After that infamous newspaper article, the entire student body knew of the scandal. Whispers turned to snickers, and Julian Trévér became the target of relentless gossip. From that day onward, he grew noticeably quiet, a shadow of the arrogant boy he once was. He never dared to cross paths with Eira or Fleur again. Whenever he wandered the corridors or passed through the courtyards, students would mock him with barely concealed laughter or cruel little remarks whispered just loud enough for him to hear.
And yet, Julian remained strangely composed. He didn't snap, didn't retaliate—he simply endured. He moved through it all with an unsettling calm, as though the shame had numbed him or perhaps broken something inside him.
Days slipped by, and as winter began to melt into spring, the chill in the air gave way to a gentle warmth. Snow vanished from the castle roofs, and crocuses peeked out from the thawing earth. Then came the day many students had eagerly been counting down to—Valentine's Day.
The Beauxbâtons gardens, now alive with early blossoms, transformed into a stage for all shades of young love. Couples strolled hand in hand beneath blooming trellises, their laughter echoing between marble statues. Some paused for soft, stolen kisses; others whispered secrets with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
But not all stories that day were sweet. For some, February 14th brought heartbreak instead of roses. Arguments flared beneath the old cypress trees, and quiet tears were shed in shadowed alcoves. There were breakups, regrets, sudden new pairings—and just as many students wandering alone as there were lost in each other's arms.
It was, as ever, a day of love and of loss. A day where hearts bloomed or broke.
But Eira was nowhere near the crowds.
Instead, she was nestled within the Val Enchanté—a secret, enchanted valley at the very edge of the Beauxbâtons grounds, cradled between two steep, pine-covered mountains. Few students knew it existed; even fewer had the key to get past its protective enchantments. Fleur Delacour was one of them.
She had brought Eira here once before, last year during the late summer.
Now, again, they sat together at the basin of the waterfall, where the water shimmered like liquid glass, whispering against the rocks. A conjured picnic blanket lay spread across the moss, flanked by smooth boulders warmed just slightly by sunbeams that threaded through the high branches. Dishes of delicate pastries, sugared fruit, warm fig bread, and a silver teapot of enchanted tea lay in their midst, radiating a gentle heat.
The hidden valley looked as if it had been plucked out of a fairytale.
The waterfall tumbled from high above, catching the golden light and scattering it into rainbows. The stream below danced across mossy banks, weaving through flowerbeds so vibrant they seemed unreal—star-shaped scarlets, pale violets, golden blossoms with silver-tipped petals, all swaying with the wind like they too were listening to some unseen music.
Winged deer the size of kittens pranced across the water without ever sinking. A fox with fur that shimmered between violet and bronze lounged nearby, eyes half-closed, tail flicking lazily. Overhead, birds with peacock-colored feathers glided in slow arcs, their songs like wind chimes from a dream.
Wrapped in her woolen cloak, Eira sipped the steaming tea Fleur had poured her and gazed around with a look of peaceful awe.
"I love this place," she said softly, her breath forming small puffs in the crisp air. "Even in winter, it's the most beautiful place I've ever seen."
Fleur, sitting beside her with one leg tucked beneath her skirt, smiled faintly. "Actually, I think it's more beautiful in winter."
Eira turned her head, curious. "Really? Why?"
"Because some of the creatures here—" Fleur tilted her head toward the shadowed ridges where the light didn't quite reach "—only appear when it snows. The valley hides them. They sleep all summer, waiting for frost."
"Are they short-lived?" Eira asked, warming her hands on the teacup. "Do they die in the summer?"
Fleur shook her head gently, her silvery hair catching a streak of sunlight. "No. They just sleep. They wait. Like dreams tucked beneath the snow."
Eira blinked at her, surprised by the poetry in the answer. "That's… oddly sweet."
Fleur chuckled, the sound low and warm. "You say that as if you didn't mean it."
"I meant it," Eira admitted. "Just wasn't expecting it."
She turned her eyes to the waterfall again, unaware of the way Fleur's gaze lingered on her. The light brushed Eira's face—cheeks slightly pink from the cold, lips pressed to the rim of her teacup, her white hair swept back by the mountain breeze.
Fleur looked away before Eira could notice.
She reached for a slice of fig bread and offered it to Eira without a word, her fingers brushing against Eira's hand for a second too long. Eira didn't react beyond a quiet thanks, oblivious to the flush that briefly colored Fleur's cheeks.
"You know," Fleur said after a moment, casually tucking a strand of hair behind Eira's ear, "I only bring very special people here."
Eira blinked at her, caught off guard. "You said that last year too."
"And it was true last year," Fleur said with a slow smile. "It's still true."
Eira, ever literal, gave her a soft laugh. "Then I suppose I should feel honored."
"You should."
There was a beat of silence between them—not awkward, but weighty in a way that neither of them acknowledged. The fox nearby gave a small yawn and stretched, its fur shimmering rose-gold in the sun.
"I used to come here when I needed to think," Fleur said. "When I needed to be reminded that… some things in the world are still gentle. Still worth protecting."
Eira turned toward her again. Fleur was looking at the valley, but her words felt as if they were meant something very special for someone special.
"I didn't know you thought that way," Eira said softly. "You always seem like the one who's… certain of everything."
Fleur let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. "I'm not."
Eira frowned slightly. "But you always seem so—"
"In control?" Fleur raised an eyebrow.
"Well. Yes."
"Do you think someone who's always in control would fall in love with someone who drives her mad half the time for not being able see that person for just a day?"
Eira blinked again. "Wait. What?"
But Fleur only smiled and reached for another pastry, brushing crumbs off her skirt. "Never mind."
Eira narrowed her eyes. "Are you—wait, was that a joke or—?"
"Maybe."
The silence returned again, but this time it hummed with something lighter, more teasing. Fleur reclined back on her elbows, her eyes closed to the sun, her hair fanned over the moss. Eira sat beside her, still holding her teacup, unsure if Fleur just confessed that she was in love with someone—or if she was imagining it.
The wind picked up slightly, carrying with it the scent of pine and frost-kissed blossoms. From far below, one of the deer leapt across the stream, hooves tapping water like notes on a harp.
Eira looked at Fleur again.
She was smiling—softly , contentedly. And Eira couldn't help but smile too.