The evening sky was alight with ribbons of green and gold, magic drifting across the horizon as lanterns suspended by charms floated over the enormous Quidditch stadium. Thousands of wizards and witches stread toward the entrances in a river of cloaks, hats, banners, and enchanted trinkets that sang or flashed the nas of their favorite players. The air carried a hum of excitent, a thunder of voices so loud it seed the stadium itself was alive and breathing like a giant beast.
Eira walked at Fleur’s side, the younger girl’s hand brushing occasionally against hers as they moved with Emma and Isabella toward the towering structure that glead under starlight. Their path led them not toward the common gates but up a separate stairway guarded by officials in erald robes—the exclusive entrance for Ministers, foreign dignitaries, and families of ancient lineage.
"Trust the Ministry to make a spectacle of itself," Emma murmured as her sharp eyes scanned the crowd below. "The higher one’s box, the more important one is ant to feel."
Isabella chuckled softly, adjusting her midnight-blue cloak. "And yet the lower stands are where all the real voices are. Listen to them—they roar louder than any noble."
Eira smiled faintly, though her attention was fixed on the grandeur of the stadium interior. Golden banners depicting the Bulgarian lion and the Irish leprechauns unfurled magically, shimring with movent. The pitch itself glowed erald, polished like glass, while enchanted fireworks popped now and then, showering sparks before dissolving into shapes of broomsticks.
At last, they reached their reserved place—luxurious cushioned seats embroidered with protective enchantnts to ward off the chill of the night. A silver placard glittered above them: Reserved for House White and Delegates.
Fleur leaned close as they sat, her silvery hair catching the torchlight. "It is magnificent, non? You see how they try to impress the world. But nothing is so charming as Paris."
Eira laughed quietly. "You say that only because it is your ho."
They hadn’t been seated long before movent caught their attention. A tall, pale-haired man in immaculate robes of black and silver approached with regal ease. His walking stick tapped once against the floor as though announcing his presence. Beside him, his wife glided with cold grace, her blond hair pinned in an elaborate twist, her silver-gray eyes coolly observant. Behind them ca a boy—slender, pale, but taller than when Eira had last seen him. His hair, like his father’s, glead under the lantern light.
"Ah," Emma whispered wryly under her breath. "The Malfoys."
Lucius Malfoy inclined his head with an elegant sweep, his lips curving into a courteous, if carefully asured, smile. "Miss White. At last."
Eira rose politely, her manners flawless despite the weight of his gaze. "Lord Malfoy. Lady Malfoy. It has been so ti."
"Yes," Lucius drawled, voice smooth as polished glass. "I have, on more than one occasion, sent you invitations to dine with us at Wiltshire. Curiously, it seems none have ever reached you."
Emma arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Eira replied with calm evenness, "I thank you for the courtesy. But as you know, my years have been spent in France, attending Beauxbâtons. Between lessons and obligations, my opportunities for travel were few."
Narcissa, who had remained silent, stepped forward slightly, her cool gaze shifting from Eira to Fleur, who sat poised but quiet. Her voice carried a delicate steel. "And this must be your companion, yes?"
Fleur’s chin tilted with polite confidence, though her hand brushed against Eira’s as if to claim her silently.
"Yes," Eira answered smoothly. "Allow to introduce Fleur Delacour, daughter of the Delacour family of France."
Narcissa’s expression softened with well-feigned warmth. "How charming. France has always produced such grace." Her eyes, however, lingered just a heartbeat longer than courtesy required on Fleur’s hand resting near Eira’s.
Draco Malfoy, who had remained respectfully silent, finally stepped forward and inclined himself with surprising politeness. He gave a small bow. "Miss White. It is an honor to see you again. I confess I thought you might attend Hogwarts, but it seems Beauxbâtons claid you instead."
His manner was markedly different from the arrogant boy Eira vaguely recalled from an earlier encounter. His voice carried none of the drawling superiority but a cautious respect, almost... rehearsed.
Eira smiled gently. "And I confess I thought I would see you more often in Britain. Yet ti pulls us all in different directions."
Narcissa’s eyes glowed faintly, satisfaction written across her features as she looked between Draco and Eira. She seated herself beside Eira with a graceful rustle of silks, lowering her voice as if in private confidence.
"My son has grown so," she said, her tone soft yet purposeful. "His tutors speak of his remarkable aptitude. Charms, potions—he excels. And his manners, I trust, do our family proud."
Draco’s ears turned slightly pink. Eira listened politely, nodding as Narcissa continued to extol his virtues.
"You would find him a fine conversationalist, Miss White. And ambitious, too, though never without respect for tradition. The mark of a true heir." Narcissa’s voice dropped almost conspiratorially. "It is rare to find such qualities in youth today."
Fleur shifted beside Eira, her fingers slipping into Eira’s hand, squeezing lightly. Eira, oblivious to the silent claim, only squeezed back absentmindedly, eyes still on Narcissa as she spoke.
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