POV. Céline de Millefeuille
A transparent dewdrop, shimmering in the morning sun with all the colors of the rainbow, slowly slid down the velvety petal of a moon-faced orchid. The girl with beautiful light-blonde hair ran a finger over the cool, moist cup of the flower, whispering an almost inaudible nourishing incantation. The air around immediately filled with a barely perceptible silvery glow, and the orchid seemed to straighten, absorbing the magic.
Lumière de la nuit, "Night Light" — that's what she had named this hybrid, cultivated by her together with her mother three years ago. The flower was not just beautiful. Its nectar possessed amazing stabilizing properties, indispensable in complex alchemical compounds, and it required care with special tenderness, as coarse magic could destroy the fragile balance of its magical core.
Mentally returning to the recipe for a strengthening elixir she was currently developing, young Millefeuille allowed herself a momentary distraction. Today, she faced another, far less pleasant task. In a few hours, he would arrive at their estate.
The Malfoy heir… Arcturus Malfoy. The name echoed in her consciousness with a cold, metallic aftertaste. A Briton, a whole year younger than her, and possibly her potential fiancé.
Her fingers involuntarily tightened around her wand. The mere thought that her future, her life, could be exchanged for strengthening an alliance between two families made her blood pound in her temples. She was not a mindless lot at an auction! She was Céline de Millefeuille, the one who at fourteen could manage the entire greenhouse of the family estate without help, whose knowledge in Herbology made the best workers on their plantations blush. Her talent in alchemy was highly praised by many masters, and the alchemical essences she had devised at 14 were sold at Fleur de Magie with a double markup! Her true value to the family should lie not in the title of a future Madam Malfoy, but in her intellect and her gift. Grandmother Marie-Laure certainly wouldn't allow her to be sold like a pedigreed mare. And Uncle Bertrand would support her — he always said happiness was more important than contracts.
She took a deep breath, trying to still the tremor in her hands. The smell of damp earth and magical flora always calmed her. And why did they need these Malfoys…
Although, to be completely honest with herself, the question was rhetorical. Without the British raw materials and goods supplied by the Malfoys, their family, alas, would not be even half as influential and wealthy. And the roots of their lineage, if one dug deeper into the family tree, stretched back to that very "misty island." Denying it was foolish.
"Très bien, très bien…" she whispered to herself, as she did in moments of agitation. Alright, if we're thinking purely hypothetically… Let this Arcturus come. If he turns out to be even somewhat interesting to talk to, if in his eyes she sees not just a "profitable match" but an equal… then, perhaps, all of this wouldn't seem so terrifying. Why not? A union of two strong families, bolstered by personal rapport — that's not a failure, is it?
In her mind, she was already imagining showing him the greenhouse, explaining the properties of each plant. Would he see just a beautiful garden, or would he appreciate the complex magical ecosystem she had woven into every bed? Could he hold a conversation about alchemy beyond a school textbook?
She raised her wand to the stem again, ready to prune a dead leaf, but her hand trembled once more. No, she would not resign herself to this. She would not allow her fate to be decided for her. If this Englishman turned out to be a smug, limited snob, as she often imagined British aristocrats to be, she would find a way to sabotage the deal. She had enough intelligence and character. Her mother, Isabelle, valued results, and Céline would prove that her genius would bring the family far more benefit than any marriage, even the most brilliant one.
Céline gave a sharp flick of her wand, severing a dried leaf with a simple charm. No, she would not be a passive victim. She would be the one to evaluate him, not the other way around. And only she herself would make her own decision.
"On verra, mon cher britannique…" flitted through her mind, and the corners of her lips twitched with a barely noticeable, determined smile. "We shall see, my dear Briton… We shall see what you're worth."
***
POV. Arcturus Malfoy
Apparition — or rather, Portkey travel — is always unpleasant. The one-time medallion, a Portkey obtained by Father from Gringotts for a tidy sum, didn't so much transport you as rip you from reality and cram you into a new one. The sensation was akin to being put through a meat grinder and then reassembled — basically intact, but with an echo of dissociation in every cell.
Creating such portals independently was prohibited, at least in Britain. But many skilled wizards ignored this, of course. Generally, they could be ordered either from the relevant Ministry department or from Gringotts. The latter path was of higher quality and faster, but goblins always charged a higher price, a tidy sum. The difference could be up to threefold.
A moment of absolute darkness, pierced by an icy vortex, gave way to sharp, staggering light. I took a step forward, barely maintaining my balance, feeling the floor underfoot change texture from the cold marble of our manor to the polished granite of the French Ministry.
"Salle d'Arrivée Internationale," read the inscription in stone above a massive arch. The International Arrivals Hall. Everything was proper, dignified, and strictly regulated. Attempting to set a teleport anywhere other than sanctioned points was punished here as severely as in most countries. Though they would also need the ability to easily detect such attempts… but many were deterred by the mere existence of such a law. The French, like the British, zealously guarded their air and magical space. Long-distance travel was the domain of either such portals or chains of dozens of exhausting Apparitions. Another option was slower but comfortable magical means — flying carpets, brooms, carriages pulled by hippogriffs…
But the Malfoy heir had to arrive with dignity and not be worn out by the journey, especially in robes costing as much as an office clerk's annual salary. Let's be honest, when I talk about huge sums spent on such things, I mean huge for an ordinary wizard. But when your family has been accumulating far more than it spent for almost a millennium, you end up in a situation where no one can even tell you how much money you have.
The goblins would tell you, but they only hold a portion of the wealth in the form of Galleons. Thank Merlin it's only a third, but that's as it should be. Safer to store everything in several banks, of which there are more than just Gringotts, but not in Britain where goblins held a monopoly. Meanwhile, the majority of the wealth (not just money) was stored in Malfoy Manor. And even more money was in circulation and in the family's assets in the form of dozens of businesses, both magical and Muggle.
As for belongings, I only had a valise containing everything. From clothes to books, money, and all else. All that remained was to wait for Darter, who was already flying to me with a letter.
I brushed nonexistent dust from the sleeve of my new, monstrously expensive robe, feeling the Moonstrand woven into it pulse softly with magic, all while trying to recover from the Portkey's effects. Before I could survey the hall to get my bearings, a man approached me.
He was dressed not with ostentatious pomp, which I sometimes saw among Father's guests, but with a careless yet impeccable elegance. His cloak was of a simple cut but made from fabric that, to the eye, cost as much as a Ministry clerk's annual salary. His face was lit not by business-like sharpness but by a good-natured, open smile.
"Monsieur Arcturus Malfoy?" he said in fluent English with a melodic accent. "I am Bertrand de Millefeuille. Delighted to welcome you to France."
Note: From this point, Bertrand suggests switching to French, and the conversation continues in that language. For narrative clarity, the dialogue will be presented in English.
"Delighted to meet you, Monsieur Bertrand," I replied, switching to French as he had. "I hope my stay will not cause any trouble for your highly esteemed family."
"What a well-mannered young man!" he exclaimed in French, waving his hand as if brushing off a compliment. "But we are in France! I would be delighted if we continued in French. Your father wrote that you are fluent in the language. For my part, I will spare you my dreadful accent."
This was a subtle play of courtesy, and I engaged. "I would call it charming rather than dreadful," I parried in French. "And, of course, I don't mind. I actually need to refresh my French."
After that, we began speaking entirely in French, and I didn't even realize how quickly I adapted.
"Perfect!" His face lit up with genuine joy. "Then let's not waste time. Using the public Floo network to reach the estate is, alas, impossible," Bertrand explained, offering me his arm. "The protections, you understand. Family ones. But the journey won't take long."
By the way, I bypassed the registration desk — as someone arriving via the highest diplomatic channels, I didn't need to go through any customs checks, as all that had been arranged beforehand.
I nodded, accepting his arm. The first jump was short, to some inner courtyard clearly designated for travelers. The second jump was longer, and I already felt the air change — it became cleaner, smelling of pine and damp earth. We were standing on the outskirts of a small, well-kept village.
"And the final leap," Bertrand smiled. "Allons-y!"
The third and final jump ejected us from reality with a soft click. And now, we weren't in a dusty courtyard but at the edge of a perfectly maintained gravel path.
And I froze, allowing myself for a moment to lose the mask of perfect control.
The path led to massive yet elegant gates, beyond which the outlines of a majestic, light-colored manor — the Millefeuille Manor — could be seen. But that wasn't what struck me most. I turned around.
The landscape that opened before me was worthy of a master's brush. The road we stood on was just one of many, snaking away into the distance across hilly terrain. For miles around stretched vineyards, neat groves, and manicured parks. And in the distance, in the rays of the setting sun, other estates were visible. Some resembled castles, others more modern villas. All were surrounded by their own lands and clearly demarcated by invisible magical barriers.
Yes, this was a district where the magical aristocracy of France built their nests. Just as in Britain, there were valleys hidden from Muggles. Only here… there was more sun and more space. And it all breathed not of mystical Gothic, like Black House or our ancestral home, but something Romanesque, serene, and majestic.
"Voilà," Bertrand said softly, following my gaze. "Our modest home. Welcome, Arcturus."
"Modest." Of course. I chuckled inwardly, feeling the familiar cocktail of ambition and rivalry bubbling in my chest. They seemed to be doing quite well for themselves. Although they shared the magical source with neighboring mansions, the source was enormous, so I saw no problem there, but I felt the elevated magical background perfectly.
"It is magnificent, Monsieur de Millefeuille," I said, and this time my voice held genuine, respectful admiration. "Truly magnificent."
Bertrand led me through the gates, which opened soundlessly before us, and we found ourselves on the estate grounds. The path, strewn with fine white gravel, led to an elegant three-story mansion of light stone. As I had already noticed, unlike the somewhat gloomy Gothic of Malfoy Manor, everything here breathed light and harmony — tall windows, rose-covered balconies, symmetrical flowerbeds with magical plants pulsating with a soft glow. To be honest, I didn't recognize even half of these flowers and plants, but they were beautiful and looked harmonious.
"The family awaits you in the main drawing room," Bertrand informed me as the doors to the mansion swung open before us.
I took a deep breath, straightened my back, and crossed the threshold.
The spacious hall was bathed in warm evening light streaming from tall arched windows. The air was scented with the aroma of freshly cut flowers and something sweet — perhaps pastries. And in the center of this exquisite setting, the Millefeuille family awaited me.
My gaze swept over the assembled group, quickly matching them to the images from Father's stories. All eyes were on me, but not a single muscle twitched on my face. My expression remained impassive and polite.
Bertrand stepped forward, playing the role of master of ceremonies.
"Allow me to present our guest from Great Britain," his voice sounded solemn. "Monsieur Arcturus-Corvus Armand Malfoy."
I made a flawless, respectful half-bow, as Mother had taught me — deep enough to show respect but not so deep as to demonstrate subservience.
"Allow me to introduce my father, Alain de Millefeuille," Bertrand gestured toward the old aristocrat seated in a chair by the fireplace.
Old Alain, as Father referred to him. His piercing blue eyes seemed to see right through me, and his hair was completely white, a gift of age. He didn't smile, merely gave a slight nod in response to my bow, assessing every feature of my face and every fold of my robe.
"Monsieur le lord," I addressed him, using his title. My French pronunciation was passable, though I felt myself choosing the most neutral and correct inflection. "It is a great honor for me to stay in your home."
Lord Millefeuille remained silent, only his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his chair.
"My aunt, Marie-Laure," Bertrand continued, presenting an old lady with a cane, whose gaze was as sharp as her brother's.
"Madame," I inclined my head again, meeting her scrutinizing gaze. She muttered something under her breath in French, too fast for my ear, but I caught the word "Malfoy" and "Angleterre," spoken with a slight grimace. I wasn't even sure who was older — Dumbledore or this old woman.
Then it was the children's turn. Bertrand beckoned them with a gesture.
"My nephews and nieces, Frédéric," he indicated a tall, serious young man who looked at me with unconcealed suspicion. The guy nodded, but with an air of doing a favor. My presence clearly displeased him. Well, noted.
"Enchanté, Frédéric," I said.
"And my niece, Céline…" Bertrand's voice softened as he presented the girl standing next to Frédéric.
She was tall for her age, with a slender figure. Contrary to my expectation of seeing a brunette, her hair was light blonde and fell in soft waves to her shoulders. They looked so soft I involuntarily thought of silk. But the main feature was her eyes — large and bright blue, like a summer sky over Provence. They held none of the hostility Frédéric's did, nor any naivety. Only pure, calm curiosity and a bright, penetrating gaze. She studied me with the same interest with which I studied her. As an equal.
"Mademoiselle," I inclined my head slightly in her direction, a touch more gallantly than usual. "Everyone speaks of your extraordinary talents. I look forward to learning more about them."
My French, though honed by years of study, showed a slight crack — I stumbled slightly on the word "extraordinaires," and my accent made it worse, which was undoubtedly unfortunate.
The shadow of a smile flickered on her lips — not mocking, but rather, understanding.
"You are too kind, Monsieur Malfoy," her voice was quiet, but soft and pleasantly murmuring, melodious, like a stream. "I hope your stay among us will be pleasant."
It was standard politeness, but spoken without obsequiousness.
Bertrand introduced the others.
"Louis, my eldest son." Bertrand presented his firstborn, a boy of about sixteen. He smiled openly and friendly, unlike that Frédéric. Bertrand also had a daughter and a younger son: Émilie, who smiled shyly, and Antoine, who looked at me with unconcealed childish curiosity. I exchanged a nod and a brief "Enchanté" with each.
"My sister, Isabelle, and her husband, Jean-Luc, will join you for dinner," Bertrand concluded.
The "ceremony" of introduction was complete. I stood in the center of this circle of people — strangers, evaluating my every move. I felt the weight of their gazes, the pressure of their expectations, and yet… for some reason, I was absolutely calm.
Not only was I not nervous, but I felt a thrill. This was a new game board, and I intended to learn all its rules and every piece on it. Especially one — with beautiful hair and intelligent eyes, who looked at me not as a guest, but as an interesting riddle to be solved. The feeling was mutual.