SWNOVELXO Chapter 30: The Art Of Magical Etiquette
Next Day
The afternoon sun lay brimstone-gold across the polished marble corridors of Beauxbatons. A fragrant breeze drifted in from the gardens, carrying hints of lavender, honeysuckle, and distant sea salt. Eira stood before the massive double doors of the Salon de la Courtoisie Mystique, smoothing the pleats of her uniform skirt. Today's class The Art of Magical Etiquette was mandatory for all first-year students, and its importance at this academy was surpassed only by wand-lore itself.
She entered with the other new students, each footstep echoing in the vast hall. The floor gleamed obsidian-black, so reflective Eira saw her own posture simultaneously—slightly stiff, but improving. Gleaming chandeliers hovered on invisible threads above the desks, their gentle lights drifting as though alive. Around the room, mirrors shimmered at intervals; not ordinary glass, but enchanted reflections that revealed posture, aura, and carriage rather than mere appearance.
Madame Noëlle de Vauclère glided into the chamber a presence so commanding it seemed she moved through an invisible mist. Her gown was deep midnight blue, embroidered with silver runes that pulsed faintly. Her face was ageless, sharp, and her grey eyes penetrated the room, dissecting every posture and attitude.
"Stand," she said once, and every student rose as though tethered to her voice.
"Gentle wizards and witches," she began, in a voice soft enough to be velvet yet firm enough to split marble. "This is not a mere courtesy class. This is an indoctrination into the very essence of what makes a wizard or witch noble. You are magical by birth, yes, but that alone marks you only halfway. The other half—the greater half—is the demeanor that separates wizardry from mere superstition, Muggle chaos, and most importantly, from the barbarism sprouted from lesser schools."
Her voice dipped as she spoke of other institutions. "Decades ago, I toured Hogwarts while I was there . I witnessed young witches and wizards eating with overwhelming noise, gripping their forks, drumming on plates, slouching in benches as though they were beasts in a barn. They laughed too loudly, they complained about soup that wasn't hot enough, they wiped their spoons on their robes! And the Elven Marie School—excuse me, Ilvermorny!—was little better. Their students behaved with all the decorum of Muggle commoners at a tavern feast. No finesse, no restraint, no dignity." She shook her head, expression sharp. "They prided themselves on being 'natural'—meaning unrefined."
A ripple passed through the hall. Eira sat straighter. Such theatrical disdain yet it drove home Madame Noëlle's point.
"In this school—Beauxbatons—we unlearn that barbarity. Here, elegance is not optional. Elegance is your armor, your weapon, and your identity. You do not just carry a wand—you wear it. You do not just speak words—you craft them. You do not just move—you float. You are superior. And with superiority comes responsibility: to be seen, heard, remembered—with grace."
She tapped the polished blackboard with her wand, and golden chalk inscribed the three synoptic pillars:
Les Trois Fondements de l'Élégance Sorcière
1. Port de Posture – The way you hold yourself is your statement; a wizard's back is straighter than a pheasant's quill.
2. Langage de Baguette – A wand is not just a tool. It is an extension of nobility. Handling it with elegance reveals internal discipline.
3. Parole et Silences – Words cast spells, but silence wields power. Your voice and your restraint are both tools.
She paused. "As muggles eat: grab, chew, swallow. As real wizards dine: lift, taste, consider, converse. Not a single bone of your posture must betray your birth as magical beings. The world watches. Other schools resent us for this refinement. They fear it. They think it elitist. We embrace it."
Madame Noëlle gestured sharply. Tea sets on each of the round tables glided into view. Delicate porcelain cups filled themselves with steaming amber tea. "Take your cup," she instructed, "and lift it. Do not grip it like a ploughman dragging his pitchfork." Students reached uncertainly; one girl's spoon clattered. Madame Noëlle's eyebrow arched like a drawn blade. "Stop. Observe."
Eira watched as the professor—without effort—lifted her own cup by lightly hooking her thumb beneath the handle, her fingers curved in graceful repose, pinky trailing just so, knuckles soft. She sipped––quietly––holding herself small, yet dignified. Eira bowed her head slightly as she drank, eyes lowered modestly. She could feel her cheeks flushing, then relaxing: she had done it right, even though she was thought when she was younger but still it's quite different than British etiquette.
The class moved on, shifting from tea-drinking to wand exercises: not spells, but subtleties. How to cross the ballroom with a wand in hand—never flipping it, never swinging it, always secure, balanced, perpendicular to the wrist. How to bow while holding a wand—never stepping, turning on the heel, a fluid arc of the wrist that showed deference without weakness. How to refuse a duel with aught more than a polite flick of wrist and phrasing: "I must decline," said as though the words cast a spell that ended the conversation.
The class was relentless. Madame Noëlle moved among them, correcting postures, adjusting elbow angles, tapping seated students on their shoulders to straighten backs. "Imagine you are floating on a cloud," she said to a boy slumping against the desk. "Now drop this cloud, and plant your feet firmly. You are arrayed. You are never below the mark."
She turned again to lecture. "To remind you—Hogwarts may value bravery, Ilvermorny adventure—but they lack refinement. They have student quarrels in corridors. At Beauxbatons, you will know how to end quarrels before they begin—with a subtle gesture, a courteous but firm word, a posture that says: I would not meet you in halfling hole. You are above that."
After nearly an hour of practice, she brought the students to a final exercise: Magical Correspondence. The desks rearranged magically into letter-writing stations, and because she despised sloppiness, she produced fine writing parchment, goose-feather quills, and inkwells of deep sapphire ink. "Tomorrow, we continue with bowing protocols," she announced. "But tonight, I expect each of you to practice your own letter of introduction. It should express gratitude, dignity, and subtlety. No dragons' bile. No smudges. If I spot a blot in even one letter, you will rewrite it blindfolded. And I will read it aloud—so choose your words as though you are addressing a foreign ambassador."
By the closing bell, even the fidgetiest students had learned to hold their posture, their wand, and their teacup as though each were a part of them. Eira felt quite exhausted from this class since it was quite boring stuff to practice.
As they filed out, Madame Noëlle dismissed them with the smallest of nods. "You are dismissed—for now. Pursue refinement. Let the other schools fumble in their own chaos. Here, you will shine."
No applause followed. Only broad shoulders and lifted chins exiting into sunlight.
Eira hurried down the corridor, desperate to escape the class that seemed to trigger severe OCD in everyone.
And the professor definitely had this condition.