Three days passed, and in that time Eira had managed to see Fleur only once. Even that meeting was brief, snatched between Madame Maxime's relentless training sessions and Eira's own classes with the Hogwarts students. Each day felt slower than the last, but at last the twenty-fourth of November arrived—the day of the first task of the Triwizard Tournament.
The castle hummed with excitement. Students filled the corridors with restless chatter, their voices bright with anticipation. They had waited for this day for months, and now it had finally come.
Eira stood near the edge of the Forbidden Forest where the dragons had been brought, close to the cluster of trees that half-shielded the enclosure from view. From where she waited, the faint roar of the beasts carried through the air, punctuated by the occasional burst of fire. A large tent had been raised nearby, its entrance facing her. Fleur stood before her, pale beneath the weak autumn sunlight, her usual composure strained beneath the weight of nerves. She tried hard to look confident, but Eira could see the tension in her eyes, the stiffness in her movements.
Eira took her hands firmly, grounding her.
"I will not drown you in encouragement," Eira said softly, her green eyes fixed on Fleur's. "You must have heard enough of that these past days. Instead, I will tell you this—nothing will happen to you in there. You have practiced. You have prepared yourself. Go with confidence. Use your Occlumency to keep your mind clear."
Fleur drew in a shaky breath, almost a sigh that trembled at the edges. "My Occlumency is not strong enough."
"It does not need to be perfect," Eira replied, her voice steady and warm. She reached out, her hand brushing Fleur's wrist with deliberate gentleness. "It only needs to help you think clearly. Remember your strategies, the plans you practiced. Do not lean on them too heavily, because you will face the unexpected. There will be moments that may frighten you. Predict the possibilities, and you will know how to respond."
Fleur's lips curved into a faint, uncertain smile. "Even the bad scenarios and possibilities?" she asked quietly, her eyes shimmering in the half-light.
"Even those," Eira confirmed, her tone firmer now, though her thumb traced soothing circles against Fleur's skin. "But do not let them weigh you down. You will not face them alone. I will be watching. I will be protecting you in my own way." She leaned closer, her voice dropping as though her words were meant only for Fleur's heart. "Once you step inside that enclosure, forget the crowd, forget the expectations, forget everything except the task. Focus on the golden egg. Take it without a single scratch on your body."
Fleur hesitated, her breath catching. "And if I falter?"
"You will not," Eira answered, her tone certain, almost commanding. Then her voice softened again, carrying an intimate warmth that steadied rather than smothered. "But if fear tries to take you, think of me. Remember how many times you triumphed in practice. Remember my voice in your mind, reminding you that you are more than capable. I trust you, Fleur. Completely."
A fragile laugh escaped Fleur, though her eyes glistened with emotion. "You speak as though you are certain of me, even when I am not."
Eira's lips curved into a small, serene smile. "That is because I am. My certainty will carry you where your doubts cannot. Let it give you strength."
Fleur lowered her gaze, as though overwhelmed by the intensity of those words, before lifting it again. "You sound like someone who is giving her heart."
"Perhaps I am," Eira replied quietly, though her eyes held no hesitation. Then, with a sudden, mischievous tilt to her smile, she added, "Go there and try not to burn yourself, especially that pretty face of yours. I do not want my future wife to have burn marks."
Fleur blinked, a shocked little laugh escaping her. "Your future wife," she echoed, the words falling between them like something delicious and dangerous. "And what if I am burned, and my face is scarred, or my hand, or any place at all?"
Eira's grin grew softer, almost fond. She reached up and, with exaggerated care, cupped Fleur's cheek as if inspecting it for damage. Her thumb ghosted along Fleur's skin, deliberately light and intimate. "If it is a small, charming burn, I shall pretend it was on purpose and call it character. If it is hideous and terrible, I shall invent the most romantic story about how you earned it and everyone will sigh."
"You will lie for me?" Fleur asked, amusement and something warmer twining in her voice.
"For you," Eira said. "I will lie beautifully." She paused, then leaned in close enough that their foreheads almost touched. "But understand this, Fleur. If you return covered in scorch marks, I will be terribly disappointed. You owe me your face."
Fleur pushed her hair back from her own forehead and made a face, mock offended. "My face is not owed to anyone," she protested, though her hand stayed where Eira had held it. "And if I am burned, I shall burn even brighter. Perhaps people will be distracted by my new look and I will win just to spite you."
"Is that a threat or a promise?" Eira asked, amused, letting one finger trace an idle path along Fleur's jaw. Her tone was teasing, but the steady warmth under it never faltered. "Either way, I will not have you testing that theory."
They smiled at each other, the banter softening into something tender. Fleur tucked her hand into the crook of Eira's elbow, leaning in as if to make the world smaller between them. "Then promise me you will be waiting."
Eira's answer was immediate, gentle, absolute. "Do not worry, my love. Come back to me without a single scratch." She brushed a light kiss where Fleur's brow met temple, then added, grinning, "And if you fail, I will marry you anyway, but only after I have the pleasure of making you explain every ridiculous story you told about how you got the scar."
Fleur laughed, the sound bright and relieved. "So cruel," she teased, warm and brave again. "And so confident."
"I am both," Eira said, kissing Fleur's temple once more. "Now go, and remember the egg. And try not to die in a spectacular fashion. I prefer my romances unscorched and very much alive."
As she spoke, Professor McGonagall appeared, walking briskly toward the tent. Harry Potter trailed behind her, looking pale and tense, and after a brief word she ushered him inside. Turning to leave, McGonagall's sharp gaze fell on Fleur and Eira.
"Miss Delacour," she said firmly, though her tone softened at the edges, "you should be going into the tent. Mr. Bagman and the other champions are waiting."
Fleur nodded quickly. "Oui, Professor. I will go."
McGonagall's eyes then shifted to Eira, and though her voice carried its usual briskness, there was an unusual warmth beneath it. "And you, Miss White, should take your place with the other judges. The competition will begin shortly."
Eira inclined her head respectfully. "Of course, Professor. I am on my way."
As McGonagall strode toward the enclosure, Eira pulled Fleur into a sudden, fierce embrace. She pressed her lips to Fleur's with quiet certainty and whispered against her mouth, "Go, my love. Bring me the egg."
Fleur's smile flickered through her nerves, and she kissed her back, softer but with determination. "I will."
Eira let her go, but before releasing her hand completely, she leaned close, her voice low and teasing. "If you return without a single scratch, I will let you do anything you want with me."
Fleur's blue eyes widened in surprise, words caught in her throat. She looked as if she might reply, but at that moment a voice called Fleur's name from the tent. Eira only smiled, gave her hand one last squeeze, and turned away, leaving Fleur with a flushed face and a racing heart.
The air outside the tent buzzed with restless energy. Eira's robes stirred in the crisp November wind as she climbed the stone steps leading toward the raised judges' box. The enclosure stretched before her, a wide rocky arena surrounded by protective charms. Beyond it, the stands were packed with students and visiting witches and wizards. Colors flared everywhere—scarlet and gold, sapphire, deep crimson—house banners, school flags, and signs painted with messages of encouragement for each champion.
The crowd's excitement was a living thing, swelling and rolling like the sea. Bursts of nervous shrieks escaped whenever smoke curled from the arena floor, proof of the dragons waiting within. The acrid tang of sulfur and scorched air clung to the breeze, sharp and heavy.
The judges' box loomed ahead, draped in rich velvet and marked with the crest of the Ministry of Magic. Six high-backed chairs lined the long table, four of them already filled. At the center sat Albus Dumbledore, his silver beard catching the sunlight, his calm presence steady as stone. To his left lounged Igor Karkaroff, eyes dark and watchful, his fur-lined cloak making him look like a carrion bird. On Dumbledore's right sat Madame Maxime, regal and imposing, her massive frame balanced with elegant poise. At the far end, Barty Crouch Sr. leaned forward, already scribbling notes, his quill scratching briskly.
As Eira stepped into view, the crowd's murmur swelled before settling again. Dumbledore turned, his eyes twinkling, his expression one of welcome.
"Miss White," he said warmly. "A pleasure to have you join us. I hope you find today's task an enlightening experience as judge."
"Thank you, Professor," Eira replied smoothly, her voice calm and assured.
The others hardly acknowledged her, save for Madame Maxime. The headmistress leaned slightly toward her, speaking in French so the others would not easily catch it.
"How have you been, Eira?" Madame Maxime's voice carried over the noise of the crowd as she leaned down slightly toward her student. "These weeks I have been entirely occupied with Fleur's training and had little chance to speak with you. Tell me, do you enjoy your time here at Hogwarts? Is it better, or worse, than Beauxbatons? I trust Dumbledore is not neglecting his duties as headmaster."
Eira smiled faintly, her eyes softening. "I have been well, Madame. I cannot openly compare the schools, not when I am now a student of both. Beauxbatons will always hold a special place in my heart, for it was there I learned my first spell. But here too I am doing well—if we set aside a few… incidents."
Maxime's gaze lingered on her with the weight of quiet wisdom. "I see. Then I hope you will bring change where you walk. Make this place into something that suits you. Such opportunities are rare, but you are not like most."
Eira tilted her head, lips curving at the unexpected encouragement. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I should consider that."
For a moment the two stood in silence, watching the arena's preparations. Then Maxime spoke again, her tone shifting to something more personal. "Tell me, how is your Aunt Isabella? I have not seen her for some time. Not since she resigned her post at the French Ministry and the quidditch World Cup final. She has not attended gatherings, not even private meetings in France. It is strange, for she was once everywhere."
Eira's expression softened with warmth. "She is well, Madame. She is… occupied now, in the best way. As you know, she is engaged, and she is very much happy with Emma. The two of them live beautifully. Whenever they are not managing the White family's affairs in my place, they go traveling, visiting other countries, taking tours. The usual things that couples do."
A rare smile crossed Madame Maxime's lips, fond and approving. "It seems she has finally found her happiness. She deserves it. When she was at the Ministry, she carried too many burdens. Her years there were stressful ones, and I feared she might never rest. I am glad to hear she is at peace, and that she enjoys her life as she deserves."
Eira inclined her head. "I am also happy, Madame. Having her close, having her help, the family has benefited a great deal. She has been a strength to me in more ways than I can count."
Maxime's tone softened, and she lowered her voice. "And your studies at Hogwarts? How is Dumbledore with you? I imagine his way of guiding is very different from my own."
Eira followed her gaze to the headmaster, who was speaking quietly to Crouch with his usual calm. "My studies here are good. Not bad at all. The students are kind, and the learning is broad. Apart from certain incidents that were unpleasant, I cannot complain. As for Dumbledore…" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "He is clever. Gentle in manner, but careful in his speech. He speaks as though everything has already been considered and weighed in his mind. It is difficult to argue with him, because he makes one feel as though resistance is simply childish. He does not shout or command, but he controls the room without needing to."
A knowing look entered Maxime's dark eyes, her expression one of agreement. "That is Albus. Always the calm, always the wise, always with a twinkle in his eye. Many forget that beneath his gentleness lies a mind sharper than any blade. He plays a longer game than most will ever notice."
Eira inclined her head, thoughtful. "Yes. That is exactly the feeling I had, Madame."
Maxime rested her enormous hands over the rail, her rings catching the light. "Then you must remember this, Eira. If ever there is something you do not like, something that does not fit you or make you uncomfortable… change it. You are not a leaf in the current. You have the strength to shape where you stand. Do not forget it."
Eira's lips parted slightly, touched by the depth in her teacher's voice. "I will remember, Madame," she said softly, her eyes steady.
Before the thought could deepen, Ludo Bagman bounded into the box, his face flushed and grinning as though he had waited his whole life for this moment.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he boomed, his voice carrying easily over the restless crowd. "The champions have drawn their dragons. The time has come to begin!"
Karkaroff leaned forward, his mouth twisting into something like curiosity. "So who will be first?"
Bagman's grin widened. "The champion of Hogwarts, Cedric Diggory. He has drawn the Swedish Short-Snout, and he will face it first!"
The crowd erupted with a roar, excitement surging through the air. Bagman, already on his feet, launched into commentary, his voice bright and eager.