The final exam of the week—one that Eira dreaded more than anything else—was the OCD exam, officially titled Magical Etiquette and Noble Conduct. It was more famously, or infamously, known among students as the "perfectionist's nightmare." Taught by Professor Noëlle de Vauclère, the course was mandatory for all second-year students, especially those from pure-blood lineages. Even among the Beauxbâtons staff known for grace and elegance, Professor de Vauclère stood as a symbol of the unattainable.
She was, in appearance and demeanor, flawlessness incarnate. Her silver-grey eyes held an intense calm that rarely broke. Her long blonde hair was coiled into an intricate bun without a single strand out of place. Her robes, always pristine, carried no wrinkles, dust, or magical residue. Her posture was divine. Her walk was gliding. Her voice was delicate yet commanding. Her hand gestures could teach an orchestra precision. She was, in every sense of the word, terrifyingly perfect.
In their first year, Eira had found the class intriguing, even charming in parts. Learning to walk with grace, speak with refinement, bow properly, even hold her wand in accordance with ancient formal codes—it had its value. But by the second year, the class had shifted. It no longer simply taught refinement; it taught superiority. Subtle, of course—never openly bigoted—but the lessons grew increasingly laced with rhetoric about noble dignity, ancient blood, and social hierarchy. There was always an unspoken disdain for those who didn't grow up in elegance, especially Muggle-borns. For Eira, who was now the Matriarch of one of Europe's most powerful families, the very idea of earned grace and humility seemed twisted by this curriculum.
Today's exam, unlike the others, wasn't about spellcasting, essays, or theoretical prowess. It was a silent war of composure and perception.
The exam hall had been transformed into an elaborate dining room. Gilded candelabras floated above each table. Enchanted cutlery gleamed in perfect rows. Each setting was measured down to the millimeter, and the dishes were prepared by Beauxbâtons' culinary staff with obsessive care.
Eira was the last to be called.
She approached the examination table, where Professor de Vauclère sat in still, dignified silence. The table between them gleamed with silver and white porcelain. As Eira took her seat, she felt like she was preparing for a duel more than a meal.
De Vauclère gave no verbal greeting. Instead, she raised one hand, and a server elf brought forward the first course: a bowl of chilled soup with floating star-shaped ice blossoms. Eira waited the appropriate three seconds, picked up her spoon—careful to use her right hand and rest the left loosely beside her plate—and began.
As they ate, Professor de Vauclère made subtle gestures. She delicately dabbed at her lips. Eira mirrored her, timing it perfectly. The professor slightly tilted her head and frowned—not enough to seem obvious. Eira immediately caught the cue and adjusted her posture straighter, in case that was the intent. Then the professor began to eat slightly louder than was acceptable, chewing with the faintest of sound.
Eira let three seconds pass before she gently rested her spoon and gave the subtlest tilt of her brow, signaling her acknowledgment of a social faux pas without breaching etiquette.
Another dish came—a tender fillet of phoenix-egg omelet over enchanted wild herbs. Midway through the course, Professor de Vauclère dropped her napkin, then retrieved it with her left hand.
A trap.
Eira allowed her expression to remain neutral but mentally noted: retrieving a fallen item with the non-dominant hand without asking for replacement was an etiquette violation. She sipped her elderflower tea without pause.
"Miss White," Professor de Vauclère finally said in her delicate, refined tone, like silk brushing across glass, "Did you notice anything worth commenting upon during our shared meal?"
Eira set her cup down. "Yes, Professor. There was an audible chewing sound during the soup course. During the main dish, the napkin retrieval was done incorrectly—it should have been replaced or retrieved using a charm to maintain decorum. And early on, there was a slight posture cue suggesting I adjust mine, which I corrected."
The professor did not smile. Instead, she blinked once, slowly. A sign of acknowledgment.
"And what did you notice about my reactions to your manners?"
"That I passed, Professor. You didn't correct me."
Professor de Vauclère gave a single nod.
"You may rise."
Eira stood, gave a formal curtsy perfected over two years of suffering through this class, and turned away.
As she walked back to the hallway, she didn't look back. She didn't need a score or a comment. A nod from Noëlle de Vauclère was rarer than a unicorn's tear. It was the equivalent of top marks.
Still, the relief that flushed over her was real. Of all the exams, this was the one she had mentally prepared for most—ironically, by doing everything she could to pretend she didn't care.
Outside, Marin was waiting with an apple in hand and a crooked smirk on his face. "Well? Did she stab you with a salad fork?"
Eira rolled her eyes. "She nodded."
"Oh. Oh-ho-ho. A nod from the Queen of Silver Spoons? You'll be knighted next."
They both laughed, walking together toward the corridor that led back to their dormitories.
"I hate that class," Eira muttered.
"Same," Marin replied. "But it builds character. Like trauma."
Despite her exhaustion, Eira felt a small sense of victory. Not because she proved herself in a test of impossible standards, but because she did it without letting those standards define her.
The exam week was nearly over. One more day and then end of the school year.