek against her lady's white hair. For a brief moment, the strong mask of the strategist and administrator slipped, and all that remained was genuine affection.
"Welcome home, my lady," Emma whispered before releasing her and turning to Fleur with equal warmth. "And welcome to you, Miss Delacour. It's a joy to have you here again."
Fleur's cheeks colored faintly as she dipped her head respectfully. "Merci, Madame Bloom. It is always… how you say… comforting, to be here."
Before Eira could reply, another voice chimed from the far end of the hall.
"Dinner is almost ready — sit yourselves down before it goes cold!"
Isabella emerged from the kitchen archway, sleeves rolled up and hair tied back in a neat braid. She carried a tray charmed to float alongside her, laden with steaming dishes that filled the air with aromas of butter, herbs, and roasted meats. She had insisted on preparing the evening meal herself, refusing to let the manor's house elf interfere.
When Eira saw her aunt like that—cheeks flushed from the stove, eyes glowing with the satisfaction of creation—her heart softened. The whole dinner seemed arranged with special care for Emma's return; Isabella had chosen finer clothes than usual and even applied a touch of makeup, small details that did not escape Eira's notice.
The table was already set in the French style: baskets of baguette slices, bowls of velvety soup, glazed vegetables shining under candlelight, roasted duck breast drizzled with cherry sauce, and a gratin dauphinois whose golden crust promised both comfort and indulgence. Everything was unmistakably Isabella's handiwork.
As Eira and Fleur sat down, Emma and Isabella soon joined, placing themselves across from the girls.
The first few minutes were filled with the simple pleasures of eating and settling. Conversation floated gently at first — Fleur remarking on the richness of the soup, Eira quietly observing the changes in the manor's halls since winter, Isabella teasing Emma about working even harder during Eira being in school and attending a lot of meetings of the ministries and Hogwarts school governors meetings . It was warm, almost deceptively ordinary, as though the world outside the manor's stone walls had ceased its turmoil.
But inevitably, heavier matters crept into the room, as they always did.
Emma set down her fork and looked toward Eira. "My lady, I assume you've already seen the headlines—about Sirius Black?"
Eira tilted her head slightly, her brows knitting. "Only what you mentioned in your letter a few days ago. That he's been captured… and that his trial is set for next weekend."
"Yes," Emma confirmed, her voice calm but edged. "Captured just four days ago. Apparently he was in Hogwarts. After his capture I went to the British Ministry of Magic myself, trying to find out more. The files I was shown… they reminded me of what I told you last year. There are still inconsistencies. Sirius Black was thrown into Azkaban without a proper trial. That alone should make anyone question the official story."
Eira's fork paused midair. "Yes said in the letter that some believe he is innocent, right?"
Emma nodded slowly, folding her hands atop the table. "Exactly. A growing faction claims his imprisonment was a miscarriage of justice. They argue he never betrayed the Potters, that he was framed. Others — particularly those who benefited from the Black family's downfall — are working tirelessly to ensure he is branded guilty again, beyond question."
Eira leaned forward, her tone thoughtful but sharp. " So it seems that what Minister Lucien said was true that the Americans are behind this movement, correct?"
Emma's lips curved faintly, humorless. "Yes. That was his claim during our meeting. He believes American interests are attempting to sow discord in Britain by rallying support for Black's innocence. But I've been watching this closely. I gave you my full report last year, you'll recall. The truth is murkier. There were suspicions, gaps in the record of Black's crimes, those inconsistencies that were never answered. That is why this weekend will be so critical — the Ministry has scheduled a formal hearing. We'll see then who stands for what."
Isabella set her wine glass down softly, her eyes glinting. "Mark my words, it won't just be about Black. Every family with something to lose or gain will make their play at that hearing."
Eira frowned. "And the pure-bloods who seized the Black family's vaults and properties?"
Emma's gaze hardened. "They will fight like wolves to keep him guilty. If he is cleared, much of what they claimed as their own could return to him — or to his chosen heir. Sabotage is almost guaranteed. The game now is less about truth, and more about survival and greed."
A silence hung for a moment as the four absorbed the weight of it. Outside, the wind rattled faintly against the manor's high windows, as though echoing the turmoil that brewed beyond.
But Isabella clapped her hands softly, dispelling the heaviness. "Enough of politics, just for tonight. Eat your duck before it turns dry."
The rest of the meal unfolded in more pleasant tones. Fleur asked about the White family library, eager to explore its shelves. Eira shared snippets of her recent exams, including her prefect conjuring of a phoenix during the transfiguration exam, which made Fleur chuckle behind her goblet. Isabella offered second servings with a proud insistence that no plate be left unfinished.
By the time dessert arrived — delicate tarte tatin with cream, alongside dark coffee for the adults — the atmosphere was glowing. Laughter had softened the edges of the earlier conversation, and the dining room felt like a hearth lit against the world's shadows.
And then, just as Eira lifted her goblet for a sip, Isabella shifted.
She pushed her chair back quietly, the sound barely noticeable over the chatter. Then, to everyone's surprise, she lowered herself onto one knee beside Emma's chair.
Eira froze, goblet halfway to her lips. Fleur blinked rapidly, unsure of what was unfolding. Emma, for her part, went still as stone.
Isabella reached into her robes and drew out a small box — velvet, deep burgundy. She opened it, revealing a simple but elegant ring, its silver band set with a single sapphire that gleamed like a captured midnight sky.
Her voice, steady yet trembling with the force of emotion, carried across the room.
"Emma Bloom," Isabella began, eyes never leaving hers, "since the day I met you, something in me changed. At first, I didn't name it. But the more time we shared, the clearer it became. I love you. I love your strength, your fire, your devotion — and the way you've made this past year one of the brightest of my life."
Emma's breath caught. Her hands, folded neatly on the table moments before, were now trembling visibly.
"I know it hasn't been long," Isabella continued softly. "One year, perhaps a little more. But this one year has meant more to me than a dozen others combined. Especially since Valentine's Day… my world feels transformed. And tonight, I don't want to wait any longer to speak it aloud."
She lifted the ring slightly, the sapphire catching the candlelight. "Will you marry me, Emma Bloom?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
Eira, so stunned, choked on the juice she had just sipped and spluttered helplessly, spraying a fine mist of it across the table. Fleur immediately reached for a handkerchief and leaned in, gently dabbing at Eira's chin with soft, tender motions.
Emma, meanwhile, stared down at Isabella, her lips parted but no sound escaping. Her eyes shimmered with shock, with disbelief, with something deeper still.
And Isabella — kneeling there, gaze steady and vulnerable — smiled faintly, waiting.