Eira stirred awake slowly, her body aching with the weight of the previous night's battle. Every muscle burned, her magic still sluggish from the exhaustion of pushing herself too far. For a moment she did not know where she was, her vision hazy, her breath shallow. But then warmth pressed against her chest, steady and comforting, pulling her out of the fog of sleep.
She blinked, and her heart softened instantly.
A head of shimmering silver hair lay sprawled across her, Fleur's cheek resting against her chest as though she were using Eira's modest breasts as a pillow. The older girl's arm was draped across her stomach, her breathing even, her lips parted in peaceful sleep.
Eira's lips curved into a fragile smile. Relief washed through her like a tide. 'She's safe and healthy.`
Leaning her head back, Eira inhaled Fleur's faint floral scent, the sweetness filling her chest with warmth. For a few precious seconds, all the memories of blood and fire, of screams and green light, blurred into the background. All that mattered was this moment—Fleur, alive and whole, clinging to her as if she never intended to let go.
But the peace didn't last.
The memories of last night crept back in with cruel clarity: the chaos of the Quidditch World Cup, the hooded Death Eaters, the screams of Muggles tortured in the air, Fleur's agonized cry when the curse tore into her shoulder. Eira remembered the surge of rage that had overtaken her—the storm she unleashed, her control slipping as she cut down the attackers with merciless precision. Yet despite it all, many had fled. Many still lived.
She had failed to end them all.
Her chest tightened with regret as she couldn't finish the job.
Eira felt a delicate shift against her chest, the warmth stirring her from her thoughts. She exhaled softly and glanced down, only to find Fleur gazing up at her. Sleep still clung to those bright blue eyes, yet they gleamed like a cat's—mischievous and impossibly tender. Fleur's lips curved into a faint smile, and the look lingered, heavy with meaning, until Eira's guilt eased beneath its quiet intensity.
"You are awake," Eira whispered gently, brushing a strand of silver hair from Fleur's face. "How are you, are you feeling well my love?"
Fleur's smile deepened. "I am here, non? Safe in your arms. If I were not well, I would be in St. Mungo's hospital—not lying on your lovely little breasts as if it were my pillow."
Eira rolled her eyes, heat rising in her cheeks.
"They're not little," she huffed. "Just modest for now. I'm sure they'll get bigger when I'm older."
Fleur tilted her head, her grin turning sly as she brushed her fingers lightly over Eira's chest.
"Mm, maybe… but I adore them exactly as they are," she whispered. "They feel wonderful to rest on—soft, warm, and lovingly squishy."
Eira chuckled softly, though her eyes stung with unshed tears. She tightened her arms around Fleur, pressing her close. "I am glad. Glad that you're safe… and sorry. Sorry that I couldn't protect you the way I should have."
Fleur frowned lightly and shook her head. "Non, Eira. Do not carry that burden. I am the one who let my guard down. I am a witch, yet I acted carelessly. Instead of being vigilant, I was vulnerable."
"No," Eira interrupted firmly. "It was not your fault. Do not blame yourself."
But Fleur's eyes, usually so full of teasing fire, held only solemnity. "I reflected last night while you slept. I should have been stronger. I should have been the one protecting you. Instead, I was weak—a liability."
Her words hit Eira like a blade.
"You are not a liability," Eira said with steel in her voice. "You are Fleur. My Fleur. Do not speak of yourself as if you were useless."
But Fleur only sighed and whispered, "You are young, Eira. Yes, you are the Matriarch of the White Family, but you are still a girl—a teenager. I cannot always allow you to shield me as though I were some damsel in distress. I hate it. I hate being saved again and again while doing nothing for you."
Eira tried to lighten the mood, whispering with a sly smile, "But… you are a girl."
Fleur immediately lifted her head, fixing her with a glare that was only half-serious. "I despise it, Eira. Being treated as though I am helpless." Her voice softened then, trembling with determination. "So I spoke to Madame Maxime last night. She has agreed to train me—truly train me—for my final year. I will not remain weak."
Eira's brows rose slightly. "Madame Maxime was here?"
"Yes," Fleur nodded. "She came as soon as she heard what happened. She stayed to ensure I was well." She sat up reluctantly, silver hair cascading around her shoulders. "I have to go back now. I only stayed until you woke. Since you're awake, I can't keep Madame Maxime waiting any longer she's been patient enough already. My family doesn't even know I was injured… I should return to them, back in France."
The words lodged like a stone in Eira's chest.
Fleur leaned down suddenly and pressed her lips to Eira's. The kiss lingered—warm, tender, filled with a longing that neither wanted to end. When they finally parted, Fleur's forehead rested against hers, breath mingling.
"Goodbye, my love. Until we meet again," Fleur whispered.
And then she stood, gathering her composure with the grace only Fleur Delacour possessed. Without another word, she walked out of the room of the tent, her silver hair glinting in the morning light.
Eira lay frozen in silence, her gaze fixed on the spot where Fleur had vanished. She did not call out. Did not say goodbye. She only stared until the rays of the rising sun filtered through the small window of the tent, warming her face.
"So… she is gone," Eira murmured softly to herself. Her chest ached, though she forced the weight down, swallowing the emotion like bitter poison.
Finally, she rose, her white hair tangled and disheveled, falling over her face. She looked nothing like the matriarch she was expected to be—just a weary girl who had fought too hard at a young age.
When she stepped into the main lounge of the tent, she found Isabella and Emma seated at the table. They both looked up immediately.
"My lady!" Emma exclaimed, rushing to her. "How are you? Are you well? Last night I insisted we take you to St. Mungo's, but Isabella assured me you only needed rest."
"I am fine," Eira replied softly, taking a seat. "Do not worry."
Isabella's gaze was sharper. "You were a mess last night. If I had not arrived when I did, you would have started a war with the Aurors and the Ministry themselves."
Eira managed a faint smile. "Thank you for pulling me back, Aunt." Then her tone shifted, serious once again. "What happened after?"
Isabella sighed, leaning back. "After you collapsed, the Ministry searched the grounds. They found nothing—except for the bodies of those you killed."
"Did they identify them?" Eira asked coldly.
Emma shook her head. "The corpses were taken to the Ministry for investigation. But… I doubt they will reveal their true identities."
Isabella added grimly, "Fudge was in a panic last night. He knows if the truth comes out—that Death Eaters walked freely into the World Cup it will be an international scandal. He wants the press to believe it was only a group of drunken thugs celebrating the victory."
Eira's jaw tightened. "And the ones injured?"
"Mostly Muggle-borns and half-bloods," Isabella said bitterly. "Of course, the Ministry will bury their suffering. As long as no 'important' purebloods were killed, they will dismiss it."
Eira sneered, her eyes narrowing. "So, as always, they protect their own and let the guilty escape."
Emma nodded quietly.
"Arrange me a meeting with Fudge," Eira ordered coldly. "I will speak with him myself."
Emma hesitated, then bowed her head. "As you wish, my lady. But we should wait a few days. The Ministry is drowning in pressure from foreign officials. Even the French and Bulgarian ministries are demanding answers. Let the chaos settle first."
Eira leaned back, considering, then finally nodded. "Very well. We wait. But not for long."
"Good," Isabella said. She stood, smoothing her robes. "Come. It is time we return to the manor. Most of the families have already gone."
Eira rose slowly, her body still heavy with fatigue. "Yes… let us go."
Emma smiled faintly. "You two go ahead. I'll see to the house-elves—make sure they take the supplies and dismantle the tent properly."
Eira nodded once, then followed her aunt out through the quiet forest. Together they reached the Portkey. With one last look back at the trampled fields that had, just hours ago, been filled with laughter and celebration, Eira touched the key with her aunt.
The world spun in a rush of color, and the White Family returned home.