Maximilian Voclain
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At the White Manor in London, Eira sat alone in her study, the afternoon light spilling in golden pools across the polished oak desk. A letter lay open before her, its fine parchment emblazoned with the seal of the British Ministry of Magic. It was a formal note of gratitude, thanking her for the generous donation of ten thousand Galleons—an act of goodwill she had committed more out of duty than sentiment.
She exhaled softly and set the letter aside, just as a polite knock echoed at the door.
"Enter," Eira called, her tone composed.
The door opened to reveal Emma, her ever-efficient assistant. She stepped forward and stood respectfully before Eira's desk, hands folded neatly in front of her.
Eira raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess—someone has disrupted our business?"
Emma nodded. "Yes, my lady. We've received reports from France. Certain families are opposing our interests—most notably in the Allée des Merveilles. The White family hotel located there is under pressure. There have been aggressive attempts to force its sale."
Eira's expression darkened slightly. "Which family is responsible?"
"It's the Trévor family, my lady," Emma replied gravely. "They've been making subtle moves for weeks. They originally approached your grandfather with an offer to purchase the property, but he refused. Since his passing, they've renewed their efforts—though not through formal proposals. They've been pressuring the hotel's management directly. Intimidating them, even. All without informing you, the rightful owner."
"How bold of them," Eira muttered, irritation lacing her voice. "So they've waited for my grandfather to die before baring their fangs. And now they dare to bypass me entirely, dealing with the manager as if I were invisible."
She sat back in her chair, her green eyes flashing with cold fire. "Besides the Trévors, who else has been interfering?"
"There are other families as well, but none as aggressive as the Trévors. Their interest is particularly tenacious."
Eira nodded slowly, absorbing the implications. "Then they must be dealt with accordingly. We'll make an example of the Trévors… to warn some other little puppies before they even think of doing something that would make me angry.."
As she lapsed into thought, Emma ventured, "If I may ask, my lady… have you made a decision? Will you transfer to Hogwarts or continue your studies at Beauxbâtons?"
Eira didn't answer immediately. Her gaze lingered on the framed map of France that hung behind her desk. "I haven't decided," she said finally. "But given the unrest in France, I may need to go there in person. This isn't something that can be handled from afar."
Emma looked hesitant. "But if you leave, who will oversee things here? You know Cecil is waiting for the slightest opportunity to strike. If you go to France, our British holdings could become vulnerable."
Eira gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "Don't worry about him. For now, Britain is calm—no threats, no attacks. France, on the other hand, must be handled quickly and decisively. If we allow this to spiral, we'll lose control. Worse, we'll lose face. We must respond before others grow emboldened."
Emma frowned. "So… it's settled then? You'll return to Paris?"
"Soon," Eira said thoughtfully. "I'll wait a few more days and observe. If the situation escalates, I'll leave immediately."
"In that case," Emma said, "I'll begin preparing to join you. I'll inform the Ministry that I need to wind down my affairs here—"
"No," Eira interrupted firmly. "You're to remain here. I need someone I trust overseeing matters in London. You'll be far more valuable guarding our assets on this side of the Channel."
"But, my lady," Emma protested, "if I'm not with you, your safety—"
"I'll manage," Eira replied. "Madame Maxime is in France. So are the Delacours, and perhaps even my aunt Isabella. I won't be without allies. You, however, must be vigilant here. I don't want any surprises from Cecil in my absence."
Emma hesitated but eventually nodded. "Of course, my lady. If that's your command, I'll obey it."
Eira offered a rare, fleeting smile. "It's only for a year. If I can resolve things within that time, I'll return. Britain is still home."
Emma bowed her head in acknowledgment, but as she turned to leave, she paused. "Ah, I nearly forgot—there's an invitation for you. Gilderoy Lockhart is hosting a book signing on the fifteenth of August. He's personally requested your attendance."
Eira blinked, bemused. "Lockhart? The storybook writer?"
Emma gave a small nod. "Yes, my lady. He's become rather famous among wizarding circles—particularly in the Ministry and among pure-blood society. Many witches are quite obsessed with him."
Eira rolled her eyes. "And do you expect me to be among them?"
"Not at all," Emma said quickly. "I only meant that his influence—"
Eira leaned forward, smirking. "Or is it you who's obsessed with him? Is that why you brought this up? Hoping for an excuse to attend?"
Emma stiffened, her cheeks turning pink. "I would never presume, my lady!"
"Well, if you're that eager, you may go," Eira said, waving a hand dismissively. "I have no interest in fawning over some self-absorbed writer."
"My lady, that wasn't my intent—"
"Relax," Eira chuckled. "I'm not accusing you of fangirling Lockhart… though you did seem quite enthusiastic."
Emma's ears turned red. "Please, my lady…"
Eira raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Go on, Emma. If you want to attend, I won't stop you. Just don't come back quoting from his books."
Emma bowed, still slightly flustered. "As you wish, my lady."
And with that, she turned and exited the room, leaving Eira alone once more in the golden silence of the study. Her gaze drifted again to the map of France.