Golden sunlight spilled through the arched windows of the Ombrelune dormitory, casting long beams across the cool stone floor. It glinted softly against the enchanted silver threads woven into the deep blue curtains, making them shimmer like starlight in motion. Beneath the weight of her velvet covers, Eira stirred, the muffled footsteps and low voices of waking students echoing faintly through the corridor beyond.
She blinked slowly, then sat up. Her white hair fell over her ears in a loose braid, tangled slightly from the night. A moment passed before she slid out of bed and pulled her robe over her nightdress, padding softly across the stone floor.
The corridor outside the second-year girls' dormitory was quite lively this early in the morning as students were preparing for their first day , the air cool and smelling faintly of lavender and soap. Ombrelune's private washrooms were lined in deep indigo tiles, moonlit silver accents gleaming from the enchanted sconces that lined the walls. Eira reached for a towel and her satchel of bathing supplies, then chose one of the polished doors.
She locked it behind her and let the steam rise as she stepped into the marble-tiled shower stall. The water was warm and refreshing, cascading over her back in silken threads. She let herself linger, inhaling deeply, allowing the familiarity of the school and its rituals to settle back into her bones. For all the chaos of the summer, the scandal, the politics, the drama—Beauxbâtons was still, somehow, a sanctuary.
After drying off and dressing in her uniform—pressed robes of deep blue , silver accents at the collar—she descended the spiral staircase to the Ombrelune's common hall. The morning haze was just beginning to lift outside the stained-glass windows. A few students were already gathered in the dormitory's dining hall, seated at the long table that ran parallel to the hearth. She spotted Mia, already halfway through a slice of brioche, and nodded to her as she joined.
"Morning," Mia mumbled around a mouthful of jam and bread. "Did you see the timetable yet?"
Eira raised an eyebrow. "They're handing them out already?"
As if summoned, the prefect of Ombrelune an older girl with glossy black curls and a no-nonsense expression—stepped forward from the end of the table and began distributing neatly folded pieces of parchment.
"To all second-years," she called. "This is your full academic schedule for the first semester. Do not lose it."
Eira accepted hers with a nod of thanks and unfolded it. Her eyes scanned quickly over the list of subjects. Charms, Magical History, Magical Etiquette … and—
"Potions," she murmured, lips twitching. "First class of the year."
Mia leaned over to look. "Again? Same as last year , our grade is also the same."
Eira folded the schedule and tucked it into her bag. "Seems we're creatures of habit."
She finished her light breakfast a coffee with half a croissant, and slices of fresh peach—then rose as the bell echoed faintly from the central tower. The first class of the day was about to begin.
⸻
The Potions classroom lay beneath the west wing of the Château, carved into the ancient stone and lit by softly flickering blue flames. The scent of old brews clung to the air—rosemary, asphodel, dried lavender and a hint of burned sage. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars, powdered roots, and peculiar things suspended in potion-filled vials.
Professor René Voclain stood at the head of the room when Eira entered. Her black obsidian hair was swept into an elegant twist, her robes a sophisticated grey-blue, embroidered with fine runes at the cuffs. Her expression was unreadable.
"Take your seats," she said coolly, her voice composed. "We begin promptly."
Eira moved to one of the front tables and set down her satchel. Marin joined her, whispering something about not remembering how to prepare valerian roots. Eira smirked quietly but said nothing. Her eyes flicked toward her grandmother only once.
When the students had settled, Professor Voclain stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the polished flagstone.
"Today," she began, "we are brewing the Draught of Dreamless Sleep. A foundational sleeping potion, known for its smooth consistency, soft lavender hue, and subtle scent. It is often used in medical settings to grant uninterrupted rest without inducing addiction or clouded memory. A true potion of peace of course when done correctly."
She paused letting her words settle.
"But a mistake," she continued, "can lead to anything from temporary unconsciousness to extended magical comas. So do listen well."
With a flick of her wand, ingredients appeared at the front of the room in hovering trays.
"Instructions are on the board. Read them carefully. If you value your limbs and your grades then you will proceed with discipline."
A faint chuckle passed through the classroom, but Eira's quill was already scratching down notes. She read the board carefully:
Draught of Dreamless Sleep
• 4 drops Essence of Chamomile
• 3 crushed Valerian roots
• 2 pinches powdered Moonflower
• 1 crushed lavender bulb
• Simmer in clockwise motion, low flame, 15 minutes.
• Stir once counter-clockwise every 5 minutes.
Eira began methodically. She measured out the essence of chamomile and let the golden liquid drip into her cauldron with surgical precision. The soft perfume it released mingled with the dry, sweet scent of valerian. Her hands were steady, deliberate. This was where she felt most herself—in precision, in focus and in creation.
As she crushed the valerian roots, she heard Professor Voclain move slowly between the tables, her eyes sharp as she assessed her students' progress.
"Too coarse," she murmured to one boy, then to another, "You've added the moonflower too early. Start over."
At Eira's table, her grandmother paused. For a long moment, she said nothing. Her gaze swept over the pale lavender simmer beginning to form in Eira's cauldron—soft and viscous, like clouded silk. Then she moved on, silent.
Eira looked at her work of art and she was satisfied .
The final ingredients fell into place. Lavender bulb—crushed, not chopped. A fine powder of moonflower, pale and glowing faintly in the dim light. She stirred carefully—clockwise, watching the swirl, then a single counter-clockwise stir at the five-minute mark.
The potion shifted colors—first from pale violet, then darkened slightly to a muted dusk-lilac, the ideal tone.
At the fifteen-minute mark, Eira lowered the flame and allowed it to rest. The classroom was quiet, except for the soft hiss of flames and the clinks of glass stirring rods against cauldron rims.
"Time," said Professor Voclain at last. "Stand back."
With a flick of her wand, the cauldrons ceased their simmering. Another wave, and small crystal vials hovered before each student.
"Decant your potions. Bring them to my desk. I will examine each one."
Marin's hands were trembling slightly as he poured. His potion was closer to ash-grey than lilac, and his grimace made it clear he knew it wasn't ideal.
Eira's, by contrast, poured like silk into the vial—smooth, gleaming, and perfectly scented. No cloudiness. No residue. Just soft lavender sleep in a bottle.
She stepped forward and placed it on the professor's desk.
René Voclain picked it up, held it to the light, turned it slowly. Her face remained impassive.
Then, softly, she spoke. "Consistent viscosity. Correct hue. Temperature—held well. No impurities. A textbook result."
Eira gave a slight bow of acknowledgment, then returned to her seat. The other students whispered quietly—some impressed, others envious. Marin gave her a subtle thumbs up, to which Eira offered a small smile.
After reviewing each vial, Professor Voclain returned to the front.
"As expected," she said, "some of you have excelled. Others… less so. But the art of potion-making is not merely magic—it is patience. It is precision. If you lack either, you will never be more than a mediocre brewer."
Her gaze briefly flicked toward Eira, though she said nothing further.
"You may go. Homework—one parchment scroll describing the medicinal applications of the Draught of Dreamless Sleep, due next week. You are dismissed."
Chairs scraped gently back. Students began collecting their bags, whispering about their results.
As Eira packed away her books, she noticed her grandmother still standing behind the desk, reading something—perhaps a parchment, perhaps nothing at all.
The silence between them, a remnant of their last meeting, stretched on unbroken.