The weeks passed with a rhythm that Eira quickly adjusted to. Life at Hogwarts, though filled with its own peculiar charms and irritations, soon felt familiar in its own way. She rose each morning to the cool, faintly damp air of the dungeons, dressed in her crisp Slytherin robes, and joined her housemates in the Great Hall. Though she could easily have coasted through her classes—most subjects posed little challenge to her—Eira made it a point to attend every lesson. It wasn't the difficulty of the spells that intrigued her but the subtle interactions between students, the way professors revealed their biases without realizing it, and the quiet competitiveness woven into the fabric of daily life.
Despite her sharp mind, she didn't seek to draw attention to herself in class. Unlike Hermione Granger, whose hand perpetually shot into the air with a kind of earnest desperation, Eira preferred to participate only when necessary. Still, she enjoyed learning, enjoyed the structure of school days. Beauxbâtons had been different, formal and almost aristocratic in its elegance, but Hogwarts was rawer, more alive, sometimes even chaotic. It kept her amused.
Most days, Eira spent her free time with Tracey Davis. Tracey had an easy humor, the sort that balanced well against Eira's calm poise. They often sat together at meals or strolled through the courtyards, sharing bits of gossip that circulated among the Slytherins. Yet Eira didn't confine herself to one circle. She had grown more close, in her own way, to both Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger. Ginny, fiery and blunt, often visited the Slytherin table when she thought no one important was looking, while Hermione remained forever busy with her endless causes.
Hermione, in particular, fascinated Eira—not because of her S.P.E.W. campaign itself, but because of the sheer persistence behind it. Hermione had thrown herself headlong into the matter of house-elves with the fervor of a knight charging a battlefield. Day after day she buried herself in the library, stacks of heavy tomes on magical history or obscure wizarding law piling around her. Quills scratched late into the evening as she composed letter after letter to Professor Dumbledore, demanding reforms or at least acknowledgment.
When letters alone did not satisfy her, she marched to the Hogwarts kitchens. Eira had accompanied her once, amused to see Hermione bustling through the corridors with determined steps, muttering about injustice. The elves, however, received her poorly. They regarded her with wide eyes, shook their heads, and fled at the mention of "freedom" or "wages." For them, such notions were unthinkable—dangerous, even. Hermione, undeterred, pressed on with a stubbornness that almost impressed Eira.
And when the elves ignored her entirely, Hermione began knitting. Socks, hats, scarves—small, colorful things that she left around common rooms in the hopes that some elf might pick them up and be accidentally freed. Most students found the practice ridiculous. Ron Weasley groaned every time he stumbled over a mismatched sock, and even Harry seemed embarrassed by it. Eira, however, occasionally offered quiet suggestions.
"Perhaps," she said one evening in the library, "instead of insisting they accept freedom, you might begin by listening. People rarely change when they are told what to feel."
Hermione had looked up from her parchment, frustration etched on her face, and for once she paused before arguing. "You think I'm going about this the wrong way?"
"I think," Eira replied mildly, "that persuasion is gentler than force. Even if your intention is noble, no one enjoys being told they are wrong about their own life."
The words didn't dissuade Hermione—nothing could—but they gave her pause, and Eira noticed later that Hermione's questions to the elves became less lecturing, more curious. That, she considered, was progress enough.
Between her quiet companionship with Hermione and her playful moments with Tracey and Ginny, Eira's days passed without incident. Yet there was another presence that lingered at the edge of her attention: Issac Rowen.
She hadn't spoken with him since their strange conversation by the Black Lake weeks ago. Issac, with his warm smile and unfailing politeness, blended easily among the students, as though he had been born to the school. Girls whispered about him constantly, comparing him to Cedric Diggory, whose charm already reigned supreme in Hufflepuff. Some even dared to flirt outright, leaning too close or giggling behind hands, but Issac accepted their attention with effortless courtesy and not a hint of arrogance.
What intrigued Eira more was not his popularity, but his friendships. He seemed especially close to Roger Davies, Cho Chang, and Marietta Edgecombe. With them, he laughed easily, his gestures looser, less guarded. Cho, in particular, displayed an affection toward him that did not escape Eira's notice. The way Cho's hand lingered on his sleeve, the warmth in her gaze—it drew subtle tension between Issac and Cedric, who watched them with eyes just a shade too sharp. Yet Issac himself never behaved improperly. He was simply… friendly.
For all her careful observation, Eira found nothing suspicious about him. If there were shadows around Issac Rowen, he hid them well. For now, she let her curiosity rest, though she kept him filed neatly away in her mind.
When she wasn't navigating Hogwarts life, she corresponded regularly with Fleur. Letters flew back and forth between Scotland and France, parchment carrying words that made Eira smile in the quiet of her dormitory. Fleur described her training under Madame Maxime—strict, exhausting, but exhilarating. She complained about the weight of expectation but never without a touch of pride. And always, Fleur confessed how much she missed Eira, how the absence gnawed at her in the quiet hours.
Eira, in turn, wrote of her days at Hogwarts, describing the differences between Beauxbâtons' elegance and Hogwarts' rugged charm. She teased Fleur about the pompous Gryffindors, or about Hermione's crusade for elf rights, always softening her letters with warmth. Their correspondence became a lifeline, a thread of affection binding them across countries.
When Fleur's seventeenth birthday arrived, Eira sent gifts with deliberate mischief: a violet dress of exquisite cut, elegant enough for any soirée, and beneath it, a matching set of lingerie—delicate bra and underwear, chosen with intent to tease. Fleur's reply was swift and fiery.
She declared she was not upset by the gift, far from it—it only made her crave Eira more. Her words dripped with playful seduction:
["Ma belle Eira, when I slipped the silk against my skin, I thought of you watching me, your eyes seductive and hungry. I wanted you there, to fasten the clasp of the bra with trembling hands, to feel how it shapes me, how I ache beneath it for your touch. If you had been here, you would not have lasted a moment before tearing it away and claiming me. I would have let you."]
The letter grew bolder still, her handwriting almost reckless as though her passion had bled into every stroke of ink:
["I imagine you pressing me back onto my bed, your lips on mine until I forget my own name. I imagine your hands wandering all over my body, my breasts and my flower(you know what I mean my love😉), making me gasp, making me beg. Do you know how many nights I fall asleep whispering your name into my pillow, pretending it is you who warms me? You belong to me, mon amour, as I belong only to you."]
By the time Eira reached the final lines, her heart pounded and her cheeks flushed scarlet. Fleur's last words seared her like fire:
["Do not keep me waiting, ma chérie. If you delay, I will come to you myself and show you what it means to be loved as my girlfriend, body and soul."]
Eira folded the parchment quickly and slipped it into her System space, unwilling for anyone else to glimpse the shamelessly seductive lines.
Those letters became her joy. She would find herself smiling unexpectedly in class, or staring out across the Black Lake, Fleur's words echoing in her mind. At times she dared to send Fleur smaller gifts—ribbons, books, trinkets that carried personal meaning. In return, Fleur's letters grew only bolder, each one a mixture of affection and seductive provocation.
Amid this steady exchange, Eira felt time flow almost peacefully. No great crises disturbed her; no sudden battles demanded her attention. Emma and Isabella oversaw the White family's affairs with flawless efficiency, sending her regular reports that she reviewed each evening before tucking them neatly away. For once in her school life for a short time , the world allowed her to simply be a student.
And so the days slipped by until the calendar turned, and the chill of October deepened.
On the thirtieth morning, something in the air felt different. Perhaps it was the crisp bite of autumn carried on the wind, or the faint hum of anticipation that stirred among the students. Hogwarts seemed unusually bright, its corridors buzzing with excitement as Halloween approached. The day, Eira realized as she stepped from the Slytherin common room, had begun in a way that promised something more than ordinary lessons.