Today, Eira walked alongside her grandfather through the majestic corridors of the French Ministry of Magic. The air was cool and tinged with the scent of old perfume and spell-dusted stone. She wore a formal, slate-blue robe tailored to perfection, the subtle shimmer of silver embroidery catching the flickering torchlight. Her hair was pinned up neatly, a few loose strands curled artfully against her cheeks.
As before, that morning in the Ombrelune dormitory, Eira was woken by a knock at the door. When she stepped outside, she was surprised to find Madame Maxime waiting for her. The Headmistress informed her that a letter had arrived from her grandfather, requesting Eira's presence at the French Ministry of Magic. She was instructed to dress in her formal attire and use Madame Maxime's Floo Network connection from her office to travel directly to the Ministry, where her grandfather would be waiting.
For she was to accompany her grandfather to a formal diplomatic meeting between the French and British Ministries of Magic. The British Minister himself, Cornelius Fudge, had arrived with a full delegation.
As she made her way back through the towering halls of the Ministry, Eira allowed herself a moment to observe. The French Ministry of Magic, hidden beneath the Place de la Concorde, was unlike anything she had ever seen.
When she stepped through the grand enchanted doors, a wave of shimmering energy rolled over her skin—the wards recognizing her wand's signature. The entrance hall unfolded like a vision from a storybook: marble floors inlaid with gold and silver runes pulsed gently under her feet, each step resonating with protective enchantments laid down over centuries. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, painted with a living mural of a star-flecked sky. The constellations shimmered and moved slowly, as if drifting across the heavens in real time, casting an otherworldly glow across the atrium.
She wove through the crowd of robed witches and wizards, their voices blending into a gentle murmur laced with the hum of magic. To her left, a long row of ornate fireplaces flared intermittently with emerald-green Floo flames, flashing bursts of light and gusts of fire announcing the arrival and departure of Ministry personnel.
A subtle lavender fragrance drifted from a bouquet of enchanted blooms floating above the central reception desk. The petals swirled gently in the air, never touching the ground. At the desk, a sleek, silver-feathered quill wrote swiftly across a ledger that glowed faintly with each new name. Portraits of former French Ministers adorned the high walls, their figures occasionally shifting, nodding, or arguing quietly among themselves.
One of the portraits—a regal witch with sharply arched brows and a pointed hat—paused mid-page in her book to glance down at Eira and remarked with a touch of haughtiness, "Elegant standards, my dear," before returning to her reading.
Eira allowed herself a small smile before stepping into the lift beside her grandfather. The golden grille doors slid shut with a gentle chime.
"Niveau Sept — Salle de conférence diplomatique," announced a crisp, disembodied voice.
As the lift descended, Eira caught her reflection in the polished brass walls: eyes calm but curious, her expression sharpened by the knowledge that this meeting marked a turning point. The French Ministry pulsed with a deep, refined magic, so unlike the austere corridors of the British Ministry. Still, she had to admit—while Britain's Ministry was older, its hidden chambers, like the Department of Mysteries, housed far older secrets than any other magical institution.
Beside her, Elijah White broke the silence. His voice was steady, but his eyes flickered with the weight of history.
"Today is an important one," he said. "This meeting between Minister Fudge and the French Minister—well, it's been in the making for a long time. You remember, last year Minister Fudge personally requested I initiate talks. Since the last decade, the British Ministry's been preoccupied—dealing with the aftermath of the war, hunting down the Dark Lord's remaining followers. France, understandably, distanced themselves. Their Ministry cut all formal ties out of caution. They didn't want to attract His wrath."
Eira nodded slowly. "It makes sense. The French Ministry isn't just cautious—it's strategic. And there are families with ties across both countries, right? Like the Lestranges… There's a branch of them that lives here too."
"Exactly," Elijah replied. "That's why the French took no chances. Their last encounter with Grindelwald didn't end well. Since then, they've had a firm policy—if a country is under threat from a dark power, they seal the borders magically, politically, and diplomatically."
As they arrived at the conference level, two French officials stood by the great oak doors, adorned with golden runes. Upon seeing Elijah, they gave a slight bow and spoke in fluent French, "Please enter. The British delegation is already inside. The French Minister will join you shortly."
Elijah nodded and ushered Eira through.
Inside, the room was stately, panelled in dark wood with floating globes of soft golden light. A long table of polished mahogany sat at its center, where several members of the British delegation were already seated. At the head, Cornelius Fudge stood the moment he saw Elijah.
"Ah! Lord White!" Fudge beamed, crossing the room with open arms. His green bowler hat sat askew on his thinning hair, but his smile was warm and full of his usual bluster. "A pleasure to see you again, sir!"
Elijah shook his hand with polite formality.
Fudge's eyes turned to Eira. "And Miss White, it's lovely to see you as well. I was truly troubled when I heard about your… ordeal last year. When the news of your kidnapping reached me, I sent orders immediately to the Aurors to search every corner of Britain."
Eira gave him a graceful curtsey. "Thank you for your concern, Minister. It was… a misunderstanding. But I'm perfectly well now."
"Good, good! Just glad to see you safe," Fudge replied quickly, then motioned toward the seats. "Please, come—join us."
As they took their places, Fudge leaned toward Elijah. "I must thank you again for organizing this. Rebuilding ties with France is… delicate. These French wizards—well, between you and me, they've always been a bit quick to retreat. We asked for help during the war, and they offered nothing. Left us to fend off You-Know-Who on our own."
Elijah raised a hand subtly. "Minister, perhaps it's best we tread carefully with our words. We are in the heart of their Ministry, after all."
Fudge blinked and glanced around, then chuckled awkwardly. "Ah—yes, of course. You're right. Just venting. I only came because it's necessary, you see. Rebuilding trust, cooperation—it's in Britain's best interest. If it weren't, I wouldn't be here, dealing with these… proud people."
Before Elijah could respond, the doors to the chamber opened again with a soft creak.
All eyes turned.
Five figures entered, cloaked in the elegant, midnight-black robes of the French Ministry. At their forefront walked a tall witch—poised, dignified, and strikingly beautiful. She looked to be in her late thirties, perhaps early forties. Her robes flowed like ink as she walked, her heels echoing softly across the floor.
Eira froze.
Something about the woman's face stirred a flicker of memory—sharp, vivid, and impossible to place. There was something hauntingly familiar in her eyes, something in the high cheekbones and the curve of her mouth. She had seen that face—or one like it—before.
The woman's gaze swept the room, unreadable. She did not smile.
Eira narrowed her eyes slightly, mind already turning.
Where had she seen that face before?