The days after the runes were chosen settled into something slow and quiet; a period of waiting more than anything else.
Morwenna noticed the shift before anyone even tried to explain it to her.
The adults moved differently now. Their steps carried a weight that hadn't been there in the darker months of winter; a pace that was slower and more deliberate, as if they were mindful of every floorboard they trod upon. They lingered in doorways for no apparent reason, standing a moment too long as the pale gold corridor light framed their silhouettes. And they watched her. They were always watching. Their faces were masks of practiced calm, but their eyes held something else; something deep and flickering that she didn't have a name for yet.
She asked her mother about it over breakfast one morning.
The morning room was warm and inviting, filled with the scent of toasted bread, melted butter, and lingering woodsmoke. The fire crackled rhythmically in the grate, its light flickering across the polished surface of the mahogany table.
Jane sat opposite her with a cup of tea and a letter she hadn't turned in several minutes, her gaze fixed somewhere far past the edge of the page. Jack held up the Daily Prophet, though he hadn't moved his eyes beyond the same narrow column for a quarter of an hour. The paper rustled now and then; it was more for show than anything else.
Saoirse spread marmalade across her toast, the knife scraping in a steady, absent-minded rhythm that spoke of a wandering mind.
Morwenna set her silver spoon down with a small, careful clink against the ceramic. Her green eyes moved slowly from one face to another.
"Mama. Everyone looking."
Jane's hand paused midair. The teacup hovered, steam curling in thin ribbons around her fingers, before she finally set it back down with a soft, deliberate click against the saucer.
"We are just happy you are here, ma chérie."
Morwenna frowned a little, her small brow furrowing as she thought. Then she turned to her father. He was still staring at the paper, though the magical photographs on the page had looped through their repetitive motions dozens of times. She looked at Saoirse next. Saoirse simply grinned at her for no reason at all, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Okay," Morwenna said, seemingly accepting the answer for now.
She went back to her porridge, which was thick and sweet with honey.
. . .
The Floo flared a brilliant, emerald green on a Wednesday morning.
Morwenna was in the library with Aldric when the arrival happened. She sat on the rug with her bestiary open across her lap, the cool vellum pages smooth beneath her small fingers. Cinder lay curled against her leg, a steady and warm weight that vibrated with a faint purr. The sound reached her before the visual did.
Her head lifted sharply, her fine white hair slipping over her shoulders like silk. Cinder's ears flicked instantly toward the door, his small body tightening into a crouch.
"Gran-da?"
Aldric closed his book and set it aside on the desk. The old leather binding creaked softly in the silence.
"That will be your grandmother and grandfather. They have arrived from France."
She was already moving before he had even finished the sentence.
The heavy bestiary slid from her lap and landed open on the rug, the gold leaf illustrations catching the morning light. She didn't stop to fix it. Cinder scrambled after her, his claws skidding faintly against the polished stone floor as they reached the corridor.
She arrived in the entrance hall just as the last of the emerald flames settled back into embers.
Celestine stood within the stone hearth, looking as composed as ever in robes of deep indigo silk that shimmered with every movement. Her dark hair was pinned back in its usual way, simple and precise without a single strand out of place. She brushed a stray fleck of ash from her sleeve and lifted her gaze.
Her green eyes found Morwenna at once, softening instantly.
The flames surged again behind her in a fresh burst of green.
Lucien stepped through, and the very atmosphere of the room seemed to shift with his presence. It wasn't dramatic or loud; it was just a quiet, pervasive change. The light in the hall seemed to gather around him, the air turning faintly warmer, as if a breeze from a French spring had slipped in unnoticed through the cracks. His dark eyes turned bright the moment they found Morwenna standing by the archway.
Morwenna stood perfectly still in the doorway. Cinder pressed close against her legs, his ears flattened against his head as he sized up the newcomers. She looked at Celestine. Then she looked at Lucien.
A heartbeat of silence passed.
Then she walked forward.
She went straight to Celestine.
She lifted her small arms toward the indigo silk. "Up, Gran-ma."
Celestine didn't hesitate. She reached down and gathered the girl close, one hand instinctively cradling the back of her head. The scent of lavender and old parchment clung faintly to her robes as Morwenna's white hair tangled against the dark fabric.
"Ma petite," Celestine said softly. There was a firm steadiness in her voice, though something at the very edges of her tone trembled with emotion. "You have grown so much."
Morwenna leaned back, her small hands braced on Celestine's shoulders, studying her face with an intense curiosity. She traced the green eyes that were so like her mother's, the fine lines at their corners, and the single white streak threading through the dark hair.
"Made stitches," she announced, her voice bright with a toddler's pride.
Celestine's composure slipped, just a fraction, a look of surprise crossing her face. "Stitches?"
Morwenna reached into her green serpent pouch and pulled out the small, hard-won knitted piece. The navy wool was uneven and a little crooked, dotted with dropped stitches and small, gaping holes. She held it up carefully for inspection. "See?"
Celestine took the scrap, the rough wool catching lightly against her slender fingers. She lifted it toward the light spilling from the tall windows, studying the handiwork as if she were examining a rare and ancient text.
"These are very good stitches," she said, her voice warm as she traced one of the straighter rows with a fingertip. "The tension here is excellent, ma petite."
Morwenna leaned in close, nearly pressing her nose to the dark yarn. "Perfect?"
"Almost." Celestine's lips curved into a slight, knowing smile. "Give it a few more months, and you will be making proper things for the manor."
Morwenna nodded, satisfied with the professional assessment, and tucked the wool back into her pouch. She patted the fabric once, just to be sure it was secure.
Lucien had come closer during the exchange. He knelt beside them on the stone floor, lowering himself until he was at her height. Up close, the warmth radiating from him was clearer; it felt like standing near a low, glowing fire on a cold night.
"Bonjour, leetle one," he said.
His voice carried that gentle, melodic lift that was characteristic of his Veela blood. It wasn't quite a heavy accent, but there was a song-like quality to his words that drew her attention and held it.
Morwenna studied him for a long moment. Then she reached out, touching her own ear where the slight curve of her inheritance sat. Then she reached out and touched his.
It was a small, private gesture of recognition.
Lucien's smile came slowly; it was warm, certain, and full of light. "You remember."
"Remember," she agreed with a firm nod.
He brushed the tip of her ear in return, a touch as light as a feather. "Très bien (very good)."
Jane appeared in the archway a moment later, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her.
"Maman."
She crossed the room quickly and embraced Celestine. They held each other for a long moment, their voices dropping into a rapid, soft French that Morwenna couldn't quite follow.
"Bien arrivée. Comment était le voyage? Fatiguée? (Welcome. How was the journey? Tired?)"
Jane pulled back, her eyes misty, then turned to Lucien. He opened his arms, and she stepped into them without a moment's pause.
"Papa."
He held his daughter with a quiet, fierce certainty, one hand resting protectively at the back of her head.
When they finally parted, Saoirse's voice drifted down from the grand staircase.
"Did someone say the grandparents have arrived?"
Celestine glanced up, her composure settling neatly back into place, though the warmth remained visible in her eyes. "Saoirse. You are still here, I see."
"Still here," Saoirse said, already halfway down the steps and taking them two at a time with her usual energy. "Someone has to keep things interesting around this place. Your daughter is terrible at it."
Jane made a soft sound of protest, but Saoirse only grinned and hopped off the last step.
Jack stepped in from the study a moment later, with Aldric following close behind him. Greetings followed in a flurry; handshakes turned into brief, firm embraces. The hall filled with overlapping voices that were easy and familiar.
Morwenna stood in the middle of the gathering, Cinder sitting patiently at her feet, watching her family draw together like pieces of a puzzle. She reached down and rested a steady hand on the fox's head. He leaned into her touch without any hesitation.
Celestine and Lucien were shown to their guest rooms, though the process took longer than expected because Morwenna insisted on leading the way.
She walked ahead of them, her boots tapping rhythmically against the stone.
"Green room. No one sleeps there. Blue room. Gran-da reads there." She paused at another heavy door, pointing to the portrait hanging beside it. "Funny man room. Chicken head."
Celestine glanced at the portrait they were passing. It was an old Keith ancestor, and his elaborate, over-the-top feathered wig was unmistakably reminiscent of a brooding hen.
"I see the resemblance," Celestine murmured.
Morwenna pushed open the last door at the end of the hall with both hands. "Your room, Gran-ma. Best window."
Celestine stepped inside the suite. The fire had already been lit by the house elves, making the room warm and welcoming. The east-facing window looked out over the sprawling garden, where the very first snowdrops were just beginning to push their heads through the damp earth.
"Thank you, ma petite."
. . .
Later, in the kitchen, Tilly appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits before anyone had even thought to ask. He carried the silver tray with great care, his ears trembling with the sheer importance of the occasion. He bowed so deeply to Celestine and Lucien that his nose nearly touched the floorboards.
"Welcome, welcome. Tilly is honoured to serve the guests."
Celestine thanked him with the same quiet, effortless courtesy she offered everyone. Lucien inclined his head with a smile, and Tilly's ears instantly flushed a pleased, vibrant pink.
After tea had been finished, Morwenna took Celestine by the hand and led her to the library.
She went straight to the lower shelf and pulled out her heavy bestiary with both hands. It was a struggle, but she managed to drag it to the low table before letting it fall with a dull, echoing thump.
She opened it expertly to the page with the serpent illustration. "Snake sleeping."
Celestine leaned over to study the artwork. The serpent was coiled tightly around a mossy branch, its scales picked out in shimmering gold leaf and its eyes painted shut.
"It looks very peaceful."
"It's. I told it."
"You told the serpent?"
Morwenna nodded solemnly. "In sss." She demonstrated for her grandmother, letting out a soft, careful hiss from between her teeth.
Celestine answered in kind, her voice dropping into a quiet, respectful whisper as she leaned closer. "What did you say to it?"
Morwenna held her gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she finally smiled.
"I said it could sleep. I will wake it later."
Celestine was silent for a beat, processing the child's words. The fire crackled softly in the background. Somewhere outside the library windows, a lone bird called out to the fading light.
"That is very kind of you," Celestine said.
Morwenna nodded, satisfied with herself, and shut the heavy book. She tried to push it back toward the shelf, but the weight was too much and it barely moved. Celestine reached down, picked it up easily, and returned it to its proper place.
Morwenna watched her do it, her expression thoughtful.
"Gran-ma."
"Yes, ma chérie?"
"Moon room. In France. Is it real?"
Celestine knelt beside her on the rug, her indigo skirts pooling around her. "It's very real."
"Got a window?"
"It has a large window that faces the moon. On a clear night, the light fills the entire room until everything—the bed, the floor, the walls—looks like it's made of solid silver."
Morwenna considered that image, her eyes wide.
"I want to see it."
"When you are five. I promised you, didn't I?"
Morwenna touched the outside of her pouch, feeling the small, lumpy knitted piece she had made.
"I will be five soon."
"Soon," Celestine said gently. "Very soon."
. . .
Lucien found her in the garden an hour later.
The snow had pulled back into thin, stubborn patches beneath the shadow of the hedges, leaving the rest of the ground dark, damp, and smelling of rich, wet earth. Morwenna crouched at a stretch of bare soil where the melt had gone the deepest. Her small hands were pressed firmly into the mud, her fingers splayed as if she were trying to feel a heartbeat pulsing beneath the surface. Cinder sat a few inches away, his tail wrapped neatly around his paws, watching her with calm, amber eyes.
Lucien paused at the edge of the gravel path. His boots made no sound on the wet stones, his movements as fluid and light as the air itself.
He watched her for a long minute. He noted the way her palms rested flat against the mud, regardless of the cold. She tilted her head slightly to the left, as though she were listening for a whisper coming from far below the roots.
Morwenna didn't look up, but she knew he was there.
"Gran-père," she said softly. "Things grow here."
He stepped off the path and crossed the soft, yielding ground, lowering himself into a crouch beside her. His presence settled close and steady, radiating a warmth that felt like standing near a low, glowing fire on a cold night.
"Yes. In a few weeks, you will see the green start to wake up."
"How you know?"
"Because the seeds decide it's time to grow. Each of them makes a choice to reach for the light."
Morwenna went quiet, her expression thoughtful. She pressed her fingers deeper into the soil, feeling the cool dampness sink into the lines of her skin.
"I choose grow too."
Lucien's smile softened, a bright warmth catching in his dark eyes. "Every day, ma petite."
They stayed there for a time in the quiet garden, their hands resting near each other in the earth. Cinder leaned forward to sniff at a fresh clump of dirt, then sneezed sharply, his whole body jolting.
Morwenna laughed. The sound was high and musical, ringing bright and clear through the still afternoon air.
Lucien's gaze gentled further, the corners of his eyes creasing with a smile.
Near the far edge of the garden, half-hidden beside a moss-covered stone, a single snowdrop had pushed through the mud. Its small white head dipped toward the ground, looking fragile yet quietly determined.
Morwenna spotted the flash of white.
She stood and made her way over, her steps careful on the slippery, wet grass. She crouched beside the flower and stared at it with intense focus. "Gran-père. Look."
Lucien joined her, kneeling at her side on the damp lawn. "A snowdrop. The very first one."
"Can I pick?"
"If you pick it, the flower dies. If you leave it, more will come to keep it company."
Morwenna studied the bloom. She looked at the thin green stem and the pale petals that appeared almost translucent in the grey light. She thought of all the other seeds beneath the soil, waiting for their turn.
She left the flower where it was, untouched.
That evening, after Morwenna had been tucked beneath her quilts, the adults gathered in the morning room for dinner.
The mood stayed easy and light, the conversation drifting without any apparent effort. Saoirse spoke about her travels through Europe; she described a mountain in the Alps where the snow never melted even in the height of summer, and a small village in Greece where every wooden door was painted a vibrant blue to keep wandering spirits away. Lucien mentioned the sprawling gardens at the château in France, noting that the first crocuses were already blooming in the more sheltered corners. Celestine asked after the progress of the Keith library, and Aldric admitted, with a touch of mild reluctance, that his cataloguing had taken a back seat to the ritual research.
Morwenna's name came up now and then, but only in small, affectionate ways. They spoke of her knitting progress, the way she had sensed the thestrals in the meadow, and the snowdrop she had chosen not to pick.
After the meal, Jane walked Celestine to her guest room.
They moved through the long corridors at an unhurried pace, their footsteps softened by the stone and filling the quiet space between them. The painted portraits watched as they passed, their eyes tracking the two women, but none of the ancestors spoke.
At the door to the suite, Celestine paused. She turned to take in her daughter properly, noticing the faint shadows beneath Jane's eyes and the lingering tightness in her shoulders. Jane held herself with a certain rigidity.
"Would you like to come in for a moment?" Celestine asked.
Jane hesitated, her hand hovering near the doorframe, then she gave a slow nod.
Inside, the room was warm and welcoming, the fire already lit by the house elves. Light shifted across the walls in soft, uneven patterns of amber and gold. Celestine's trunks remained unopened by the wall, waiting for the morning. A small glass vial rested on the bedside table. Jane noticed it, but she said nothing about the medicine.
Celestine gestured toward the armchair near the hearth. Jane sat, her body finally easing into the cushions as if she had been holding herself upright by sheer will for too long. Celestine took the chair opposite her.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The fire crackled softly in the grate. A log shifted, releasing a faint hiss as a cluster of sparks climbed the chimney.
Then Celestine said, "You are afraid."
It was a simple statement of fact, not a question.
Jane kept her gaze fixed on the dancing flames, their gold and orange reflections moving in her eyes. "Yes."
"Of the ritual?"
"Of watching it." Jane's voice was low and strained. She folded her hands together in her lap, her knuckles pale. "Of being right there and not being able to touch her. I keep imagining her looking for me and finding me standing a few metres away, doing absolutely nothing to help."
Celestine let the silence settle for a moment, allowing the words to hang in the air. "When you were small, you had a fever once. It was very high. The healers said there was nothing to be done except wait for the crisis to pass."
Jane remembered it only faintly; a blurred memory of heat and distorted shapes. She recalled her mother's face drifting in and out of her vision, the feel of a cool cloth against her skin, and a voice that never once wavered.
"I sat beside your bed for three days," Celestine said. "I couldn't stop the fever. I could only stay."
Jane looked up at her mother.
"This is the same," Celestine continued. "You can't take this experience from her. But you will be there. She will see you. That matters more than you know."
Jane swallowed hard, her throat feeling tight and constricted. "The Evans family doesn't do this. Blood rituals. Runes carved into skin. This is all so..." She trailed off, unable to find the right word.
"Keith," Celestine said gently. "Druidic. Yes. It isn't our way." She leaned forward slightly in her chair. "But it's hers. She is a Keith as much as she is an Evans. This heritage belongs to her as well."
"I know."
"Knowing a thing isn't the same as accepting it."
Jane looked down at her hands. Her rings caught the flickering firelight. She wore the Keith crest on one hand and the Evans signet on the other; two distinct histories held together by a single person.
Celestine watched her for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Do you remember what I told you when you married Jack?"
Jane lifted her gaze. "You said I was making a choice that would shape the rest of my life."
"I told you that truly loving someone means choosing their world. Not only the person. Their world. Their family. Their ways." Celestine's voice remained soft but firm. "You chose Jack. You chose the Keith family. You chose this life."
"I know I did."
"And now you are afraid of what that choice asks of you."
Jane's eyes stung with sudden tears. "I'm afraid of her being hurt."
"Of course you are." Celestine reached across the space between them and took Jane's hand. Her grip was steady and warm. "She will be hurt. That isn't something you can prevent. What you can do is be there when it happens. You can hold her afterward. You can make sure she knows she isn't alone in the world."
Jane didn't answer. She simply held on to her mother's hand tightly.
After a while, Celestine released her.
"Go and rest, Jane. Tomorrow we will speak about the ritual baths and the herbal proportions. Tonight, you must sleep."
Jane stood up. At the door, she paused, her hand on the handle.
"Maman?"
"Oui?"
"Thank you."
Celestine's smile was quiet and knowing. "Always."
Jane closed the door behind her and stood for a moment in the dim corridor, her hand resting against the cool wood. The portraits watched her in silence. Somewhere farther down the hall, a clock ticked steadily. Then she turned and made her way back, her footsteps soft against the stone.
===
Well, I made a few improvements here, mostly related to language. I suddenly remembered that accents and word choices can vary depending on where someone is from. Then I remembered that in the movies many characters speak with a British accent. I have only watched the films so far, but maybe I will read the novels slowly later for additional details. No promises though.
Because of that, I decided to put some focus on this aspect. The Keith family and others from that side will naturally speak with a British accent and use similar word choices in dialogue. The French characters will, of course, have a French accent when speaking English. I will generalize these accents rather than making them too specific, simply because it is easier for me to manage and remember.
For Lucien, I will give him something like a Veela influenced accent or speech style. As for the narration, it will remain standard English without any accent.
Morwenna will have both accents, British and French.
The second change is about family colors. Since the Keith family already claims dark green and silver, I decided to give the Evans family their own colors as well: deep indigo and silver. The meaning and reasoning behind those colors will be revealed in a later chapter, probably when Morwenna regains her memories and her curiosity about many things reaches its peak.
The third change is my own version of Beauxbatons. I built it by merging elements from canon, well known fanon, and popular fanon roleplay interpretations. Then I adjusted everything to match my own worldbuilding and lore. Because of that, the result will probably feel somewhat unique, although you may still recognize which parts were inspired by those sources. I will include a link for that as well. In hyperlink for AO3 and Fanficiton, in comment section for Webnovel.
There is also one more thing. When it comes to languages other than English, such as French, I should mention again that I have never studied French before. The grammar and wording might be wrong. When I write dialogue in another language, I will place the intended English meaning in parentheses afterward. If you notice any mistakes, please feel free to point them out in the comments. I will fix them as soon as I see the notice. Sorry about that.
I will keep trying to slowly patch any plot holes or other gaps that I find along the way, one step at a time.
I hope you enjoy the story~