It was the 31st of August, and after a long journey—first using the pen-shaped Portkey, then arriving at the transit grounds near the great stone pavilion nestled within the garden where international and French students gathered—the students of Beauxbâtons began their final approach. From that point, they rode together in grand, glass carriages pulled by the winged, blue-white Abraxans, majestic and powerful beneath the darkening summer sky.
By the time they reached the château, night was beginning to fall, casting the marble spires of Beauxbâtons in silver hues. Eira White now sat at the table of Ombrelune House within the glittering Grand Star Hall, her posture composed, hands gently folded before her. It was the ceremonial beginning of the new school year.
To her left, she noticed something peculiar: Marin—Marin—was talking to a boy. And not just any talk. He was laughing, engaged, even animated. For the first time, Eira saw him directing his energy toward someone who wasn't a blushing girl. She raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Well, well," she murmured under her breath. "It seems he changed his target now he is after boys."
She scanned the hall for another familiar face—Fleur. But curiously, the older girl was nowhere to be seen. The absence puzzled her. Fleur Delacour wasn't one to be late, especially not for the opening night feast of course except last year when she was late. Still, Eira brushed the thought aside and turned her attention to the professors' table.
Her eyes landed on René Voclain, seated with her usual poise and grace. The older witch's features were carved in porcelain severity, but as Eira's gaze lingered, René lifted her head and met it directly. The two locked eyes across the hall. Eira didn't look away, not out of defiance, but calm resolve. If her grandmother wanted a battle of gazes, she would not find a shrinking girl before her tonight.
"Do you remember me?" came a voice from across the table.
Eira blinked and turned to face a warm, familiar smile. A girl with soft, honey-brown curls and striking hazel eyes sat across from her, dressed impeccably in Verlune blues.
"Mia Saint-Clair," Eira said, her lips curving into a smile. "Of course I remember you."
Mia grinned. "I wasn't sure. We had a few encounters last year, but then… well, you kept to yourself most of the time. I didn't want to bother you."
Eira shook her head quickly. "No, no—it wasn't that. You were two years above me, and we didn't really cross paths often. I'm sorry if I ever seemed rude. I didn't mean to be."
Mia waved a hand dismissively. "No apology needed. It was probably just a misunderstanding. Besides…" she leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice, "Congratulations. On becoming the Matriarch of the White family. And… I'm sorry for your loss. Your grandfather."
Eira's expression softened. "Thank you. That means a lot. Becoming Matriarch… it's been overwhelming at times, but I'm lucky. I have people who support me, who guide me. I don't do this alone."
There was a quiet pause, then Mia leaned even closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"So… I overheard my parents talking the other night about the Voclain family. Apparently, they have an illegitimate son? And he's connected to you somehow. Is that true?"
Eira raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "Yes. The papers in France have been wild about it, haven't they?"
"Especially about Minister Isabella Voclain," Mia added. "She's been under constant fire for not clarifying the connection between her and… what was his name again?"
"Cecil," Eira supplied flatly.
"Yes, that's it. Cecil Voclain."
Eira exhaled slowly, then explained, "After I became Matriarch, I discovered some inconsistencies in the family records. It turns out the man I believed to be my uncle—well, biologically, he can be considered… from my grandmother's side. But he was illegitimate. He holds no rightful claim to the White family, not by blood and name when he was disowned by my father ."
Mia listened intently, wide-eyed.
"The news leaked before I was ready," Eira continued. "So I had no choice but to clarify the truth publicly, in Britain. But from this point forward, it's not my affair. The rest… is up to the Voclains and their son."
Mia chuckled, half in disbelief. "You've basically uncovered one of the most scandalous secrets of the decade. Every pure-blood family in France is whispering about it, trying to find a way to use it to their advantage—especially the Trévérs."
"The Trévérs?" Eira repeated, her brows rising. "They don't get along with the Voclains?"
"Oh yes," Mia said, nodding enthusiastically. "Deep animosity—some say it goes back to blood feuds. Duels, betrayals, maybe even a separation between family branches centuries ago. There's even this old legend that one of the Trévér ancestors was a Voclain, but was cast out and founded a new house in defiance."
Eira thought to herself . 'Sounds awfully familiar. Like the White and Black family feud back in Britain.'
"So now the news about Cecil is… what, hot gossip in the noble circles?" Eira asked.
Mia nodded, her expression lighting up with the gleam of someone who adored drama. "Oh yes. It's the topic. Everyone's talking."
Their conversation was interrupted as the towering figure of Madame Olympe Maxime stepped up to the front podium. The hall fell into respectful silence.
"Welcome," she began in her deep, melodic voice, "to another year at Beauxbâtons Academy of Magic. I am delighted to see so many familiar faces… and even more thrilled to welcome our new students who are joining us this year."
A line of first-years stood nervously near the stage. At Maxime's signal, the ancient Mirror of Miroir de ľÉtoile première was brought forward—a grand, freestanding mirror framed in silver thorns and blooming roses. One by one, students stepped before it, and the mirror shimmered the star that was in the top of it with light , and light would turn to the color of the chosen house .
When the final student had been sorted and taken their seat, the mirror was quietly returned. Then, as if on cue, the music began.
Just as last year, a group of senior students stepped forward and began a formal dance. Their synchronized movements, glittering robes, and graceful turns enchanted the hall. The five-minute performance was a marvel of precision and elegance, ending in a dramatic flourish and resounding applause.
Madame Maxime smiled as she returned to the podium. "Merci to our seniors for another exquisite opening performance," she said. "It is a tradition we hold dear."
She paused, her gaze sweeping across the student body.
"Now, I trust you have all received your end-of-year marks," she continued, voice sharpening. "I've also received a number of letters from your parents. Some of them were quite dissatisfied with your results—and, predictably, blamed the school."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"But let me be clear," she said, raising her chin. "If the school were truly to blame, then all of you would have failed. But you did not. Some excelled. Others—most, perhaps—did not. It is not the school's fault if you choose to waste your year playing with gods or Merlin himself."
Her words rang through the air, stern and unapologetic.
"You must love magic. You must hunger for it. I should not have to stand here and urge you to study. If you cannot be excited about learning, what are you doing here?"
A pause. Then, with a faint smile, she added, "Now, I see many of you glaring at me with empty stomachs and very full frowns. I'll stop. For now."
The enchanted doors opened. Platters of food glided through the air and settled onto the tables—roasted duck with honey glaze, truffle soufflé, golden gratin, lavender tarts, fruit dipped in starlight sugar. Laughter returned to the hall.
Eira glanced around again. Still no sign of Fleur.
Still, she smiled and turned back to Mia. "Shall we eat?"
They continued their conversation, their voices growing quieter under the din of a hundred students, as the Grand Star Hall shimmered above them .