Chapter 1: A Concert by the Seine
The city of Paris shimmered under the glow of golden lights. Along the tranquil banks of the Seine River, where the soft breeze carried the whispers of the water, an open-air theater stood in anticipation. The stage, adorned with silver and sapphire drapery, reflected the elegance of the evening. The air buzzed with excitement as the most prestigious families of France gathered for what had been declared the event of the season.
However, amidst the nobility, no family garnered as much attention as the Montclairs.
Celeste de Montclair, a ten-year-old girl of breathtaking beauty, walked gracefully alongside her parents. She possessed golden hair that cascaded in delicate waves down her back, shimmering like molten sunlight. Her large sapphire-blue eyes, framed by thick lashes, gleamed with curiosity and wonder. Her porcelain-white skin was flawless, as though crafted by the hands of an artist. Dressed in an ethereal pale blue gown embroidered with silver thread, she seemed like a figure from a fairy tale. Yet, her beauty was not her only gift. She was sharp-witted and endlessly curious, traits that often set her apart from other pureblood children.
Her father, Laurent de Montclair, was tall and dignified, his silver-streaked hair neatly combed back. His emerald green robes, lined with threads of platinum, signified his status as one of the wealthiest wizards in France. Vivienne de Montclair, her mother, was the very image of elegance, dressed in lavender robes adorned with delicate pearls. Her soft smile masked a watchful gaze that missed nothing.
As they walked through the crowd, murmurs followed them. But tonight, the attention was not solely on the Montclairs. It was on the mysterious boy who would soon take the stage.
"It is unusual," Laurent said, his deep voice softened with curiosity. "A muggle child, drawing such a crowd. I would have dismissed it as folly, but his fame seems… unstoppable."
"Muggles have always found their own ways to entertain," Vivienne replied, though even she could not deny the allure of the mysterious performer. "But this one… he's different."
"They say he's a prodigy," Celeste chimed in, her voice light but filled with intrigue. "His voice can make people cry, even without knowing the language of his songs." She paused, her eyes sparkling with determination. "I want to hear him."
Laurent regarded his daughter for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "We shall see if the rumors hold true," he said. "Though, I must admit, his appearance is… curious."
Curious was an understatement. The whispers about the boy, Atharv Mishra, had spread like wildfire.
Born in India, Atharv was said to be as beautiful as a figure of myth. His skin was pure white, untouched by the sun, as if sculpted from marble. Silvery-white hair framed his delicate face, flowing in soft waves. But it was his crimson-red eyes — eyes that gleamed like polished rubies — that left the world entranced. The muggle world called his appearance a rare genetic anomaly, but those with magical knowledge suspected something far greater.
"His appearance," Vivienne said thoughtfully, "could be the result of a magical mutation. It is rare, but not unheard of."
Laurent nodded. "Indeed. There have been instances, even among muggle-borns, where traces of ancient magic manifest physically. Perhaps that is the case with this boy."
"Perhaps," Vivienne agreed, though there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes. "Or perhaps he is simply extraordinary — with or without magic."
Celeste remained silent, her mind swirling with thoughts. She wanted to see him. To hear him. To know what made this boy so captivating.
As they reached their seats, the theater was already brimming with anticipation. The air grew still, and the chatter dimmed. A golden light illuminated the grand stage, and then, with a soft hum of the orchestra, the concert began.
A single spotlight pierced the darkness. And there, stepping into view, was Atharv Mishra.
He wore a white suit that shimmered like moonlight, its fabric adorned with subtle silver accents. The pristine color highlighted his ethereal appearance, making his porcelain skin glow beneath the stage lights. His snow-white hair fell gently above his shoulders, framing his delicate yet striking features. But nothing could compare to his eyes — twin crimson orbs that seemed to hold the weight of countless stories. Despite his age, there was an undeniable presence about him.
Celeste's breath caught. "He's…" she whispered, unable to find the words.
"Extraordinary," Vivienne finished, her voice barely above a whisper.
Even Laurent, a man not easily impressed, found himself leaning forward. There was something unexplainable about the boy — an aura of both sorrow and strength.
The orchestra swelled, and Atharv closed his eyes. Then, he began to sing.
His voice rose, pure and haunting, like a silver thread weaving through the night. He sang in French, the words flowing from him as though they had been etched upon his very soul. Every note carried a depth of emotion that resonated with the audience. Joy. Longing. Heartache. Each sentiment painted vividly through his voice.
It was as though the music transcended the boundaries of language. Even those who did not understand the lyrics could feel the weight of his song. People sat motionless, spellbound by the beauty of it. Tears welled in Vivienne's eyes. Laurent, though stoic, could not hide the admiration flickering within him.
Celeste's hands clutched the fabric of her gown. Her heart pounded as the song seemed to reach into the deepest corners of her soul. She had never heard anything so beautiful, so raw.
And when the final note faded, the world stood still. For a moment, no one moved — as though afraid to break the fragile spell Atharv had cast. Then, like a roaring tide, applause erupted. The crowd rose to their feet, cheers echoing along the Seine.
But even amidst the ovation, Celeste's eyes remained on the boy.
"I must meet him," she declared, her voice unwavering. "Please, Papa. I need to meet him."
Laurent exchanged a glance with Vivienne. The admiration in their daughter's gaze was unmistakable. Though the Montclairs had once considered muggles inferior, tonight, those beliefs faltered.
"We shall arrange it," Laurent said, his voice filled with rare warmth. "A talent like his deserves recognition."
And as the cheers continued to echo through the night, Celeste's heart fluttered with anticipation. She didn't know why, but she knew this boy — Atharv Mishra — would change her life.
This was only the beginning.