The Great Hall blazed with light that evening. Hundreds of candles floated above the students' heads, their steady flames casting a golden glow over the enchanted ceiling, which showed a clear night sky filled with stars and a thin silver crescent moon.
Several students were already seated at the four long house tables, though many stood craning their necks to see the newcomers as they entered. The smell of roasted meats and puddings hung warmly in the air, mixing with the low buzz of chatter that grew louder as the visiting schools filed in behind their headmasters.
At Dumbledore's gesture, the visiting schools were directed to join the Hogwarts tables. With graceful composure, the Beauxbâtons delegation was guided toward Ravenclaw. The pale-blue uniforms stood out like a flock of exotic birds amid the darker Hogwarts robes, their elegance drawing sighs and whispers.
Durmstrang, by contrast, marched with a heavier step, fur-lined cloaks brushing against boots as they made for the Slytherin table. Their presence was more intimidating than dazzling—save, of course, for Viktor Krum, whose name hissed and rippled like a spark through the crowd. Even those who had never seen a Quidditch match knew his face.
The Slytherins made room eagerly, elbowing one another as if the very presence of Durmstrang lent their table extra importance. Draco Malfoy was on his feet in an instant, shoving a smaller boy aside so he could plant himself directly next to Viktor Krum.
"Hello," Draco said at once, his voice pitched a little too high, as though rehearsed.
Krum gave him only a grunt of acknowledgment before his eyes lifted across the table. They landed, briefly, on Eira. He inclined his head.
"Hello," he said in his thick accent.
Eira returned the gesture with a polite nod, nothing more. Draco's face twitched, clearly dissatisfied with the exchange, but he said nothing, determined to stay pressed close to the famous Seeker.
Across the hall, the Beauxbatons students had noticed. Fleur Delacour, sitting among the Ravenclaws, stiffened. Her expression turned sharp, her eyes narrowing in unmistakable disapproval.
She rose suddenly from the bench, the movement graceful but firm enough to turn heads. Several Ravenclaws looked up in surprise, and a few students whispered to one another.
"Where's she going?" hissed a boy further down the table.
"Doesn't matter—look at her," another muttered, staring unabashedly as Fleur glided toward the Slytherin table.
"She walks like she's floating," someone else said dreamily, earning a sharp elbow from his friend.
Fleur paid none of it any mind. She tugged her younger sister to her feet—Gabrielle looked confused but followed obediently—and crossed the hall without hesitation. Reaching the Slytherins, she slipped into the empty space beside Eira, chin held high, while Gabrielle plopped down cheerfully on the other side.
The Slytherins shifted to make room, a few smirking at the boldness of her move, though Fleur's glare was warning enough to silence any comments.
"Bonsoir," Fleur said coolly, her tone clipped as her gaze flicked briefly—dismissively—toward Krum. Then she smoothed her robes as if she had always belonged there.
Eira, amused by the performance, inclined her head with a warm smile. "Bonsoir."
"Gabrielle!" Eira's expression softened the moment her eyes landed on the younger girl. She leaned closer, her voice warm and fond. "It's been too long. I've missed you terribly. Look at you—have you grown taller already?"
Gabrielle beamed, cheeks dimpled. She leaned in conspiratorially and, in lilting French, said, «Enfin, je vois ma belle-sœur.»("At last, I see my sister-in-law.")
Eira blinked, then laughed under her breath. "Your sister-in-law, am I? Quelle imagination, Gabrielle."("What an imagination, Gabrielle.")
The words flowed easily in French between them, but beside her Fleur's posture stiffened, and the faintest flush crept into her ears. She was lucky the surrounding Slytherins didn't understand a word, though a few glanced curiously at the rapid foreign exchange.
Gabrielle, delighted by her sister's silence, carried on with wicked glee. "Elle pleurait pour toi, tu sais. Toute la nuit, maman devait la consoler. Elle disait ton nom dans son sommeil—comme une tragédie!"
("She cried for you, you know. All night, Mama had to comfort her. She said your name in her sleep—like a tragedy!")
Eira pressed her hand to her mouth to hide her grin, her eyes dancing. "Truly? Crying all night, Fleur? I should be flattered."
"Gabrielle!" Fleur hissed again, switching to French, her cheeks burning now. «Tais-toi! Tu inventes des histoires!»("Be quiet! You're making things up!")
But Gabrielle only giggled harder, bouncing in her seat. "Pas du tout! Elle t'a tellement manqué qu'elle a refusé de manger des crêpes, et tu sais combien elle aime les crêpes!"
("Not at all! She missed you so much she refused to eat crêpes—and you know how much she loves crêpes!")
This time, Eira laughed outright. Across the table, several Slytherins glanced over, baffled by the sudden French chatter. Tracey Davis, catching only Fleur's mortified expression, nearly spat pumpkin juice down her front.
Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy had not so much as twitched in their direction. He was far too intent on Viktor Krum, practically hanging on his every grunt.
"You know, I was at the World Cup," Draco said eagerly, his words tumbling over themselves. "I was right there, top box—my father got the best seats, naturally—and I was cheering for you the entire time. You were—well—you were brilliant, absolutely brilliant."
Krum gave him a curt nod, spooning potatoes onto his plate without comment.
Draco pressed on, undeterred. "My father says no Seeker in England could have matched you. Not one. You flew circles around Ireland's team—it was only Lynch's fluke that—"
Krum grunted again, more occupied with carving roast beef than Malfoy's praise.
Back on Eira's side of the table, Gabrielle was still chattering happily, each word deepening Fleur's crimson flush.
"She kept writing letters, you know," Gabrielle teased in French. "Long, long ones, and when she wasn't writing, she was sighing out the window like a lovesick princess. Even Papa told her to stop or she would wear the glass thin!"
Fleur's hand shot out to cover her sister's mouth, but Gabrielle squirmed away, squealing with laughter. Eira only raised her brows, her polite smile as calm as ever, though her eyes sparkled with delight at Fleur's misery.
Fleur ducked her head over her goblet, muttering rapid French that no one else at the table could understand. Her sister leaned cheerfully into Eira's shoulder, utterly unrepentant.