It was late afternoon when the note arrived.
The paper was folded with meticulous care, bearing the seal of Beauxbâtons in soft silver wax. Eira read the short message in silence, her brows lifting slightly.
"Miss White,
Please come to my office at your earliest convenience.
— Madame Maxime"
There was no hint of emotion in the note, no suggestion of urgency or reprimand, and yet something about it made Eira's stomach coil. Madame Maxime's office—unlike most professors'—was not located in the lower towers or even along the main spines of the château. No, her office lay above it all, nestled in the rooftop gardens that stretched across the highest wing of the castle like a crown of ancient ivy and blooming roses.
As Eira climbed the winding staircase that led to the rooftop, she caught glimpses of the garden beyond the high arched windows—trees bowed in autumn gold, the faint glimmer of enchanted fountains, vines with petals that opened to the sun and closed with whisper-like sighs. The chill of early November bit at her fingers, but the higher she went, the warmer the air became, as if the garden atop the castle obeyed its own season.
Finally, she reached a tall wrought-iron door entwined with silver vinework, and with a steadying breath, she knocked.
"Entrez," came Madame Maxime's deep, graceful voice.
Eira stepped inside.
It was like entering another world. The interior of the garden-office glowed with perpetual spring. Trees with delicate white blossoms shaded stone benches and enchanted lights floated gently above, giving off a warm glow like miniature suns. Birds chirped in impossible harmony, and at the far end of a rose-draped arch, Madame Maxime stood waiting in front of her polished oak desk.
She was dressed in long cobalt robes, her hands clasped behind her back. Her expression, while calm, was unreadable.
"Good afternoon, Madame" Eira said with a respectful nod.
"Sit, Eira," Maxime said gently, gesturing to the chair before the desk.
Eira sat, spine straight, her pale hands folded in her lap. Something about the quiet rustle of the garden behind her and the softness in the headmistress's voice made her feel like she was about to be gently scolded by the world itself.
"I received two owls earlier this morning," Maxime began, "both from parents of upper-year students in Papillonlisse. Apparently, their sons were… unsettled after a certain encounter in the eastern greenhouse wing."
Eira said nothing, but her breath caught for a moment.
"They claim you used a spell on them. Not just any spell. A forbidden one." Maxime's eyes, sharp as cut stone, narrowed just slightly. "Do you recall what you cast?"
Eira blinked slowly. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her mind scanned frantically through the dozens of spells she'd been perfecting recently, flipping through incantations like pages in a book—until the memory slammed into her.
The boys—smirking, cruel, cornering Marin and beating him for flirting with his girlfriend a couple of weeks ago . Then twist of her wrist she used something .As she remembered the foreign taste of fire in her mouth as she spoke the words.
"Protego Diabolica," she whispered.
Maxime's expression didn't change, but something shifted in the air around them. The garden itself seemed to hush.
"Yes," Maxime said quietly. "A spell that hasn't been used in this school since the days of Grindelwald's uprising. It was… unmistakable. One of the boys described the flames as black flames that engulfed you and this lift him traumatized ."
Eira bowed her head. "I'm sorry."
"Why did you use it?" Maxime asked.
"They were threatening a younger student Marin. He's my friend . They had him cornered in a garden . They were humiliating him. I didn't think it through. I reacted out of protective instinct. My grandfather—after I was kidnapped—he taught me a set of spells that could protect me if I was ever in danger again. He said…I might never get a second chance if I hesitated."
Maxime inhaled, then rose from behind her desk and walked slowly to where Eira sat.
The Headmistress, towering and imposing, stood over the girl for a long moment before reaching out and placing a large, warm hand gently on Eira's head.
"I do not fault you for protecting someone," she said softly. "You have the heart of a leader, that much is clear. But Beauxbâtons is not a battlefield, Mademoiselle White. And France… France has scars when it comes to certain spells."
Eira looked up. "Because of Grindelwald."
"Yes. He made Paris burn." Maxime's voice was like thunder beneath velvet. "The spell you used was one of his favorites—an elegant execution of portable inferno. Harmless at first glance. But with too much force? It destroys everything in its path."
Eira swallowed.
"I spoke to the families," Maxime continued. "I told them it was a misfire. An advanced fire charm you had learned during your private tutelage. I convinced them it was nothing serious."
Eira's white lashes lowered. "You covered for me."
"I protected the peace of this school," Maxime replied. "And I protected you. But I need your promise, Eira. No more spells like that. Not here. Not in a place where others look to you as an example."
Eira stood up, suddenly aware of how childish she must have seemed in that moment. "I understand. I truly do. I won't use it again. I let my emotions get the better of me."
Madame Maxime studied her for a moment longer, then offered a small smile.
"Do not punish yourself too much. You did what you believed was right. That matters. But now, let it be a lesson—not just in magic, but in restraint."
"I'm sorry for causing trouble," Eira said again. "I know I've already given this school more than its share of headlines."
"You are not the trouble," Maxime said gently. "You are a young woman with an unusual life. One that forces you to grow faster than others. But even you deserve the time to learn who you are, without fear… or fire."
Eira gave a soft nod, then turned to leave.
As she walked through the garden-roof, the flowers brushed softly against her arms, their perfume heady in the crisp air. Birds darted between boughs, singing again as if the garden had collectively exhaled.
Before she stepped through the wrought-iron door, she looked back once.
Madame Maxime stood beneath a flowering arch, a solitary figure framed by petals and ivy. Watching and Protecting.
And Eira—though her heart was heavier than it had been before—felt a strange lightness return to her chest.