The morning mist had only just begun to lift from the gardens when the letter arrived.
A small enchanted butterfly of soft parchment landed on Eira's desk as she finished braiding her snow-white hair. The wings fluttered briefly, then unfolded to reveal the elegant cursive of Madame Olympe Maxime.
"Miss White ,
Please come to my office at once.
–O. Maxime"
Eira's eyes narrowed faintly. Short. Unusually Formal. No trace of the warm tone Madame Maxime typically used with her.
She slipped on her robes without delay and stepped out of the Ombrelune dorm hall .
⸻
The Château of Beauxbâtons was carved into the mountainside like a jewel set in marble, each hall filled with drifting fragrances from the enchanted gardens that bloomed year-round. The highest point of the school was its glass-roofed dome tower—tucked among the clouds and sunlight. The headmistress's private office was nestled there, just beyond the hanging wisteria archways.
As she arrived at the rooftop greenhouse chamber, Madame Maxime was already waiting—tall and elegant, her robes a deep navy that shimmered like midnight silk. She stood near her long desk, surrounded by floating crystal quills and shelves that breathed softly with ancient spellbooks.
"Come in, Mademoiselle White," Maxime said gently, her accent pronounced today, her face unusually unreadable.
Eira stepped forward. "You asked for me."
Maxime nodded once. "You are summoned."
Eira blinked. "Summoned?"
"To the French Ministry of Magic."
Silence.
Eira's green eyes sharpened, flicking once toward the window before returning to Maxime. "For what?"
Maxime folded her hands in front of her. "An emergency hearing. I do not know the exact subject. But it was agreed upon by all the noble families still active in France. It is… sudden."
"Sudden," Eira repeated, voice cool but controlled. "There has to be protocol. I'm not just a student anymore. I represent the House of White—whether the Ministry likes it or not. They can't just summon me without sending a formal request to the head of my house. Which is me."
"I agree," Maxime said. "But the summons came through official channels… and was signed by multiple Houses. Including the Circle of Twelve."
That got Eira's attention.
The Circle of Twelve—France's oldest magical families, steeped in power, secrecy, and blood. They didn't sign anything without reason.
"Then it's not just politics," Eira murmured.
"No," Maxime said, stepping around her desk. "It is something more."
There was a pause between them—heavy with things unsaid.
Then Maxime added softly, "I will escort you. You are not going alone."
Eira hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Thank you, Madame."
⸻
Minutes later, they stood in front of the enchanted fireplace at the edge of Maxime's office. With a murmured incantation and a flick of her wand, green flames roared to life in the hearth, and Eira stepped into them without hesitation, Maxime right behind her.
"Ministère de la Magie, Paris – Tribunal Hall."
⸻
The sensation of magical travel via French Floo Network was smoother than in Britain—less of a jolt, more like being pulled along silk strands of wind. Eira landed on her feet in an elegant receiving hall carved from white stone, with enchanted stained glass windows that moved like oil paintings.
They stepped into the main corridor, and Eira's gaze swept across the space.
The French Ministry of Magic was not built underground like Britain's. Instead, it spiraled up—an ivory tower that gleamed above Paris, veiled in illusions to keep it hidden from Muggle eyes.
They walked through polished marble halls, lined with gilded columns and intricate murals of magical history—centaurs at war, witches binding storms, the sealing of the first blood oath by the founding Houses.
Floating lanterns lit the vaulted ceilings, and the air smelled faintly of thyme, parchment, and ozone.
They passed through the Hall of Ancients, where magical family crests rotated slowly in the air above bronze pedestals—each glowing softly with its family's lineage. The Voclain crest spun near the center, silver and black, a raven holding a broken chain.
Nearby floated the Trévér crest—red and gold, shaped like a coiled serpent beneath a burning tree.
The deeper they walked, the fewer Ministry workers they saw. The halls grew quieter, the murals more faded. Until, finally, they reached a grand archway guarded by two silent, black-robed sentinels.
They opened the doors without a word.
Beyond lay the Chambre d'Audition—the Hearing Chamber.
⸻
The chamber was ancient.
Stone, not marble. Silent, not enchanted. Torches flickered dimly along the walls, casting tall shadows across the carved sigils of old families etched into the seats above.
It was a circular chamber, with tiers of seating rising high above a flat center floor. At the far end, raised like a throne, sat the High Seat—an enormous black chair inlaid with pure moonstone.
Already, the tiers were filled.
Old men and women, dressed in robes of deep family colors, their faces creased with age and magic. Some leaned on staves, others whispered behind gloved hands. Most watched Eira as she entered—silent, assessing.
She saw familiar faces and distant strangers.
The House of Delaroche, with their violet cloaks and glass-blown sigils. The House of Montpensier, their eyes like ice. The Austrian Isenbergs, sitting close to the Spanish Velascos. No English houses—of course.
This wasn't for their eyes.
The air was cold, despite the fire.
Eira stood with her chin lifted, gaze unflinching. She wore her silence like armor.
A Ministry attendant approached and gestured toward the center of the room—a small circle inlaid with silver.
The standing platform.
The accused's place.
Eira glanced once toward Madame Maxime.
"I will be here," Maxime said, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "You are not alone."
Eira nodded once, then stepped forward.
Her boots echoed across the stone as she entered the circle.
The silver lines pulsed briefly beneath her feet—an old enchantment taking measure of the one who stood within it.
Around her, whispers stirred.
"Is that her…?"
"She's younger than I expected…"
"…White blood, but staying abroad…"
"…The White girl."
Eira looked up at the rows of faces watching her.
And waited.
The hearing had not begun yet.