The French Ministry of Magic lood like a palace of marble and crystal, its gilded gates guarded by Aurors in cobalt-blue robes. The sun caught on the enchanted glass dos, scattering rainbow fragnts of light across the cobblestone courtyard. It had been weeks since the scandal against Eira had finally dissolved, her na scrubbed clean from rumors and venomous headlines. Yet as she walked at Emma’s side through the atrium, heads still turned.
The sound of her steps on the polished floor seed louder than the rustle of enchanted parchnts and quills at the registration desks. Ministry workers paused mid-conversation; couriers carrying stacks of files slowed their pace. So bowed politely, others watched with a curiosity that bordered on awe, as though unable to reconcile the young woman before them with the infamous White heir who had defied French courts only months ago.
Emma leaned close, murmuring softly as they passed under the towering crystal archway that led into the grand authorium.
"Half of them are staring because they don’t believe you’d actually co," she whispered.
"And the other half?" Eira asked with a faint smile.
"Because you walked in with your head high, as if you’ve never stumbled at all."
The authorium stretched vast and circular, its vaulted ceiling enchanted to mimic a dawn sky. Murals of magical France unfurled across the walls—alchemists at their cauldrons, dueling champions frozen in glittering stasis, the great wizarding families immortalized in brush and spell. Eira’s eyes traced over the painted legacy as they followed a golden-robed attendant through corridors of veined marble.
The path seed ceremonial: past floating lanterns, past the ancient stone fountain where water shimred with starlight, past the rows of carved doors bearing sigils of each departnt. The deeper they walked, the quieter it beca, until all that remained was the echo of their footsteps and the whisper of Emma’s robes against the polished floor.
Finally, they arrived before a set of carved double doors bound with bronze filigree. The attendant bowed low, pressing his wand to the lock. With a quiet click, the doors opened to reveal the Minister’s office.
The last ti Eira had entered this room, it had been her aunt Isabella Voclain who sat behind the desk. Isabella’s office had been austere and sharp—velvet drapes of deep burgundy, polished wood, and scrolls stacked in neat columns like soldiers awaiting command.
Now, everything had changed. The walls shimred with modern elegance: pale cream paneling set with golden trim, shelves lined with newly bound books that looked more decorative than used. Portraits of past Ministers now covered the walls, all frad in gilded filigree; so slumbered, others watched curiously, whispering to each other as Eira passed. A crystal chandelier glowed overhead, shedding light across silken carpets.
At the far end of the room stood Lucien Bellerose.
He rose from behind his desk, his movents deliberate, gracious. He was a man in his early sixties, tall and still broad-shouldered, with black hair streaked with silver at the temples. His most striking feature, however, were his eyes—amber-gold, like molten tal, catching the light in a way that seed unnatural. When they fell on Eira, they softened into sothing almost paternal.
Bellerose bowed—not deeply, but enough to acknowledge her weight.
"I am most delighted to welco the matriarch of House White into my office," he said, his voice rich, cultured, every syllable polished by years of public speech. "Please, sit. It is an honor long overdue. I am Lucien Bellerose, though I am sure the newspapers have introduced many tis over."
Eira inclined her head, smiling with diplomatic grace.
"The honor is mine, Monsieur Bellerose. Thank you for receiving . I confess, I was surprised when I heard the new Minister of Magic had requested my company so soon after his election."
Emma slipped gracefully into the chair beside her, her eyes sharp, asuring.
Lucien chuckled, spreading his hands as he sat back down.
"Ah, but I had to. You are not only a na, Mademoiselle White—you are a bridge. Between France and Britain, between tradition and youth. It has beco a custom, you see, that every new Minister must et the head of your house. A tradition born generations ago, when your ancestors ensured that our nations remained allies, even in darker tis."
His gaze lingered on her, keen but not unkind.
"And if I may confess," he added, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial smile, "I have admired you from afar. You are not easily ignored, Eira White. Few at your age could have withstood what you endured in our courts, and still walk into this ministry with composure intact."
Eira’s lips curved, though her tone remained careful.
"Well, you are different than I imagined. From your speeches, one might expect a stern man who allows no laughter. But here you are, smiling."
Lucien laughed warmly.
"Ah, speeches, yes. One must look unyielding when seizing a throne built on rumors and votes. I spent months fighting for this seat—sacrificed ti, resources, allies. A Minister must appear unshakable to the public, or he will be devoured before the ink on his decrees dries."
Eira inclined her head slightly.
"A truth I cannot argue. Still, I am curious. Given my closeness to Isabella Voclain—your forr rival—I did not expect such cordiality. After all, you were one of her fiercest opponents."
Lucien’s smile thinned but did not vanish.
"My dear, this is politics. Within the Ministry, there are no permanent friends, only shifting tides. Isabella knew this as well as I. She undermined her opponents as ruthlessly as I opposed her. She was formidable, and if she had not chosen to resign, I suspect she would still hold this seat. But she chose her mont, and handed a strong Ministry to my care. For that, I respect her."
Eira nodded slowly.
"I will not deny that my aunt achieved much. She restored relations with Britain after decades of silence. Trade, diplomacy, cooperation—all rebuilt under her watch. I hope you will continue what she began."
Lucien’s eyes glead, studying her.
"Of course. And do not think I forget the hand of the White family in that restoration. Your late grandfather, Elijah White—ah, what a man. He was a friend of mine when we were young, though our paths diverged. It was he who threw his weight behind Isabella, was it not? He told once that it was family loyalty, nothing more. And now the truth of that loyalty is known to all: Isabella is your aunt, your mother a daughter of the Voclain line. You, Eira, are both Britain and France made flesh."
Eira held his gaze, her voice calm but firm.
"Perhaps. Yet my house is British, and my duties lie first with them. France may claim my blood, but England holds my na."
Lucien inclined his head in acknowledgnt, though the gleam in his golden eyes suggested amusent.
"A fair answer. And yet, whether you claim it or not, both nations will look to you. Perhaps even lean upon you, should storms rise again."
Emma’s hand brushed against Eira’s arm lightly under the table—a silent reminder not to yield more than intended.
Eira only smiled.
"Let us hope, then, that the storms remain far from our shores."
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