A week had passed since the golden warmth of the Halloween feast, and the last of the autumn leaves had begun to fall, blanketing the sprawling grounds of Beauxbâtons in a crisp tapestry of amber and rust. The air had turned sharper, cooler charged with the quiet hush that often came before the first snowfall. But in a hidden corner of the château's vast gardens, well beyond the reach of curious eyes and bustling students, Eira was not resting.
She stood alone in the clearing behind the northern hedge wall, where the old marble fountain had long stopped working and ivy curled like fingers up its cracked sides. This part of the garden was seldom visited. The statues here had faces worn by time and weather, and the trees leaned in close, casting dappled shadows on the mossy ground.
It was here that Eira came when she needed silence. Not peace but silence. There was a difference.
She stood with her feet planted shoulder-width apart, wand gripped firmly in her right hand, her left arm slightly raised for balance. Her white hair was tied tightly back, and her robes were pinned at the sleeves so nothing could disrupt her form. Her breathing was calm. Focused.
She raised her wand.
"Confringo."
The explosive spell shot from her wand in a tight, controlled beam of orange light. It struck a conjured stone dummy she had summoned earlier—an approximation of a human figure made of solid granite.
The spell struck it square in the chest. The stone cracked, but only slightly.
Too shallow.
Eira lowered her wand, exhaled through her nose, and took three steps back.
"Again," she muttered to herself.
She reset her stance, corrected the angle of her feet. Her shoulders had been tilted. She could feel it now—the imbalance in her spine, the way her wand arm had tensed just before casting. She visualized the flow of energy—not just from the wand, but from her core. It was like channeling lightning through her very bones.
"Confringo!"
This time, the spell flew with sharper velocity, and the dummy's chest exploded into a spray of rubble and dust.
Eira shielded her face with her forearm, then slowly lowered it, satisfaction flickering across her face. The sound of broken stone echoed through the garden and quickly faded into the whispering leaves.
She walked forward, examining the damage.
"Better," she murmured. "Still a fraction too high. Draw down your wrist sooner."
She conjured a new target—another stone form, this one taller, more angular. With a swift motion of her wand, she repaired the debris and cleared the field. Every part of this was ritual. Purposeful.
Over the past year, her power had grown—but Eira understood something that most young witches and wizards often forgot: power without control was nothing. Worse than nothing—it was dangerous.
So she trained.
Every step, every flick of her wand, every incantation was deliberate. If others danced with magic, Eira shaped it like a blade.
"Reducto."
The target splintered at the knee, collapsing inward.
"Expulso."
A blast of concussive force followed, rolling through the air with a sharp crack that sent birds scattering from the trees overhead.
Eira didn't flinch. She stood firm, letting the pulse of energy pass through her, absorbing the recoil, adjusting for it.
She paused.
Her brow furrowed.
Then, she took a few steps back again and began moving her body through the motions without casting—wand raised, arm extended, stepping forward, then pivoting her heel into a back stance. She repeated it, over and over. Flow. Footwork. Focus.
"You're letting your weight sit on the outside edge again," she muttered to herself. "Shift inward. Knees soft."
It was a strange kind of discipline—something she'd built for herself, not taught by any curriculum or textbook. When most of her peers studied for exams or practiced dueling only in class, Eira carved out her own time, her own space. She wasn't interested in flashy spellwork for show. She wanted precision and mastery.
She conjured a new target, this one animated—an enchanted suit of armor with the face of Cecil , charmed to move unpredictably, to strike back with dull practice bolts of magic.
As soon as it stirred to life, Eira was ready.
"Protego!" she shouted, deflecting its first bolt.
She pivoted.
"Incarcerous!"
Ropes surged forward—but the armor cut through them with a spinning blade it conjured in return.
She sidestepped, eyes narrowing.
"Stupefy!"
The stunning spell shot cleanly, struck its shoulder, but it powered through.
She needed to hit the center of mass—timed correctly.
The armor with Cecil's face lunged again.
Eira ducked low, rolled, and as she rose to her feet—
"Bombarda Maxima!"
The explosion was massive.
The animated armor with Cecil's face burst apart in a flare of magical light, pieces flying backward and clattering against the garden wall.
Silence followed.
Leaves drifted down slowly, one brushing her cheek.
Eira let out a slow breath. Her chest rose and fell, each inhale measured. Sweat clung to her brow, but her eyes gleamed—not with exhaustion, but with sharpened clarity.
She walked to the center again, wiping a line of soot from her jaw with her sleeve. The air smelled of scorched stone and charmed metal. There was a stillness in her surroundings.
She stood quietly for a moment, wand resting against her thigh.
Then, raising it again with steady fingers, she whispered the next incantation:
"Incendio Circinus."
A ring of fire burst around her, low and controlled, circling at the base of her feet before spinning outward like a halo of flame. The spell flickered just before the outer edge.
"Too slow," she said softly, frowning.
She adjusted the tempo.
Again.
"Incendio Circinus."
The fire responded with elegance this time—spinning perfectly in a double helix pattern before fading into golden sparks.
She smiled faintly. That would do.
The sun was beginning to lower behind the trees, casting long shadows across the garden floor. The statues, cracked and ancient, now seemed to bow in approval. The wind stirred, brushing against Eira's shoulders like a whisper.
She stood in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by scorched earth and the remnants of her trials.
She didn't need praise. She didn't need applause.
This was enough—this discipline, this control and fire.
Her strength would never come from fear or name or inheritance.
It would come from within—from the fierce, precise, unrelenting power of a girl who refused to be underestimated or revered just for being from The white family.