The afternoon sun bathed the Beauxbâtons campus in a soft golden light, and the gentle hum of farewell filled the air. Laughter echoed through the marble halls, and suitcases chard to float behind their owners bobbed gently in the breeze.
From the cool shadows of the Ombrelune dormitory hall, Eira stepped into the light, her bag securely tucked into her travel pouch. Her blue robes shimred faintly in the sun, the crest of Ombrelune embroidered at her shoulder. The soft crunch of footsteps beside her signaled Fleur’s approach.
"You’re really leaving it all behind now," Fleur said lightly, brushing her silvery-blonde hair back as she joined Eira outside.
Eira glanced back at the doorway one last ti before nodding. "Maybe Until next year."
The two girls walked side by side through the quiet stone corridors of the castle, passing other students also making their way out. Most had already said their goodbyes over the farewell lunch. Hugs had been exchanged, stars tallied, and dances danced. Now only the practical business of travel remained.
As they stepped into the Ombrelune courtyard, the scene was alive with motion. The sumr breeze carried the scent of roses from the garden hedges, and the warmth of the day shimred above the stones. Laughter rang out across the open spaces as students moved toward the front fields where the Abraxan-pulled carriages waited, already lined up in a neat row with their winged horses stamping impatiently.
Fleur looped her arm through Eira’s as they made their way across the lawn. "You’re always so quiet when we leave. You don’t even pout a little."
Eira smiled faintly. "I suppose I’m not very good at endings."
"It’s not an ending," Fleur said, squeezing her arm. "It’s just a pause."
They reached one of the elegant, velvet-lined carriages, and an attendant nodded to them as they climbed aboard. The door closed with a soft click behind them.
The carriage took off monts later, lifting gracefully into the sumr sky. The breeze tugged at their hair as the ground dropped away beneath them. Beauxbâtons, grand and glittering in the sunlight, slowly beca smaller in the distance, frad by fields of flowers and thick woods.
Inside the carriage, Fleur leaned her cheek on her hand, watching the clouds roll past the window. "Do you think next year will be different?"
"In what way?"
"I don’t know," Fleur said. "Everything’s changing so fast. Families going to war, politics everywhere, duels and feuds... and we’re still here, pretending like it’s all distant."
Eira looked out the window for a mont, then said quietly, "It’s not distant. It just hasn’t reached us yet."
Fleur glanced at her, searching her face. "I hope it never does."
Neither of them spoke for a while after that. The silence was easy—thoughtful, but not heavy.
When the carriage finally began to descend, the landscape had shifted. Gone were the towering mountains and enchanted woods of the school; now they hovered above a vast open clearing, surrounded by smooth, pale stones and flowering hedges. This was the transfer point—an official location far enough from the school to remain secure, but close enough for magical transportation.
One by one, the carriages landed in a neat circle. Students disembarked with their belongings and were ushered toward the long stone corridor lined with banners from different magical regions. It was an elegant, sun-drenched plaza, filled with portkeys and travel sigils. Each direction pointed to a different region: Italie, Scandinavie, Angleterre, Afrique du Nord...
In the center stood two witches dressed in navy-blue travel uniforms, manning the travel checkpoint. Floating beside them was a long table of enchanted door keys, glowing softly in different shades depending on their destination.
Eira and Fleur walked slowly toward the checkpoint, their pace slowing with each step. The crowd thinned around them as students were called away by their portkeys, each disappearing in bursts of light and color.
"Looks like this is where we part," Fleur said, brushing her fingers along the side of her bag.
Eira gave her a small, almost sheepish smile. "At least it’s not forever."
"I should hope not," Fleur replied with a teasing look. Then her voice softened, and she reached out to touch Eira’s arm. "Write to , alright? And if you get into trouble—real trouble—you send a letter first before anyone else."
"Before Emma?" Eira said with a playful lift of her brow.
"Especially before Emma."
They both laughed, and then, before the mont passed, Fleur leaned in and hugged her. Not the quick, casual kind of hug students gave before separating—but a true embrace, quiet and close. Eira stood still, arms wrapped around Fleur as the breeze moved through their hair.
"Be safe," Fleur whispered near her ear.
"You too."
They let go, and Fleur stepped back. "Don’t miss too much."
Eira grinned. "I’ll try."
Fleur turned, took her door key from one of the witches, and disappeared through the shimring sigil a mont later.
The space beside Eira felt noticeably emptier.
She stepped forward.
"Na?" one of the witches asked, her voice crisp and businesslike.
"Eira White," she said.
The witch scanned the list, then plucked a silver key from the rack. It pulsed with a gentle light.
"Destination?"
"Paris."
The witch nodded and handed her the key. "Use the teleportation gate to your left. It’ll bring you to a designated entry zone in the 7th arrondissent. From there, we recomnd magical transport. The Muggle side’s full of tourists this ti of year."
Eira took the key, thanked her, and turned toward the glowing archway marked "Île-de-France." The magic shimred like liquid glass. She closed her hand tightly around the key and took a breath.
One step forward—and the world folded.
In an instant, the sumr wind was replaced with the still, warm air of an old stone cottage tucked deep in the alleys of Paris. Ivy crept along the outside wall, and the sll of fresh bread wafted in from a nearby Muggle café. From the window, she could see the Seine sparkling under the afternoon sun. Muggles passed by without even glancing at the building—thanks to the protective wards that shimred faintly at the edges of the door.
Eira stepped outside, blinking in the warm light of the city. Paris pulsed with life. There were voices, footsteps, the distant chi of bicycle bells, The sporadic flutter of pigeon wings vanishing around the corners of the city.
Down the lane , hidden from the sights of muggles, a small magical kiosk stood, decorated in violet and gold, where a sign floated overhead:
"Ligne Magique 3: Vers les Résidences Sorcières — Prochain Arrêt: Quartier Blanc"
A sleek magical bus hovered beside the sign, its doors already open. She approached, stepped inside, and gave the conductor her travel sigil.
The interior was cool, cushioned, and surprisingly empty. The magical route wasn’t one most witches and wizards used unless they lived among the old French families.
As the vehicle lifted from the cobblestone street and began its quiet journey toward the outskirts of Paris, Eira leaned her head against the window, watching the city unfold around her. Familiar bridges and towers drifted past. She traced a lazy circle on the glass with one finger and let her thoughts drift—towards her sumr holidays, and the quiet silence of ho.
The White Manor.
This signals the beginning of the sumr holidays following her second grade.
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