The gardens of Beauxbâtons had always been serene in the evening, but under the fullness of the moon, they seemed enchanted in a way no spell could capture. The silvery light spilled across the pond, scattering shards of reflected brilliance that shimmered with every ripple of the water. Tall trees swayed softly, and the night carried a fragrance of roses and blooming wisteria, mixing with the cool breath of the summer air. Somewhere, the song of a nightingale threaded through the silence, as if the world itself wished to serenade what was about to unfold.
Eira sat with Fleur by the pond's edge, their reflections swaying in the water—two girls sitting close, shoulders brushing, hands clasped together as though neither dared to let go. The world beyond these gardens was in turmoil—newspapers carrying endless stories about her, families whispering about scandals, about politics and the future of the White House. But here, under the moon, there was only Fleur.
Fleur leaned her head against Eira's shoulder, her silvery-blonde hair glowing faintly in the night. Eira wrapped an arm around her, drawing her closer. For a long moment, they said nothing. They simply breathed together, listening to the quiet music of the pond. But Fleur's silence was different tonight—heavier, pensive.
Eira noticed. "What are you thinking, ma chère?" she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Fleur's face.
Fleur hesitated. Her eyes, bright and stormy like the sea, were turned downward. Finally, she spoke, her voice small:
"I… I don't know, Eira. Is it okay?"
Eira blinked, tilting her head. "Okay?"
Fleur lifted her gaze, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "This. Us. Sitting here together, kissing when we want, holding hands when everyone can see. The world reads about you in their papers. They speak your name in every hall—House White, the girl who stands against Ministries, against old families, against everything they think is proper. "And I—" her voice caught. "I don't want to be the reason they speak ill of you. I don't want my love to cast shame on your name, or give them cause to wound you because of me. I don't want to be the reason for your downfall, nor the stain upon your family for which you must suffer."
Eira's heart ached, but she forced a smile. Instead of answering immediately, she leaned forward and kissed Fleur—softly at first, her lips brushing against hers with gentle finality. When she pulled back, she whispered, firm and low:
"Never. Never ever say that again."
Fleur's eyes widened, but before she could protest, Eira continued, her voice steady, her tone threaded with warmth and command.
"Do you remember, Fleur? Do you remember who kissed whom first?"
The memory sparked between them like lightning—the Enchanted Valley, Valentine's Day, when Fleur had leaned in, bold and unafraid, to claim Eira with fire in her eyes.
"You were the one who made the first move," Eira said, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You kissed me. You tried to dominate me that day, to make me yours before I even knew I belonged to you. You weren't doubtful then. You weren't afraid of the world when you touched me first. So why now? What happened to that Fleur? Or are you telling me that you are so weak—that the voices of strangers, rumors in newspapers, hold more power over you than your own heart?"
Her words were sharp, but her hand cupped Fleur's cheek, gentle as the moonlight.
Fleur's lips trembled, tears pooling in her lashes. "I have never been doubtful of my love for you, Eira. Never." Her voice broke with raw honesty. "I would burn myself before I let my love for you falter. It isn't doubt about us—it's fear. I don't want them to hurt you because of me. I don't want to see your name dragged in the mud, I don't want people spitting venom at you because of who you chose to love. If that pain ever reached you—if I were the cause—"
Eira silenced her with another kiss, firmer this time, holding Fleur's face between both hands. She didn't let her finish. She didn't want her to finish. When she drew back, her eyes were fierce, molten with something dangerous and eternal.
"I don't care about the world, Fleur. Do you hear me? I don't care about their rules, their rumors, their lies. The only thing that matters is this—" she pressed their foreheads together, her breath mingling with Fleur's, "—that you and I are happy with each other. That is the whole of my world. And if the world thinks we should be ashamed, then I will change the world itself. I will tear down their laws, break their traditions, burn their scripts of history. I will bend it all until it allows me to love you openly, without fear. Do you understand?"
Fleur's tears spilled, glistening silver under the moon. She choked a laugh between sobs, clutching at Eira's shoulders. "You always speak as though you can rewrite the world."
Eira's smile was a dangerous, dazzling thing. "Then let me prove it."
And then Fleur kissed her, a desperate, aching kiss that tasted of salt and hope. Their mouths moved together, slow but deep, as though every fear had to be consumed, every doubt burned away. The night grew thicker around them, the cicadas humming louder, the water rippling with unseen magic.
When at last they pulled apart, breathless, Eira whispered, her voice low and husky, filled with a dangerous tenderness:
"You are stuck with me, Fleur Delacour. Do you hear me? Stuck. You are mine, and I will never let you go. Now that you've become mine, there will never be a day when I let you walk outside of me. I will not see you in anyone else's arms. I will not allow another soul to touch what is mine."
Her eyes darkened, shadows curling like stormclouds around her aura. She leaned in, her lips brushing Fleur's ear, her whisper sharp and dangerous as a blade:
"If that day ever came—if I saw you with another person—I would burn the world itself to ash."
Fleur shuddered, but not from fear. Her eyes, full of tears, overflowed not with terror but with a wild, consuming love. She cradled Eira's face in her hands, kissed her cheeks where the moonlight kissed them, and whispered back fiercely:
"Don't worry. I am yours. I will always be yours. Nothing could take me from you. Nothing. I belong to you, Eira White."
Their lips met again, this time softer, longer, more intimate. The kind of kiss that was not fire, not desperation, but promise. The kind of kiss that lingered even after it broke, echoing through the heart like the final note of a song.
The night around them seemed to hold its breath. The pond shimmered, the moon blazed above, and the garden flowers leaned gently toward them, as if bowing to the two girls who had, in that moment, written their own truth into the world.
When finally they parted, resting in each other's arms, Fleur whispered, her voice tender and certain:
"Then let the world burn, Eira. As long as we have this… as long as I have you."
And Eira, pressing a final kiss against Fleur's hair, whispered into the night:
"You'll always have me."