The screams still echoed across the stadium grounds, mingling with the crackle of firework remnants and the occasional whoosh of panicked brooms overhead. Eira's heart was hammering so violently that she could barely hear anything else. She had only one focus: Fleur.
She dropped to her knees beside her, the silver strands of her hair falling over her face. Her breath caught. Fleur's shoulder had been ripped open by some force—blood gushing, the flesh grotesquely torn, the bone visible beneath. Eira's stomach clenched violently. Her hands trembled as she glanced down at the wound, and for a split second, her mind froze in horror.
"Fleur… my love…" she whispered, gripping Fleur's hand. Her voice cracked. But she didn't allow herself to panic. Not now. Not when Fleur's life depended on her.
From her system space, Eira drew three small vials shimmering with an iridescent liquid. System space had provided her with exactly what she needed. She poured the first potion carefully onto Fleur's wound. Fleur hissed sharply, the pain shooting through her body.
"It's okay, my love… just a scratch," Eira murmured, forcing a reassuring smile, though her heart was breaking. "The pain is terrible, I know… but you will be alright. Drink this next—it will help you breathe easier."
Another potion glimmered in her hand. Eira guided Fleur to sip it slowly. Fleur's lips trembled as she swallowed, her breath beginning to even out, the agony starting to ebb. Her eyelids grew heavy.
"I… I don't want to die, Eira," Fleur whispered hoarsely, tears brimming in her eyes. "Not now… not when I found you."
Eira's chest tightened, but she refused to let despair show. She brushed Fleur's damp hair back and kissed her forehead gently. "No, no, mon amour. It's just a scratch. Painful, yes—but just a scratch. You will be fine. Nothing dark touched you. You are safe with me. Now rest. Let this potion take care of the pain."
Fleur's breathing became steady. Her body relaxed, leaning fully into Eira's embrace. Eira felt a flicker of relief, even as her heart clenched at the sight of Fleur's pale but slowly calming face.
Eira gathered Fleur into her embrace, holding her as though the girl might slip away if she loosened her grip for even a second. The weight of her felt both unbearably fragile and achingly real in her arms.
As she stepped out toward the path leading back to the White family's tent, the world around her was in shambles. Parents screamed their children's names, witches and wizards shoved through the crowd in blind panic, some sprinting toward the woods to escape whatever madness had overtaken the grounds. Flames flickered, casting monstrous shadows across the broken stalls and scattered belongings. The air was filled with the shrieks of the wounded, the crackle of fire, the pounding of feet.
But Eira's eyes saw none of it. The chaos blurred into a meaningless haze. What mattered—what consumed her entirely—was Fleur.
She didn't know what spell had struck Fleur, only that she had been too slow to shield her. Too distracted to anticipate the danger. The memory of that moment—the flash of light, Fleur's cry, her body collapsing—gnawed at her like a knife twisting deeper with every step. Anger smoldered in her chest, tangled with guilt so heavy it nearly crushed her.
Inside the small circle of her arms, Fleur stirred faintly, lashes fluttering against pale cheeks. Eira bent over her, whispering apologies she could never say aloud, brushing back damp strands of silvery hair with trembling fingers.
Finally, she reached the tent. She slipped inside, moving quickly to a room. Carefully, she placed Fleur on the soft bed, adjusting the blankets to shield her from any lingering cold. Fleur's breathing was steady, her face relaxed in sleep.
Eira waved her wand, muttering protective spells. The room shimmered with defensive enchantments, invisible barriers to prevent anyone from entering. Then she pulled out a defensive alchemy talisman, placing it near Fleur's side. This would reinforce the magical protections, warding against curses or accidental intrusion.
Only then did she allow herself to release the tight Occlumency she had maintained. Rage exploded within her. Her breathing grew rapid, fists clenching. How dare anyone do this to her!
She stormed toward the entrance of the tent, wand at the ready, her fury blazing hotter than any firework outside.
"Eira… my lady?" Emma's voice trembled as she appeared, rushing forward, her eyes wide. "Thank Merlin, you're here! You're—"
"Stay here," Eira snapped, cutting her off. Her voice was cold, sharp. "Protect Fleur. That's all I care about. Stay here."
Emma blinked, confused. "But my lady, outside—"
"I said stay!" Eira's tone brooked no argument. Emma took a cautious step back, nodding as she grasped the edge of the entrance door, her expression tight with anxiety yet carefully obedient.
Eira turned on her heel, stepping back into the night, wand in hand. The roar of chaos outside surrounded her: panicked shouts, the screams of children, the shattering of tents, and magical sparks erupting from uncontrolled spells.
The distant glow of the Death Mark flickered intermittently above, casting long, eerie shadows on the panicked crowd. Wizards and witches scattered in all directions, some falling, some casting protective spells on themselves and their families. Eira's white hair whipped around her face, illuminated by the green hue of dark mark.
Emma's voice called again from inside the tent, louder this time. "My lady! What are you doing?! You can't go out there—"
"I'm going out," Eira shouted, her voice carrying over the tumult. "I am handling this. You stay with Fleur. Protect her. Do not leave her side for a single moment!"
Emma swallowed hard, eyes wide, but did not move. She nodded slowly, understanding that arguing further was pointless.
Eira's wand flared in her hand as she emerged into the chaos of the stadium grounds. Sparks flew from spells miscast in panic, carts overturned, and fires erupted from the remains of fireworks scattered across the field. She weaved between groups of panicking wizards, keeping her eyes fixed on the center of the chaos—on the source of the Death Mark and the magical disturbance that had injured Fleur.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tight, as she prepared herself mentally for whatever or whoever had caused this. Her anger was a living thing, coiling in her chest, fueling her magic. She could feel it, a heat spreading through her body, pushing her faster, sharper and stronger resolve.
She could still remember the way her blood turned to ice when she first saw Fleur—her robes drenched in crimson, her body limp and fragile in Eira's arms. The terror had been suffocating, the same gnawing dread she had known once before when she had lost someone irreplaceable. For one agonizing moment, she was certain she was about to lose Fleur too.
But when Fleur's breathing steadied, when Eira realized she would live, the panic ebbed. Relief came like air after drowning. And with it came fury—hot, blinding fury.
Her hands trembled, not from fear now, but from the rage burning through her veins. Whoever had dared strike Fleur, whoever had left her bleeding in Eira's arms, would pay.
And through all the chaos and shrieks, the pounding footsteps, the clash of spells exploding in the night—her mind no longer faltered. There was only one truth left, sharp as a blade: Fleur was safe, and Eira would hunt down the bastards responsible until they lay broken at her feet.