Eira returned from the baths with her hair damp, the scent of lavender soap still clinging faintly to her skin. A faint steam curled upward from the ends of her white hair as she stepped into the Slytherin girls' dormitory. She carried her folded towel and the little satchel she used for her shampoo and oils, her mind pleasantly quiet after the heat of the water had soothed away the last of the day's fatigue.
But the quiet did not last.
Three girls were inside now.
Her eyes landed immediately on one of them—Daphne Greengrass. Eira recognized her instantly; they had been introduced briefly in the Great Hall, polite words exchanged under the flickering candlelight. Daphne carried herself with the same composed air as before: pale blond hair pulled neatly back, her fine features reserved, her blue eyes cautious but not unkind. Even now, she sat on the edge of her bed with the posture of someone who had been taught from birth how to carry the dignity of an old family name.
The other two were new to her.
Tracey Davis, with her light brown hair tied messily at the back of her head, had an open, warm face that broke into an easy grin as soon as she noticed Eira. Something about her seemed immediately approachable, almost disarming. She fiddled with her trunk latch, then waved cheerfully with a kind of bashful energy, like she wasn't quite sure whether waving was the proper thing to do but did it anyway.
And then there was Pansy Parkinson. Dark-haired, with sharp eyes and a pug-like set to her face, she looked up at Eira as though measuring her from head to toe. Unlike Tracey's openness or Daphne's reserve, Pansy's expression carried something closer to hostility. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, chin tilted up, as if daring Eira to come closer.
These three, apparently, were her roommates.
Eira stepped into the room without hesitation, placing her towel neatly on her trunk. She turned to face the others, calm and composed as ever. At Beauxbâtons, she had always had a room to herself—never sharing it with anyone. The only exception had been during the summer at the White Manor, when she shared a room with Fleur Delacour. Many nights had been spent together—after all, Fleur was her girlfriend—and it had never made her uneasy. Rooming with others now was new, but it didn't faze her in the slightest.
"I suppose," Eira said evenly, her voice soft but steady, "we'll be seeing a great deal of one another this year."
It was Tracey who leapt in first, her grin widening. "That's one way to put it," she said in a joking tone. "I'm Tracey. Tracey Davis. I guess we'll be partners in crime—or partners in late-night essays, more likely."
Eira blinked at her, then let the faintest smile tug at her lips. Tracey's bashfulness made her words more endearing than bold.
Daphne inclined her head politely. "You already know me, of course," she said, her voice quiet, almost careful. "Daphne Greengrass."
"Yes," Eira answered. "We met earlier. It's good to see a familiar face."
Pansy, however, said nothing. She only gave a sharp sniff and turned her head slightly aside, as though Eira's very presence offended her.
Tracey nudged her with her elbow. "And that's Pansy Parkinson. Don't mind her—she's like that with everyone at first."
"I am not," Pansy snapped immediately, her voice cutting through the room. Then her dark eyes flicked back toward Eira. "Just with some people."
Eira looked at her, not even flinching at the harsh words or the obvious hostility. She didn't care. People could throw all the aggression they wanted—if it wasn't worth her attention, it didn't bother her.
Still, she let it go, brushing the moment aside. "Well," she said mildly, "hostile or not, we'll still be sharing the same space. Best to at least be civil."
Tracey gave an awkward laugh, Daphne pressed her lips together, and Pansy's eyes narrowed.
For a while, the conversation drifted lightly, but Tracey's curiosity quickly grew impossible to contain. She leaned forward, her eyes wide and sparkling. "So… Eira, you're from Beauxbâtons, right? I heard you transferred from there. Is that true?"
Eira inclined her head slightly, her calm composure never wavering. "Yes. I spent three years there—from first grade to third grade. And now I've transferred here."
Tracey's face lit up, and she spoke in that familiar enthusiastic, almost breathless tone. "Oh! I've heard so many things! Some say the students at Beauxbâtons can make magic that's… like, completely impossible! I mean, spells that bend the air, summon storms, and even make objects dance on their own. Is that true?"
Eira suppressed a smile, finding herself quietly amused by the way Tracey's eyes practically sparkled with excitement. "Some of it, yes," she said, tilting her head slightly. "But not all. Stories tend to grow taller the more they're told."
Tracey pressed on, leaning even closer. "And… and I heard the boys are incredibly handsome! Like, seriously, more handsome than English boys. Some say they're so charming that girls just swoon in the halls. Is that true? Are French boys really that good-looking?"
Eira shook her head gently, letting a faint, amused smile tug at her lips. "Well… some are. But not all. And remember, most students aren't French at all—many are from other European countries, so you get a mix."
Tracey's hands fluttered excitedly as she continued. "And the dueling! Oh, the dueling! I heard it's intense there—like, students practicing spells mid-air and dodging curses as if they're in a storybook battle. And the potions… people say the professors are almost impossible to please! And, oh—some even say that magical creatures roam the halls, and that some students have their own familiars, like… dragons or giant owls!"
Eira let out a soft chuckle, genuinely amused. "Dragons and giant owls, huh? That's definitely an exaggeration," she said. "The dueling is lively, though only once you're old enough to participate, and the professors… well, they're certainly exacting, I'll give you that."
Tracey wasn't done yet. "And the parties! I heard the parties are unbelievable! Girls in glittering robes, music that lasts until dawn, dancing on floating platforms, fireworks in the courtyard—oh! And some say even the headmistress joins in on the fun! Is any of that true?"
Eira shook her head, amusement flickering across her face. "Some of it's true, in a way… lively celebrations do happen. But floating platforms and headmistress fireworks? That one's been… enhanced in the telling."
Tracey laughed, delighted, as if every answer only encouraged her. "Oh, I can imagine! It must be incredible to study there. I would've loved to see it for myself. And I heard the food is amazing—magical desserts that float and rearrange themselves on your plate. Is that… really true?"
Eira's smile widened just slightly, enjoying the ridiculousness of some of the rumors. "A few desserts do have a little magic, yes," she admitted. "But not everything you hear is true. Stories grow taller with each retelling."
Meanwhile, Daphne responded politely when spoken to, though she seemed content to mostly listen rather than offer much of herself. Pansy remained clipped, her tone sharp whenever she chose to speak, clearly unimpressed by Tracey's enthusiasm.