Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series, JK Rowling does.
Les Familles Sacro-Saintes
The Sacrosanct Families of France are precious and powerful, just as powerful as the Sacred Twenty-Eight of Britain. There are twenty-eight Sacro-Sainte families, as many as to rival Britain, with long, influential bloodlines, one leading to their current Ministre de la Magic, or Minister of Magic.
The French families are the ones with galas and balls that show off their age-old homes, everyone dressed to the nines in fine dress robes and quality shoes, glittering with as many jewels as their mansions. The ones overflowing with wealth that shows in everything they have, especially in their divine taste. The ones bred with festivals in their childhood, ancient wine in their hands, classical composers in their ears and dances ingrained in their steps.
Monique Lavigne sipped her wine (vintage Château d'Yquem, 1825) and glanced around the ballroom with a critical eye.
Everything was white and gold, the pillars, the gilding on the ceiling, the giant diamond chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, and it all complimented the lightly patterned, cream floor. Wizards and witches of the most prestigious status flew around in the middle of the floor in a traditional Wizarding dance and more moved on the second floor of the ballroom where arching spaces allowed them to peer down.
"Comment ca va, Monique?" Lucrèce Charbonneau cooed, sweeping in beside her. She was dressed beautifully, of course, in sapphire robes that complimented her thick black hair. There were silver threads sewn in between the blue of her robes, intricate pearls around her neck.
"Ca va bien, merci, Lucrèce. Et toi?" Monique replied, giving her friend a half-smile as she caught her looking Monique's royal purple, gold-beaded dress robes and diamond jewelry considerately.
Lucrèce echoed her, "Ca va bien, merci." And they engaged in friendly conversation for they were genuine friends - just genuine, competitive friends. They had no real reason to be competitive, of course, their families were both in completely different businesses and good friends. Yet - Monique played the harpsichord, Lucrèce played the bombarde. Monique had perfect, neat penmanship but Lucrèce possessed flawless, gorgeous calligraphy. It was just a natural thing that came to both of them, was simply how they were.
The song ended and another, livelier Wizarding dance began.
They spot Anastasie and Léopold Blanc dancing with each other, breaking apart and coming together, feet blurring beneath their fine dress robes. Anastasie's platinum blonde hair was piled on her head. The rings on Léopold's fingers were glittering in the diamond light.
"If they weren't siblings, I'd dare say they'd be a good couple," Lucrèce mused and Monique snorted.
"You're such a romantic, honestly. They're brother and sister, anything other than platonic love would be disgusting."
"It's not like it hasn't happened before. Aren't you, what, my seventh cousin five times removed?" countered Lucrèce and Monique rolled her eyes.
"This is modern time, it's frowned upon now," she said breezily, waving a hand about. Lucrèce laughed, an unfeminine, snorting sound that made Monique laugh in turn.
Lucrèce looked thoughtful when they calmed down. "Léopold's gotten taller," she commented and Monique's eyes narrowed as she took another sip of wine.
"Are you serious? You're not seriously thinking of dating Léopold are you?"
"Don't be silly, Monique, I'm just stating the obvious. He's attractive. That doesn't mean I want to date him."
"Oh, yes, silly me," Monique said dryly and rolled her eyes again as she took another mouthful. "You're not drinking tonight?" She noticed only because Lucrèce drank a bit stronger than her, two fingers of whiskey or Scotch like the men, and Monique always had a glass of wine at galas. There was no glass in her hand today.
Lucrèce shook her head, a delicate movement that Monique interpreted as as not yet. "Mother wanted me to be completely sober for the first half of the gala," she explained. She looked strained. Monique felt a twinge of sympathy, deep in her chest. "She informed me how unladylike it was for me to have something strong, as if I'll do something embarrassing even though I hold my liquor better than anyone else who drinks it." Her lips curled in an angry frown. There were lines creasing the smooth skin of her forehead that Monique wanted to smooth out.
"She thought it was uncouth," Monique paraphrased and Lucrèce nodded, subdued. "That's rather ludicrous. She's never had a problem with you drinking before."
Lucrèce's glossy mouth flattened into a thin line. "She wanted me to begin Courting. Begin making a good impression."
Around the two girls, everything shimmered with magic. It was the result of hundreds of powerful magic being radiated from wizards and witches, the spells cast on hair and clothes and floating trays of food, the natural magic all around them and the building itself, infused with magic itself. It was the Old magic, the powerful one that came from so many who knew the Old ways, the magic that struck a fire inside wizards and witches alike and made them burn. Everyone had there own magic and there was always magic around them, but for those who knew the Old ways, even for some who didn't, the magic was potent, precious and bountiful, almost a physically overwhelming thing and it was beautiful.
Les Familles Sacro-Saintes were lucky to feel this way, the majority of French possessed a potently ethereal magic, unlike the British Sacred Twenty-Eight families. Their ancestry, the Old ways, the beautiful gleam of magic, was fading into a new, more modern magic that didn't possess the same sort of wonder as the French families knew it did for themselves.
But all Monique could think about was not her gratefulness for this, for her heritage and magic, but that her best friend was going to begin Courting soon. "Pourquoi?" she managed. "Qui?"
"I'm becoming of age in a few months. We're going back to Beauxbatons for our Seventh Year. It's - she thought I was going to begin Courting sooner. I don't know who, yet."
"That's not fair though," Monique snapped, keeping her voice low. "It's your choice."
Lucrèce tipped her head back and laughed, a full, booming thing, complete with an unflattering snort that sounded rather satirical. "Since when have we ever had a choice, Monique, amour?"
"Since we were born," she said, her expression tight. "Merde."
"Language, darlings, really," a voice drawled and Monique loosened her expression into something friendlier, more jovial. She turned to come face to face with Maxence Couture. He was smirking, robed in a deep, rich navy with gold accents. "What're you talking about?"
"Rien," Monique said, the lie easy on her tongue. "How're you, Maxence? Looking tres beau as usual. Not that anyone would expect anything less." She didn't let Lucrèce speak, could feel her stiff presence beside her. Lucrèce wasn't as good as putting up a mask when it came to people, not quite good enough at hiding her feelings.
Monique didn't glance to Lucrèce and Maxence held her gaze.
"Ca va tres bien, merci." His grin was wide and easy - there was always something so charismatic about Max. Always had been. "You look lovely, by the way. Is that a Donatienne original you're wearing?"
"You would know," Monique replied evasively. It was and it was gorgeous but Max knew that already. Of course he knew. "Your mother is Donatienne Couture, after all."
"Is he asking you about your robes?" Anastasie asked, coming up behind Max. Her high cheekbones were flushed pink from dancing, but she was otherwise prim and pristine. "He's asking everyone about their robes."
"Shut up, Anastasie," Max said without heat. He slung an arm around Léopold, who had approached them too. Léopold shrugged the arm around his shoulders off without even a flinch, but gave him a smacking air kiss above one slanted cheekbone. "Aw, merci, Léopold."
"Anything to keep you off my back for the rest of the night." His tone was crisp but there was a smile playing on his lips. Monique felt a small smile creep up on her own lips, a genuine one, as Anastasie reached behind Max and shoved her brother. She knew Max was pansexual and Léopold was straight - the touching was just something they did. Monique lowkey suspected the latter was as straight as a wavy line, not that she would voice so directly to Léopold.
She took another mouthful of wine, letting the taste last on her tongue as Lucrèce said, "You guys are adorable." Her voice was joking, easy, and a side-glance confirmed that she had relaxed from their earlier conversation.
"No drink, Lucrèce?" Max inquired. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. "Even I've had a tumbler of Scotch."
Under her breath, Anastasie muttered, "Or four." Monique paid her no attention, focused on her friend - who had suddenly pasted on a too-bright smile.
"Oh, just cutting back for Quidditch season," Lucrèce remarked lightly, jovially. Monique felt her insides relax slightly, but kept her outward composure. "I've got to get back in shape after a summer of not doing anything."
Anastasie scoffed, "Oh, please. You're in much better shape than I am. You and Monique - it must be all that time in a vineyard walking around. Meanwhile, I was in America doing nothing."
"Stop it, Anastasie, honestly," Monique sighed, flashing her a smile to take off the bite in her words. "You're in great shape." And she was - her robes fit her nicely, highlighting her slight figure.
Max was clucking his tongue, squeezing her shoulder and Léopold rolled his hazel eyes.
"Drama queen," he muttered under his breath and Anastasie reached over, tugging at his ear sharply. Her brother pulled away with ease. He looked mostly unfazed by the exchange, a slight irritation to his quirked brows, and Monique hid a half-smile behind her glass.
These were some members of the newest generation of Les Famillies Sacro-Saintes and she loved them.