"Theron Beaufort asked you to the Yule Ball?" Adrian's voice held an incredulous note as he slammed the copy ofAdvanced Potion-Makingdown on the table a little too forcefully.
Berenice looked up from the roll of parchment she'd been scribbling on, her brow furrowing in confusion.
"Who told you?" she asked, her voice sharp.
Adrian leaned back in his chair, the expression on his face one of disbelief. "Please, Bunny. The rumour mill's been spinning at full tilt since last night. You know—Theron Beaufort, son of Nereus Beaufort, head of the Bureau de la Justice Magique, nearly became France's Minister of Magic last year? Apparently, the bloke rescued you from a snowstorm, threw you into that ridiculous pumpkin coach, took one look at you, and sold his heart right there and then."
"Please," Berenice scoffed, "there wasn't a snowstorm."
"So it was love at first sight then?" Adrian asked with a wry grin, shifting his attention to the section on Everlasting Elixirs in hisPotion-Makingbook.
Berenice huffed and pushed her parchment aside, the motion sharp. "Listen," she said, her voice trembling with a restrained anger. "My father specifically ordered me to be seen with him at the Yule Ball. Haven't you read his letter? He told me to get close to him. I didn't have much of a choice."
"What nonsense, Berenice," Adrian started, but Eleanor, who had been quietly dipping her eagle-feather quill into a jar of ink, finally looked up from her parchment and interjected in her usual calm tone.
"As endearing as your little discussion is, Adrian," she said, "I would suggest you continue this lively chat elsewhere, before we have Madam Pince breathing down our necks. Preferably somewhere with fewer eavesdroppers," she added, casting a pointed glance at the students who had taken an unhealthy interest in their conversation.
It was the evening before the Christmas holidays began. Many of the older students had remained in the library, working away in an effort to finish their assignments before the break.
Adrian shot Berenice a frustrated look and rummaged through his bag for a fresh sheet of parchment.
Berenice's eyes narrowed, but to Eleanor's relief, she didn't respond further.
In the days leading up to the Yule Ball, the tension between Adrian and Berenice had only thickened. Especially after Adrian had asked Daphne Greengrass—an attractive fourth-year Slytherin—to be his date for the ball. The icy glare Berenice had cast at Daphne when the two girls passed each other in the Common Room could have frozen a cauldron of boiling water. It was a wonder Daphne had managed to respond with a polite smile and a quiet nod. The atmosphere between the two girls was becoming increasingly strained. Eleanor knew it wouldn't be long before things exploded between them, and she planned to be as far away from the scene as possible when it happened.
Eleanor glanced up from her parchment, her eyes wandering across the library to the far corner, where Fred and George Weasley were sitting close together, heads bent low in deep conversation. A twist of disappointment stirred in Eleanor's stomach. She had half-hoped that George would ask her to the ball. But a Hufflepuff had informed her just the day before that both Weasley brothers had already secured dates with two of the Gryffindor Chasers.
Of course, Astraea's letter had made it crystal clear that Eleanor was not to attend the Yule Ball with anyone who wasn't from a respected pureblood family. But even so, Eleanor had foolishly hoped that George might have considered their friendship a little more seriously than the rigid expectations of their social circles allowed.
She sighed inwardly, her thoughts trailing back to the letter Astraea had sent her.
You must and you will appear at the ball with a respectable pureblood. This opportunity is one that will open doors for us. I will not tolerate you throwing away such a chance for the sake of some fleeting teenage infatuation.
Her mother's elegant handwriting seemed to burn in her mind's eye, and Eleanor felt the familiar pressure build behind her temples. Her stomach fluttered with discomfort.
"Sorry," she muttered abruptly, packing her things into her bag with a little more force than necessary. "I think I need to lie down for a bit. Migraine."
"Do you want me to come with you?" Berenice asked, her face filled with concern.
"No," Eleanor replied quickly, trying to sound reassuring. "I just need a cold cloth and some quiet. I'll be fine in the morning, promise." She could almost feel George Weasley's eyes on her, a sense of heat creeping over her skin.
Before her friends could protest, Eleanor swung her bag over her shoulder and hurried out of the library, making a quick exit through the large oak doors.
Once outside, she paused against the cold stone wall of the castle, letting the sharp, winter chill seep into her skin. For a moment, it helped clear the haze in her head, the pressure in her skull easing ever so slightly.
"Are you all right?"
The deep voice—one Eleanor recognised, though she couldn't immediately place it—made her look up, startled.
She found herself staring into a pair of ice-blue eyes set in a sharply defined face, as though an ancient Greek sculptor had modelled it. A lock of raven-black hair fell across his forehead, and his dark cloak—a fine quality wool, clearly tailored—brushed the floor as he approached. Despite his refined appearance, there was no trace of an accent in his voice.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Eleanor said quickly, her words stumbling over one another. "Just a migraine, but I'm fine," she added, feeling her stomach tighten again.
The young man's gaze softened a touch, but his movements were swift as he placed his arm around her shoulders with a startling gentleness. "I'm afraid I must disagree with you. You don't look fine. I'll escort you to the hospital wing."
Before Eleanor could protest, he began leading her down the corridors at a brisk pace.
"How do you know your way around here?" Eleanor asked, her voice more frantic than she intended.
The young man chuckled. "I spent seven years here, Miss Seymour. Trust me, I know the quickest routes to the hospital wing. I've spent far more time there than I care to admit."
"Let me guess," Eleanor said wryly. "Quidditch?"
"Indeed," the young man answered with a small grin, and for a split second, Eleanor caught a glimmer of warmth in his otherwise frosty expression.
They arrived at the hospital wing in short order, and before Eleanor could so much as blink, the door swung open, and Madam Pomfrey came rushing toward them, looking alarmed.
"Miss Seymour! Mister Rosier!" she exclaimed. "What is going on?"
Rosier. The name struck Eleanor like a bolt of lightning. She felt her heart race in her chest.
This was Emil Rosier—the eldest son of Constantin Rosier and Hosanna Trouche, the youngest sister of the French Minister of Magic. Emil had graduated several years before her with top marks. She knew who he was—and, more importantly, who his family was. His uncle, Evan Rosier, had been one of the most notorious Death Eaters, killed during his arrest by Alastor Moody.
Her mother had often lamented how a match between Eleanor and Emil Rosier would have beenperfect—pure, flawless bloodlines. But Emil had gone off to work for the International Confederation of Wizards, far from the match-making plans of Astraea Fawley.
For a moment, Eleanor felt her stomach churn. She was faint. She could feel her body weakening again, the dizziness coming back.
"Just put her down on the bed, Mister Rosier. This is most likely exhaustion," Madam Pomfrey said briskly, guiding Eleanor to a bed. "The Yule Ball is certainly taking its toll on everyone, especially those with more delicate constitutions."
"On the contrary," Emil Rosier's smooth voice interrupted. "The Yule Ball is precisely the kind of opportunity to release some of this tension."
Pomfrey muttered something under her breath, waving her wand to check Eleanor's condition. "Migraine and a fainting spell," she said, almost approvingly. "You did well bringing her here, Mister Rosier."
As Pomfrey bustled away to prepare some treatment, Emil turned to Eleanor with a small smile. "Cold compresses on your eyes would have worked wonders, I'm sure."
Eleanor glared at him, though there was little bite to it. "If you want to take credit for that, by all means," she said, letting the smallest hint of a smile creep onto her lips.
For the first time, she saw a real smile—a rare, soft thing—pass across Emil Rosier's face.
"My sister told me about your...encounterwith Lucien Bole," he said, and Eleanor groaned inwardly.
"He deserved it," she muttered.
"You were absolutely right," Emil agreed, his voice unusually sincere. "I wouldn't apologise for it."
Eleanor froze, her thoughts suddenly gets Rosier family, for all their ties to the Dark Lord, didn't see things the same way the rest of society did. Perhaps, just perhaps, she had found an ally in this man.
Just then, Madam Pomfrey returned with a tall glass of transparent liquid.
"Drink it all in one go, Miss Seymour. It will work wonders," she instructed.
Eleanor hesitated for a moment, but then took the glass from her. The liquid went down hot, and within seconds, the pressure in her skull lifted, and she felt a renewed energy flow through her.
"Much better," Madam Pomfrey observed. "Stay a bit longer until the potion fully takes effect. Then Mister Rosier will escort you back to your Common Room."
Emil's eyes lingered on Eleanor as Pomfrey left them alone, her footsteps fading into the distance.
"You've been looking rather... serious," he remarked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Is something wrong with the potion?"
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "No. Why?"
He tapped his finger to the space between her eyebrows. "That frown."
Eleanor shivered, but quickly covered it with a forced chuckle. "Just a Transfiguration essay on my mind. You know how it is."
A small, knowing smile tugged at Emil's lips.
"Sounds like you need a bit of a distraction."
Before Eleanor could say anything, his next words came swiftly: "Go to the Yule Ball with me."
Eleanor's stomach did a slow flip. But this time, it was a different kind of feeling.
Was this a dare? A challenge? Or perhaps something else entirely?
Eleanor's mind spun, but one thing was clear—things were about to get even more complicated.