The Paris evening had turned into something almost dreamlike — the cobblestones glistened faintly, not from rain but from the lingering light of lanterns strung above the street. The air was warm, carrying the mingled scents of fresh bread, roasting chestnuts, and the faint perfume from enchanted flower stalls. The hum of conversation from nearby cafés blended with the occasional whoosh of a car overhead, though in this part of the city, personal transportation was discreet.
Eira walked in the middle, Fleur to her left, Hermione to her right, the three of them strolling at a relaxed pace. Fleur's earlier tension had eased somewhat, though Hermione occasionally caught her glancing over with that faint, measuring look. Hermione didn't take it personally — or at least tried not to. She was too busy looking around, absorbing every flicker of the beauty of the Parisian streets.
What Hermione and Fleur didn't notice — but Eira did — was a shadow just far enough behind them to avoid suspicion. Emma.
Eira caught sight of her assistant in the reflection of a shop window, leaning casually against a lamppost and pretending to inspect a display of enchanted silk scarves. Eira's lips curved into a faint smile. Emma had been following them since they left the restaurant — always at a distance, always keeping the three of them in her line of sight.
It didn't bother Eira. She knew exactly why Emma was doing it.
After the… incident earlier that summer — an encounter that had very nearly turned dangerous — Emma had taken it upon herself to be quietly vigilant. Eira suspected the woman had been shadowing her more often than she realized. Tonight, she seemed determined to keep watch, as though danger could leap out from any corner of the alley.
Eira said nothing, only let her gaze flicker briefly toward Emma once more before turning her attention back to her companions.
Fleur was describing a particular Beauxbatons festival, her hands moving gracefully as she painted the scene of floating lanterns and enchanted music drifting across the water. Hermione listened with interest, but after a moment, her attention shifted toward Eira.
"You know," Hermione began, "I didn't think you would be like other purebloods."
Eira arched a brow. "Like what kind of purebloods?"
Hermione hesitated. Fleur's eyes flickered to her, curious but silent. "Well… arrogant, for one. Or… racist. You know — the ones who look down on us. On Muggle-borns. Or on Muggles in general."
The word racist hung in the air a moment. Fleur tilted her head slightly but didn't interrupt.
Eira stopped walking briefly, as though considering her response. "I am not from those kind of people," she said finally. "And I don't care for their beliefs, or their arrogance. In fact, I've always loved Muggles — their knowledge, their creativity, their technology. Magic is powerful, yes, but Muggles… they've achieved remarkable things without it. I admire that."
Her tone was calm but firm, carrying the weight of conviction rather than defensiveness.
Hermione's eyes lit up at the sincerity in her voice. "Really? Most purebloods I've met — well, the ones who speak about it, anyway — don't feel that way."
Fleur gave a small, graceful shrug. "Not all purebloods are ze same, Hermione. I 'ave known some 'oo are very proud of their family name… and some 'oo do not care at all. Eira is one of ze latter."
Eira's mouth quirked faintly. "It's true. I've never believed blood status made anyone better or worse. I've met Muggle-borns who are far more intelligent and capable than half the so-called 'noble' wizards I know."
Hermione smiled at that. "That's… refreshing."
As they walked down the street, Eira asked, "Why? Did you have a bad experience with pure-bloods that left you with such a negative impression—so much so that my normal behavior surprises you?"
"Well, I don't really know you," Hermione said. "But from what I've seen in the newspapers, you're often portrayed as an arrogant and serious witch. So naturally, the first image that comes to mind is someone who's, well, quite proud. I've had my fair share of experiences with people like that, so I assumed you might be the same."
"You probably know Draco Malfoy, right?" she asked.
Eira's lips pressed into a faint line. "Yes. I do."
Hermione let out a breath that was almost a huff. "He's… honestly the most insufferable person at Hogwarts. He's arrogant, cruel, and he's called me—" She hesitated, then said it anyway. "—a Mudblood. More than once."
Fleur's brow furrowed slightly at the word. Eira's expression didn't shift into outrage — instead, she looked thoughtful.
"Draco was born in a household where certain beliefs are… absolute," Eira said slowly. "The Malfoy family has strong ties to the idea of blood purity. It's ingrained into their identity. Children raised in that environment are taught those values from birth. He believes what his father says, because that's all he's ever known. That doesn't excuse his behavior, but it explains it."
Hermione frowned. "So you're saying he can't help it?"
"I'm saying," Eira replied, "that he's been conditioned to think he's superior to Muggle-borns. Breaking that conditioning would take effort… and a reason to want to change. I doubt he's had either."
Hermione kicked lightly at a pebble in the street. "Still, it doesn't make it any less awful. He goes out of his way to be nasty to me — to Harry, too. They've been rivals since the first week at Hogwarts."
Fleur tilted her head, intrigued. "Rivals?"
Hermione nodded. "Oh yes. They've fought in class, in the corridors, on the Quidditch pitch… pretty much everywhere. It's not just the blood status thing with Harry — Draco hates him for being famous, for being liked by people who can't stand Draco's attitude. And Harry… well, Harry doesn't take his insults lying down."
Eira smiled faintly. "Sounds… spirited."
Hermione's mouth twitched into a small grin. "That's one way of putting it. I've lost count of the times I've had to pull Harry away from him before it turned into a duel."
They passed a patisserie where trays of éclairs and macarons floated behind the glass, arranging themselves in perfect rows. Fleur paused briefly to greet the shopkeeper in French, her voice lilting and smooth. Eira and Hermione waited, the quiet hum of the street filling the space.
Emma had shifted positions, now leaning against a nearby fountain, pretending to be interested in a bouquet of shimmering lilies someone was selling from a cart. Eira caught her eye for the briefest moment and gave the subtlest nod — not one Fleur or Hermione would notice. Emma gave no visible sign of acknowledgment, but Eira knew she'd seen it.
They continued their walk, winding through narrower streets now, where vines crawled up the walls and lamplight pooled in warm, golden puddles on the cobblestones.
Hermione glanced sidelong at Eira again. "You really mean it, then? You don't think less of Muggles?"
"Not for a moment," Eira said. "If anything, I think wizards have a lot to learn from them. We rely so much on magic that we've forgotten the value of innovation without it. Muggles solve problems with creativity because they don't have a wand to wave."
Fleur nodded in agreement. "Magic is powerful, but it can also make one lazy. It is… easy to conjure a chair rather than build one. Muggles… they build."
Hermione looked between them, her expression softening into something almost like relief. "You've no idea how good it is to hear that. At Hogwarts, I feel like I'm constantly having to prove myself — to show that being Muggle-born doesn't make me any less capable."
Eira's tone was calm but edged with certainty. "You shouldn't have to prove anything. Anyone who thinks your worth depends on your blood is already wrong."
They turned into a small square where musicians were playing soft jazz under lights of the lanterns. Couples danced slowly, and the scent of roasted almonds hung in the air. Fleur smiled faintly, watching a pair of elderly women and men spin gracefully together.
"Paris is…" Hermione began, trailing off as she searched for the right word.
"Alive," Eira supplied.
"Yes," Hermione said, smiling. "Alive."
They lingered in the square for a while, listening to the music, the conversation drifting from magical theory to the quirks of French wizarding fashion. Fleur shared a story about a disastrous Beauxbatons dance rehearsal, earning genuine laughter from Hermione. The earlier tension between them had eased into something more like wary curiosity.
By the time they began walking again, the streets had grown quieter. The shops were closing, lanterns dimming one by one. Emma still followed, steady and silent, her presence a constant thread in the background.
As they approached the bridge leading back toward Eira's neighborhood, Hermione spoke again, her tone almost hesitant. "I think… I understand you better now."
Eira glanced at her. "And?"
Hermione's smile was small but genuine. "And I like what I see."
Fleur didn't say anything, but her eyes flickered briefly toward Eira, thoughtful.
They crossed the bridge in comfortable silence, the Seine glittering beneath them like molten silver. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed the hour.