The morning sky above Paris was pale blue, brushed with thin streaks of white cloud. Eira waited at the gates of her family's Mansion , dressed elegantly but simply — a pale lavender cloak draped over her shoulders, her hair gathered into a loose braid that let a few strands catch the light.
Hermione Granger approached cautiously, escorted by Emma. She wore a modest skirt and a neatly pressed blouse, looking very much like the studious girl she was, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as she stepped forward.
[Hermione]
"Miss Granger," Eira greeted with a faint smile, inclining her head just enough to acknowledge her guest. "I'm glad you accepted my invitation."
Hermione returned the smile, though hers was smaller, more tentative. "Thank you for inviting me. I… wasn't sure you'd want to see me."
Eira's gaze softened. "What happened before was… regrettable. I thought it only fair to spend some time together — away from dark rooms and unpleasant memories." She offered her arm. "Shall we?"
They stepped out into the streets of Paris.
*********
Paris in the late morning was alive with the gentle rhythm of everyday life. Cafés filled with the soft hum of conversation, their tables dotted with steaming cups of coffee and fresh croissants. Street vendors called out their wares, while pedestrians strolled leisurely along the sidewalks, lost in their own worlds. The city's architecture stood timeless and elegant, bathed in warm sunlight, as horse-drawn carriages and cars slowly navigated the cobblestone streets, weaving through the calm before the afternoon rush.
The scent of fresh bread from a nearby boulangerie mingled with the faint perfume of flowers spilling from a florist's stall. Sunlight bounced off café windows, where patrons lingered over cups of coffee and the rustle of newspapers.
Hermione took it all in, her eyes darting from shopfront to shopfront. "It's… so different here," she said at last.
"How so?" Eira asked, slowing her pace to match Hermione's.
"It's… quieter," Hermione said thoughtfully. "In London, the city often feels rushed and compartmentalized — like you have to know exactly where to go to find something different. But here…" She nodded toward a nearby side street where a woman in a stylish hat leisurely stirred her coffee while chatting with a passerby. "It feels… more alive. More woven into the everyday life of the city itself."
"That's France for you," Eira replied, a small smile playing on her lips. "They've never been so obsessed with strict boundaries. People respect tradition, of course, but… it's about blending culture and daily life, not keeping things apart. Their way is less guarded than ours."
Hermione gave a thoughtful nod. "And Beauxbatons? I've read a little, but the books are vague. What's it really like?"
Eira's eyes warmed at the mention of her school. "It's… magnificent. The chateau sits high in the Pyrenees, surrounded by gardens and fountains that never freeze, even in winter. The air there is crisp, the mountains sharp against the horizon. You can see the stars more clearly than anywhere else I've been."
Hermione's face lit up. "And the lessons?"
"Rigorous," Eira said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "We are taught to value precision in magic — elegance as much as power. Spells are as much an art as a science. Our Headmistress, Madame Maxime, insists that we master form before force."
"That sounds… wonderful," Hermione admitted. "I suppose Hogwarts is a bit more… eclectic. Professors with wildly different teaching styles, a castle that's almost alive, staircases that move when you least expect it."
Eira chuckled softly. "It's charming in its own way, but I have to admit—every magical school in the world was modeled after Hogwarts. Schools like Beauxbâtons in France, Durmstrang in Northern Europe, Ilvermorny in North America, and Mahoutokoro in Japan all took Hogwarts as their blueprint. Without Hogwarts, none of these schools would exist as they do today."
**********
They turned down a narrower street lined with bookshops—both ordinary and specialized. One display caught Hermione's eye: thick, leather-bound tomes written entirely in French.
"I wish I could read those," she said wistfully.
"You could," Eira replied with a smile. "I actually learned French the first time I came to France—when I was eleven, right after I received my admission letter to Beauxbâtons. I spent a lot of time learning the language, well actually learning the accent, and now I speak it fluently."
Hermione blinked, pleasantly surprised. "Really? You'd teach me?"
"Of course. Languages only become barriers if you let them. I could teach you enough to read by the end of the year."
Hermione returned the smile. "I've always wanted to learn another language. I suppose it's just… time."
"Time is a matter of choice," Eira said lightly. "And it's never wasted when it's spent on knowledge."
Hermione hesitated, then said regretfully, "But I can't… I have to go back to Hogwarts after the summer holidays and start school again, so I can't… I can't really learn right now. Maybe some other time."
Eira smiled warmly. "Yes, but if you don't start, you'll never learn. It's never too late to try, Hermione. Even a little effort now will take you far."
They stepped into one of the shops, the air thick with the smell of parchment and old leather. Eira ran her fingers along a shelf, selecting a slim volume with gilt edges.
"A gift," she said, handing it to Hermione.
Hermione turned it over — it was a children's book, simple phrases in French with English translations beneath. "Thank you… I'll take good care of it."
"I know you will," Eira said simply, "since you seem like someone who truly loves reading and books."
************
As they walked on, the conversation grew easier. Hermione asked about the subjects taught at Beauxbatons —Charms under Professor Chamberlain, Potions with the meticulous Professor René Voclain, and a rather fierce Magical Defense professor who insisted on students performing with "flair."
In turn, Hermione told Eira stories of Hogwarts — Peeves the poltergeist's latest mischief, Professor McGonagall's stern kindness, and the endless feasts in the Great Hall. Eira listened without interruption, occasionally smiling at Hermione's animated gestures.
At one point, they passed a street performer—a magician pretending to juggle flaming torches, though the flames hovered and spun in impossible patterns thanks to subtle enchantments. Hermione laughed aloud, and Eira found herself smiling more freely than she had in recent days , especially with someone she had only recently come to know.
"You don't laugh much, do you?" Hermione asked, almost without thinking.
Eira glanced at her, amused. "I do laugh, actually—but only with those I'm close to. Outside of that, everyone knows me as the head of the White family, so I tend to come across as serious."
"Well, it's nice," Hermione said with a smile. "You should do it more."
*********
They reached the banks of the Seine, the water glinting in the midday light. Eira leaned on the stone balustrade, looking out at the slow-moving current. Boats drifted past, their wakes breaking the reflection of the sky.
"It's beautiful," Hermione said softly.
"It is," Eira agreed. "Paris is… more than its streets. It has a rhythm. You have to walk it to understand."
For a while, they stood in companionable silence, the noise of the city muted by the water's steady whisper.
*********
Eventually, Eira straightened. "Come," she said. "I promised you more than Paris today."
Hermione tilted her head. "More?"
"I'm taking you to the French version of Diagon Alley," Eira said, her tone light but her eyes sparkling with mischief. "It's called Allée des Merveilles — newer than London's, but twice as grand."
Hermione's eyes widened in excitement. "Really?"
"Really," Eira said, offering her arm once more. "And if you're very good, I might even show you the patisserie that sells éclairs enchanted to sing before you eat them."
Hermione laughed, linking her arm with Eira's. "Lead the way."
They stepped away from the river, the streets folding around them as they moved toward the hidden heart of magical Paris, the city's hum rising like an overture before the curtain lifts.