The morning of the Halloween was crisp and cold. Outside, frost clung stubbornly to the grass, and pale sunlight filtered down through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, which mirrored the chilly, bright sky beyond. Inside, the smell of toast and sizzling sausages filled the air, chased by the warm spice of pumpkin juice and the chatter of hundreds of voices.
Eira sat at the Slytherin table with her plate arranged neatly before her. She had been careful this morning—very careful. She had chosen robes with a high, stiff collar, and even added a scarf wrapped a little too tightly around her neck. The fabric itched, but it was safer than the alternative. The marks Fleur had left last night were bold and unmissable, a scatter of bruises along her throat and chest that would have told every curious eye far too much.
Even so, she could not quite hide her lips. No matter how she held her mouth, the corners bore a faint bluish tint, sensitive and sore to the touch.
She prayed no one would notice.
"Eira," Tracey said from across the table, squinting at her. "What in Merlin's name happened to your mouth?"
Eira froze mid-sip of pumpkin juice, nearly spilling it back into her goblet.
Tracey pointed her butter knife accusingly. "Your lips—well, the corners of them—they look bruised. Did you walk into a door? Or—Merlin—did someone hex you?"
Across from them, Daphne raised her eyebrows, clearly listening. Several other Slytherins glanced over as well.
Before Eira could answer, Fleur, seated at her side, reached delicately for a slice of toast. She spread marmalade in an unhurried stroke, silver hair spilling over her shoulder like liquid moonlight. Her lips curled slowly and very deliberately, into the smuggest smile Eira had ever seen.
Eira's face grew warm, her hand twitching as though she might nudge Fleur under the table just to wipe that look away.
Tracey's gaze flicked between them, brows pinched. "Wait, don't tell me this girl had a fight with you?"
Fleur's voice carried that lilting French accent that always made Eira's stomach flutter. "Oh, non, non. It was only… how you say… a sweet duel." She glanced sidelong at Eira then, raising her brows twice in quick little arches, her smirk widening as if daring Eira to contradict her.
Eira nearly choked on her pumpkin juice. She coughed once and stammered, "It is only… une allergie." The words slipped out clumsily, her voice uneven. She cleared her throat, forcing composure, and added in a softer tone, "Just a little reaction."
Tracey tilted her head, doubtful. "Strange allergy. Looks more like you've been…" She stopped herself, eyes flicking from Fleur's composed face to Eira's flushed cheeks. After a pause she muttered, "Well. Fine. But you should see Madam Pomfrey."
Eira nodded too quickly, relief rushing into her voice. "Yes. Perhaps I should."
Tracey frowned a little but shrugged and went back to buttering her roll. Whatever it was, she seemed to decide it was just some silly quarrel between friends.
Beside Eira, Fleur lifted her tea and hid her mouth behind the rim. When she set it down again, her lips curved upward, soft and smug, brimming with unrestrained pride. She gave a faint hum, as if congratulating herself on her own cleverness.
Eira stole a glance at her, cheeks still glowing. She whispered under her breath, "Stop looking so pleased."
Fleur leaned closer until her silvery hair brushed Eira's shoulder. Her voice dropped low and smooth, the accent curling around every word. "But I am, ma chère, last night I got to eat two delicious little mangoes 🥭 so of course I am pleased."
Eira pressed her lips together, shy and flustered, but she could not fight the small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Fleur reached for another piece of toast with perfect serenity, as if nothing had happened, though her eyes still glimmered with victory.
Eira shot her a glare. Fleur only brushed it off, tilting her head slightly, eyes sparkling with mischief.
'Little vampire', Eira thought furiously, though she had to bite back a smile.
The chatter of the hall swelled, and for a while Eira allowed herself to focus on her food, if only to distract from the heat in her face. Yet even then, Fleur's English reached her ears, touched by that warm French accent.
"Gabrielle, pass ze jam, s'il te plaît," Fleur murmured, helping her younger sister reach across the table.
Every syllable fell like music, soft and lilting. Even something as ordinary as jam sounded like poetry when Fleur said it. Eira's chest tightened. She could listen to that voice forever.
Before she could lose herself completely, the doors of the Great Hall slammed open.
Boots thundered on stone. The Durmstrang students strode in, their fur cloaks swaying, their faces stern and serious. At the head of their procession was Igor Karkaroff, his silver hair tied back, his goatee sharp as a dagger. At his side, walking with the heavy stride of an athlete, was none other than Viktor Krum.