"Let's go," Fleur said, brushing her hair behind her ear as the warm afternoon sun dipped over the cobblestone street. "It's getting late, and we should head back to Beauxbatons. If Madame Maxime finds out we wandered off into the Muggle world, she'll have our heads for it."
Eira gave a faint smile. "Alright… Where should we use the Portkey?"
Fleur glanced around with a sly grin. "Somewhere private. Come on."
They made their way into a quiet women's restroom tucked away at the edge of the marketplace. Once inside, Fleur took the small, silver Portkey from her coat pocket. She turned to Eira, her expression softening. Without a word, she pulled her into a tight hug.
"Hold on," Fleur whispered. "We're going back now."
Eira nodded, and together they vanished in a flash of elastic magic, sucked through space as the Portkey activated.
They landed with a gentle thump in one of Beauxbatons' designated Portkey rooms—an elegantly tiled chamber lined with old arcane symbols and wards for travel safety. As the shimmer of travel faded, the girls stepped out into the familiar air of Château Beauxbatons .
Fleur inhaled deeply, stretching her arms. "It's good to be back."
Eira raised an eyebrow, half amused. "Oh? And here I thought I was the one enjoying our little field trip."
Fleur giggled. "I did love it. But nowhere compares to this place." She gestured to the castle rising in the distance, its graceful towers glowing in the afternoon light. "This is still home."
"Sure, sure. Whatever you say, Miss wolf ," Eira teased.
"Come on," Fleur grinned. "Let's go see Madame Maxime before she sends out the search dragons."
They ascended the spiral stairs leading to the rooftop garden of Beauxbatons, where Madame Maxime's office stood overlooking the rolling lavender hills. The girls knocked on her door, and a smooth, accented voice responded, "Entrez."
Inside, Madame Maxime sat at her elegant desk, much like she had that morning. She gave them a warm, measured smile. "It's good to have you back, girls. I am delighted that you're safe."
"Thank you, Madame Maxime," Eira said respectfully. "For the information—and for the opportunity."
The headmistress inclined her head. "That was all arranged by your grandfather. I merely facilitated it." Her gaze shifted to Fleur. "Hand me the Portkey, dear."
Fleur complied, placing the small object in Maxime's waiting hand. The headmistress glanced at the ornate watch on her wrist. "The hearing ended at eleven. It is now four o'clock. Where exactly were you in those missing hours?"
Eira stiffened slightly, then gave in with a sheepish smile. "We… wandered a bit in the Muggle world."
Madame Maxime narrowed her eyes, but her tone remained composed. "I won't scold you this time. But next time, be more discreet—and do not wear Muggle clothing in this school."
Only then did the girls glance at each other, realizing they were still dressed in modern jeans and coats from London. They both let out awkward laughs.
"Yes, Madame Maxime," they chorused.
With that, they were dismissed. As they walked down the stairs, back into the grandeur of Beauxbatons, Eira turned to Fleur. "Thank you. For today."
Fleur smiled, brushing her shoulder against Eira's. "Anytime. Honestly, I really enjoyed it—especially seeing those old wizards bickering like goblins at a gold auction." She laughed. "If you're planning something like that again, count me in."
"I will," Eira promised. "Definitely."
They entered the Ombrelune common hall. Fleur stretched, yawning. "I'm heading straight to bed. Woke up way too early, and all that walking in London? I'm beat."
"Go on, rest," Eira said with a nod. "I'll shower, then sleep too."
They parted ways, and Eira climbed up to her dorm. After a refreshing shower, she returned to her room, slipped under the soft blankets, and drifted into a deep sleep.
⸻
Meanwhile, in the Scottish Highlands…
In the high towers of Hogwarts, the soft rustle of parchment and the crackle of the fireplace filled the Headmaster's Office. Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, reading the latest edition of The Daily Prophet.
On the front page, bold letters read:
"The Youngest Member of the White family—Who Is She?"
Beneath the headline was a photo of Eira standing tall among the ancient lords of Wizengamot, her gaze unwavering in the courtroom.
Dumbledore placed the paper down slowly, stroking his beard in thought.
From the wall, one of the oil portraits stirred—an elderly man with sharp features and proud eyes: Phineas Nigellus Black.
"So," Phineas drawled, "they're crafting her public image now. These praises, these glowing words—they're shaping her into the next great face of that family."
"Elijah White wants her to rise," Dumbledore murmured. "And for her to lead, she needs legitimacy. Reputation. This hearing was his stage."
Phineas scoffed. "Typical White family tactic. Dressing ambition as nobility."
Dumbledore arched an eyebrow. "Without her, your family's estate would have been carved up and sold to your enemies. You could at least show gratitude."
Phineas bristled, falling silent. A few other portraits chuckled.
"What's wrong, Phineas?" cackled an older witch from the Rosier frame. "Tongue tied now that a White heiress saved the House of Black?"
"I may despise their line," Phineas muttered, "but I'm no ingrate. If she saved my family's name—then… I acknowledge it."
He looked directly at Dumbledore. "But Albus… can't you do something? Sirius—my descendant—is still rotting in that cursed place. Can't you get the Ministry to release him?"
Dumbledore's expression darkened. "I wish I could. But his imprisonment isn't just legal—it's political. Many families who profited from the Black vaults will never allow his return. They fear what he represents."
Phineas growled. "They once begged for our gold—licked our boots for our favor. Now they feast on what remains of us."
The room grew somber. A portrait of Headmistress Elisha White—regal in her silver robes—spoke at last. "Your downfall was your arrogance, Phineas. You brought ruin upon your own name."
Phineas shot back, "Don't lecture me, Elisha. Your family is one girl away from extinction. Once she marries, your line ends."
Elisha only smiled — a quiet, knowing smile — for she understood the truth about her family. They had faced such events before, and it was nothing new for them to have an heiress among their long years of existence .
Dumbledore stood, pacing slightly as he glanced again at the newspaper. From another frame, Armando Dippet who was his predecessor cleared his throat.
"Albus," he said, "have you discovered the rest of the prophecy? The second child… the one born of snow?"
Dumbledore paused. "I believe I've found a clue. But I need time to confirm it."
Dippet leaned forward. "Who do you think it is?"
Dumbledore turned toward the castle window, watching the wind whip through the trees. "If fate permits… we'll know when they come to Hogwarts."
Just then, the door opened. Professor McGonagall strode in, her tartan robes sweeping behind her.
"Albus, I'd like to request a new broomstick."
"For whom?" Dumbledore asked, amused.
She smiled excitedly. "Harry Potter. During flying class today, he caught a memory ball like a born Seeker. I've already signed him onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team."
"Then by all means," Dumbledore chuckled, "get him the best we have."
As McGonagall exited, she muttered gleefully to herself, "Finally, Gryffindor will crush the Slytherins this year."
Dumbledore let out a soft laugh and turned back to the to the Daily Prophet.observing Eira's picture.