At the White Manor in London, the morning sun streamed through the tall glass dome of the Atrium, casting golden rays across the polished marble floor. Eira stood at the center, composed and poised, facing Emma, who held a thick, leather-bound book embossed with the White family crest.
"My lady," Emma said, her tone respectful yet firm, "this book has been charmed to function as a Portkey. It will take you directly to the Parisian White Manor."
Eira raised a brow, folding her arms across her chest. "Have you verified this with the French Ministry of Magic?"
"I have," Emma replied with a nod. "There are no restrictions. You may travel freely."
Eira exhaled lightly. "Good. I'll use it now."
She stepped forward, brushing her fingers over the worn spine of the book. Then, her gaze flickered back to Emma. "You'll remain here. If anything arises—any emergency, any questions—you may contact me. Or come to me in France, if necessary. But be cautious. The pure-blood circles will be watching you closely. They'll try to draw you in, manipulate you."
Emma straightened her shoulders, understanding the weight behind Eira's words.
"I trust you, Emma. Britain is yours to oversee for now. I'll manage France."
Emma bowed deeply. "As you wish, my lady. I'll be awaiting your summons. And please… take care. If anything happens, call for Lolly. Since she'll be with you, she can reach you in an instant."
Eira gave a small nod of gratitude. With a whispered incantation, she opened the book. A sudden pull seized her navel, and in a swirl of magic and wind, she vanished from the Atrium.
In the next heartbeat, she reappeared with a crack inside the grand auditorium of the White Manor in Paris.
The air was thick with the familiar scent of old oak and magic. The manor stood unchanged—its elegance frozen in time. Hidden in the heart of Paris, nestled between unsuspecting Muggle structures, it remained a fortress of history and power.
Eira took a slow step forward, her shoes echoing across the polished floor. At that moment, a pop! sounded, and Lolly, her loyal house-elf, appeared beside her.
"Welcome to Paris, my lady!" Lolly squeaked, beaming with pride.
Eira smiled. "So, you arrived before me, didn't you?"
Lolly's large eyes shone. "Yes, my lady! Lolly came two days ago. Lolly was eager to clean and prepare everything for your arrival!"
"Well, you've done a wonderful job," Eira said, patting her gently on the head.
The house-elf's ears twitched in delight as she murmured repeatedly, "My lady thanked Lolly… my lady thanked Lolly…"
Leaving Lolly to her happy chant, Eira walked down the long hallway and paused before a tall, oak door. It had not been opened since her grandfather Elijah's passing. Slowly, she pushed it open and entered his old study.
The room smelled faintly of parchment and tobacco. Everything remained untouched—the shelves lined with books in Latin, the heavy curtains drawn just so, and the worn leather chair behind the grand desk.
Eira crossed the room and settled into the seat once occupied by the former Lord White. She sat in silence for a moment, letting her thoughts drift.
Lolly reappeared at the door. "Would my lady like something to drink?"
"Something cold," Eira replied. "Juice, perhaps."
"Right away, my lady!" Lolly vanished with another pop.
Eira leaned back and exhaled. She had nearly twenty days before Beauxbatons resumed. With time to spare, her mind wandered—until she recalled a promise.
Fleur.
They had vowed to explore Paris together, to walk its cobbled streets like carefree girls before school pulled them into another year of responsibility.
Eira chuckled to herself. "Let's go on a date, then," she murmured.
The moment the word date escaped her lips, her cheeks flushed. "It's not a date," she scolded herself, pressing her palm to her face. "Calm down, Eira…"
Resolving to send Fleur a proper invitation, she retrieved parchment and began writing. Moments later, Lolly returned with a chilled glass of mango juice.
"Send this letter to the Delacour family," Eira instructed. "For Fleur. Personally."
"Of course, my lady!" Lolly chirped. "Lolly will use the fastest owl!"
After Eira had taken a sip of the perfectly chilled drink, Lolly disappeared again. The juice was sweet, refreshing, a welcome contrast to the summer warmth that filled the room.
When Lolly returned, she bowed. "The letter has been sent with the swiftest owl available in France."
Eira nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, I need you to go out and purchase some Muggle clothes. Especially hats."
"Hats, my lady?" Lolly tilted her head in confusion.
"Yes. Muggle hats. All kinds. I'll pick what I need later."
"As you wish, my lady!" Lolly squeaked and vanished to fulfill the errand.
In her letter to Fleur, Eira had proposed a meeting—two days from now, near the Eiffel Tower, at ten in the morning. She had suggested meeting at the manor, but Fleur, ever independent, insisted she'd come alone.
⸻
Two days later, the Eiffel Tower loomed overhead, gleaming beneath the late morning sun. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the streets of Paris buzzed with life. Tourists strolled about, snapping photos, laughing, eating crepes from corner carts.
Eira sat on a bench nearby, dressed subtly in Muggle fashion—a crisp white blouse, beige trousers, and a vivid red hat that shielded her from the sun and concealed her from curious eyes. Her short white hair was tucked neatly beneath the brim.
She glanced at her wristwatch. Ten twenty. Fleur was late—but not unreasonably so.
As she waited, she watched the people pass. A pair of American tourists argued over a map. A violinist played a gentle tune nearby. And then—
Noise.
A stir rose among the crowd to her left. Shouts. Whispers. Camera clicks.
Eira stood slowly, turning toward the commotion. A dense group of people had gathered at the plaza entrance. At its center, radiant and unmistakable, walked Fleur Delacour.
Even in Muggle clothes, the Veela's beauty blazed like moonlight on still water. Her silver-blonde hair flowed freely behind her, and her eyes sparkled like sapphires under the sun. Men and women alike were drawn to her, their awe veering dangerously close to hunger.
Eira sighed.
"This idiot," she muttered. "She could've at least worn a glamour charm."
As she stepped toward the crowd, Fleur caught sight of her and waved cheerfully—completely unfazed by the attention.