The bell above the glass door chimed softly as Eira pushed it open, holding it for Hermione to step inside.
Hermione's first breath caught in her throat. Librairie L'Étoile was nothing like Flourish and Blotts — it was smaller, quieter, and yet it seemed to stretch far beyond its modest walls. Shelves of polished mahogany curved like the inside of a spiral seashell, winding deeper into the shop. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, lavender, and something faintly metallic, like starlight caught in ink.
The ceiling was painted midnight blue, scattered with glowing silver constellations that slowly shifted, mirroring the actual sky outside. A handful of enchanted paper cranes floated lazily between the rows, carrying slips of parchment from one corner of the shop to another.
"This is…" Hermione whispered, "…magical."
"It's my second home," Eira said softly. "And one of the oldest magical bookstores in France. Marin's family has owned it for six generations."
From behind the counter, a tall boy with shockingly vivid blue hair and eyes the color of a clear summer sky looked up. He broke into a wide grin the moment he saw Eira.
"Ah! Princesse des Ombres!" he said theatrically, sweeping into a mock bow.
Eira's eyes narrowed. "Don't call me that, Marin."
He laughed, clearly delighted to have gotten a reaction. Then his gaze flicked to Hermione — and lingered.
"And… who is this jolie demoiselle?" he asked, his French lilt softening the words.
"This is Hermione Granger," Eira said flatly. "She's visiting from England."
Marin came around the counter, moving with the easy confidence of someone who knew the shop like the back of his hand. "Enchanté, Miss Hermione," he said, switching to English with only the faintest hesitation. "You have… very… hmm… spark eyes?"
Hermione blinked, then bit back a laugh. "Spark… eyes?"
"Yes, like… stars. Very… shiny."
"She knows what you're trying to say," Eira cut in, folding her arms.
Marin ignored her, his grin widening. "You… like books?"
Hermione, amused, nodded. "Very much."
"Then…" Marin spread his arms dramatically, "you are in right place."
********
Marin led them deeper into the shop, pointing out sections with an easy flourish. "Here — history. Here — charms. Here — books that… how you say… bite? Yes, bite. Careful."
He tapped a dusty tome that rustled its pages irritably. Hermione laughed outright this time, and Marin's expression lit up as though he'd just scored a small victory.
Eira, trailing slightly behind, watched the exchange with a mix of faint irritation and something almost protective. Marin could be ridiculous, but he meant no harm — and despite herself, she liked how easily he made people feel welcome.
They passed a small spiral staircase leading to a mezzanine lined with rare volumes locked behind crystal glass. Marin leaned toward Hermione conspiratorially. "If you are… good customer… I show you secret."
"What secret?" she asked, intrigued.
"Top floor… books that remember… who read them. They… talk to you."
Hermione's eyes widened. "Books that talk back?"
Marin nodded solemnly. "Sometimes… argue. If they think… you wrong."
Hermione looked like she'd just been told Christmas had come early.
"Marin," Eira interjected, "don't fill her head with every dramatic story you can think of. She's here to look, not to get lost for three days."
Marin grinned at her over his shoulder. "Three days is… good time. I once… read six books in… no sleep. I saw… unicorn in the street after."
"That was because you nearly passed out," Eira said dryly.
Hermione chuckled, shaking her head at their banter. "You two… have known each other a while?"
"Since we were eleven," Eira admitted. "Same year at Beauxbatons."
Marin shot her a mock-wounded look. "And since then… she never smiles at my jokes."
"That's because they're not funny, and to be honest, most of them are just flirting."
Hermione hid another laugh behind her hand.
Marin switched to French, exasperated. "Merlin, Eira, why is English so hard? I can't even make a complete sentence! Why is it so difficult? I mean, look at French—it's so easy to learn, but I just don't get English."
Eira replied in French, teasing, "First of all, French is actually one of the most difficult languages to learn. English, on the other hand, is relatively easier. And secondly, the reason you can't learn it is because of your bad habit of flirting with girls all the time instead of giving yourself time to study."
Marin sighed dramatically. "You'll never let me be with all this flirting with your constant nagging . You're just jealous of my handsomeness."
Eira rolled her eyes. Hermione, listening quietly, didn't understand their words but still smiled at the playful exchange.
**********
Marin eventually led Hermione to a corner where a low, circular table displayed a spread of beautifully bound books. The covers shimmered faintly, shifting colors as Hermione approached.
"They… choose you," Marin explained softly. "Touch… and see which one… stay warm in your hand."
Hermione hesitated, then reached for a deep indigo volume with silver lettering. The moment her fingers brushed the cover, it pulsed faintly, a warmth flowing up her arm.
Marin's grin softened into something genuine. "Ah… this one likes you."
Hermione opened it carefully. The first page had her name written in elegant script — Hermione Jean Granger — as if the book had always been waiting for her.
Eira watched Hermione's reaction and found herself smiling. Hermione looked genuinely happy—like a child who's just been given an ice cream after begging for it for what felt like forever.
***********
While Hermione browsed, Marin hovered nearby, offering occasional commentary in his endearingly broken English.
"This one… very old. Smells like… grandfather's hat. But good for potions."
"This… not book. Is… hmm… diary? Belonged to woman who… maybe curse her husband. Very interesting."
Eira pinched the bridge of her nose. "Marin, please stop recommending cursed diaries to guests."
Marin only winked at Hermione. "Is good practice. For… defense."
Hermione giggled again, clearly enjoying the nonsense.
************
Eventually, Hermione gathered three books — the indigo one, a slim green guide to French magical flora, and a collection of translated wizarding poetry.
At the counter, she reached into her bag. "I'll pay you back, Eira. I promise."
Eira was already handing over coins to Marin, who counted them with the lazy precision of someone who knew Eira was good for any bill.
"No," Eira said simply.
Hermione frowned. "But—"
"It's a gift," Eira interrupted. "Of our friendship."
Hermione blinked, her expression softening. "Are we… friends?"
Eira met her gaze without hesitation. "Of course we are. We've had a long journey together. If you don't consider that friendship… then I don't know what is."
For a moment, Hermione didn't speak. Then she smiled — a warm, honest smile that Eira realized she'd never quite seen from her before.
"Thank you," Hermione said quietly.
Behind the counter, Marin made a heart shape with his hands, grinning like a fool.
Eira rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
But even as they stepped out of Librairie L'Étoile into the golden afternoon, she couldn't quite hide the faint upward curve of her own lips.