The morning sun spilled gently through the tall, arched windows of Room 105, illuminating the pristine ivory walls and polished parquet floors. A long table, adorned with crystal goblets, embroidered linens, and gleaming silverware, stretched the length of the room. Every detail radiated refinent—perfectly symtrical place settings, a slight floral scent in the air, and not a single chair out of line.
Eira stepped into the room beside Marin, her expression caught sowhere between disdain and reluctant admiration.
"I forget just how ridiculous this room is," she muttered.
Marin raised an eyebrow. "Ridiculous or regal?"
Eira glanced around at the gold-trimd mirrors and the single floating chandelier above them. "Both."
At the front of the room stood Professor Noëlle de Vauclère, exactly as they rembered her: tall, sharp-featured, with silver-gray eyes like polished steel. Her robes were an elegant shade of midnight blue, embroidered with silver ivy. She stood as if born atop a ballroom staircase, chin raised, hands clasped at her front, and not a single strand of her platinum-blond hair out of place.
"Ah. Our little wildlings have arrived," she announced in her clipped, silken voice as the students settled into their velvet-backed chairs. "Let us try again this year to ta the wilderness in your posture, your speech, and your utterly unrefined relationship with the dining table."
Eira stifled a sigh. She both loathed and admired Professor de Vauclère. The woman was absolutely insufferable—and undeniably brilliant.
"This year," Professor Noëlle began, sweeping her gaze across the class like a queen inspecting her court, "we rise above basic conversation and the chanics of tea. We now turn to an art form more revealing than any blood test or truth serum: the etiquette of the formal dining table."
She tapped the edge of a silver butter knife with her wand. At once, the cutlery shimred and rearranged itself with a musical chi. Students leaned forward instinctively.
"In France, we dine with grace. In Britain, I’m told, they dine with forks gripped like rapiers. And in Arica—" she gave a dramatic pause, "—they eat with their elbows on the table and their voices louder than their taste buds."
A few students from mixed heritage families chuckled nervously. Marin hid a grin behind his hand.
"Let us begin," she said, pointing her wand at a hovering parchnt that unfurled behind her, listing:
1. Reading the Table: Identifying social rank and conversational expectations based on seating.
2. Signal Cues: How to ask for salt without speaking. How to refuse wine without offense.
3. Cutlery Clues: Which utensil begins the course. Which gesture signals a pause versus the end of a al.
4. Host Cues: Reading when to begin, when to stop, and how to know who leads.
5. Subtle Magic: The unspoken spellwork to enhance etiquette—cooling soup silently, silencing stomach growls, vanishing crumbs.
Professor Noëlle flicked her wand again. A vision appeared in the air: a large dining table, fully occupied by translucent silhouettes representing wizards of various status. As she spoke, each movent was demonstrated.
"You see, the spoon held vertically upon the plate signals a private conversation may continue. A napkin to the left ans you wish to be left alone. Should your fingers brush the rim of your goblet without lifting it? A signal to the host that you desire more—but only of their company, not their wine."
Eira blinked.
Marin leaned sideways and whispered, "Did she just teach us how to flirt with a water glass?"
Eira didn’t answer—she was busy biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Professor Noëlle continued with a deadly sort of elegance. "At Hogwarts, they have no such training. Their dining halls are noisy pigpens of slurping and speaking with mouths full. Napkins? Often missing. Table manners? Replaced by food fights. And at Ilvermorny—don’t get started—they eat fried chicken with their hands. Imagine that."
"Oh no," Marin whispered, mock-gasping. "Not hands!"
Eira smirked and mid fainting onto the table.
The professor went on, oblivious—or perhaps entirely aware. "This is not re ceremony. Etiquette is a language. It speaks of who you are, before you’ve said a word. And more importantly, it tells others whether you are to be respected... or dismissed."
Her gaze lingered aningfully on one student who had absentmindedly placed their elbow on the table. The elbow was quickly removed.
By the end of the class, they had practiced non-verbal requests, adjusted posture, and been instructed in a dizzying array of codes. Eira could swear the number of rules had doubled since last year. It felt like learning Ancient Runes—only with napkins.
Professor Noëlle concluded with a final flourish of her cane-shaped wand. "Next week, you will each be assigned a dining partner and assessed in a live etiquette simulation. Prepare accordingly. And rember: your bread plate is always to your left. Unless, of course, you are a barbarian."
She turned crisply and swept from the room.
As the students began collecting their things, Marin leaned closer to Eira, lips twitching with barely restrained amusent. "So, I have a theory."
"Oh?" Eira raised a brow.
"I think Professor de Vauclère has serious beef with Hogwarts. Last year she insulted them every chance she got. This year she’s practically accusing them of dining cris."
Eira tapped a finger to her lips in mock thought. "Hmm. Shall we analyze her tragic backstory too like Professor Vaillant?"
"Let’s."
"Well, clearly," Eira began with mock solemnity, "she once studied abroad. At Hogwarts. Fell madly in love with Dumbledore."
Marin burst out laughing.
"But," Eira continued, undeterred, "he rejected her—politely, of course, probably with a twinkle in his eye and so clever taphor about the stars. And ever since then, she has devoted her life to the art of dining as revenge."
Marin wiped a tear from his eye. "That... might be the stupidest and most perfect theory I’ve ever heard."
Eira grinned. "It explains everything. The drama. The disdain. The napkin obsession."
They laughed all the way out of the classroom, the rules of butter knives and wine goblets already fading from their minds—though Eira secretly resolved to rember just enough to survive the next simulation without being labeled a savage.
Reviews
All reviews (0)