A pale morning light streamed through the tall, arched windows of the White family manor, casting long shadows over the polished floor of the study. The scent of old parchment, ink, and faint lavender drifted through the room, mingling with the steady scratch of a quill moving across parchment.
Eira sat behind her wide mahogany desk, a cup of cooling Earl Grey beside her, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she sifted through a thick file labeled "Trévér Family – Internal Affairs". Maps, photographs, Ministry reports, and surveillance memos were spread across her desk in ordered chaos. Names were underlined. Some were circled in red. Ancestral ties traced with arrows. Crimes noted with meticulous strokes.
Her white hair, now cut short in mourning, framed her face in an elegant halo, giving her an austere and intimidating air far beyond her twelve years. She read aloud softly to herself.
"Roman Trévér… tied to multiple illegal imports… backroom deals with Alsace magic guild… accusations of falsified marriage contracts…"
She paused, leaned back in her chair, and tapped the end of her quill against her lip.
"Nothing solid yet. But I'll find it , though it's quite an interesting family ."
There came a soft crack behind her, like a bubble bursting in the air.
"Miss?" came a high, gentle voice.
Eira turned her head slowly. "Lolly?"
The tiny house-elf was standing at the threshold, nervously wringing her hands together. Her large, amber eyes blinked as she approached, holding a rolled-up newspaper tied with a red ribbon.
Eira tilted her head slightly. "Do we have guests?"
"No, Miss," Lolly said, shaking her head. "But Miss Bloom sent this to you. Said… today's edition might interest you."
Eira reached out, took the newspaper, and raised a brow. The Daily Prophet. Of course.
She untied the ribbon and unfurled the scroll. Her eyes landed instantly on the front page.
There it was. Her face—stunning, pale, strikingly composed—framed with her now short, snow-white hair. Someone had used a photograph taken during her latest appearance at the British Ministry during the press. She was dressed formally, head held high, lips pursed in regal calm. A gleaming headline sprawled across the top in obnoxiously large font:
"THE MATRIARCH ABROAD: Why Has Eira White Abandoned British Soil?"
A scathing exposé by Rita Skeeter.
Eira's fingers tightened on the edge of the paper. She took a breath, then read.
{"The Wizarding World was shaken this summer by the official confirmation of Cecil White's illegitimacy and the stunning ascension of a twelve-year-old girl to one of the most powerful positions in Britain. But while the Ministry scrambles to recover from the scandal, another troubling detail has gone largely unquestioned—until now.
Why is the newly declared Matriarch of the White family not even residing in the country she claims to protect? Why has she chosen the halls of Beauxbâtons Academy in France over the ancestral home of British wizardry: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?
One might ask: where is her sense of duty, her loyalty, her national pride? Hogwarts has served as the bastion of magical education for the White family for generations. But instead, young Miss White parades through French gardens and dances under foreign stars while her homeland is left to flounder in uncertainty.
In an era where tradition is more important than ever, such behavior from the head of a Most Ancient and Noble House is… suspect.
Has the Matriarch forgotten the thousand-year custom that binds our leading magical families to Hogwarts? Is she turning her back on British magical identity to indulge in French frivolities and political theater?
Sources whisper of growing discontent in the Wizengamot. Some wonder if she is truly fit to lead—or merely a puppet propped up by scandal and foreign influence."}
Eira rolled her eyes.
"Of course you would write this, Rita," she muttered under her breath. "When in doubt, weaponize tradition and nationalism. Classic move."
She continued reading.
{"Many prominent families—Rosier, Nott, Selwyn—have reportedly expressed their concerns. One senior official, speaking on condition of anonymity, said: 'It's not just about where she studies. It's about where her loyalty lies.'
Furthermore, whispers from the continent suggest that Miss White has grown rather comfortable among her foreign peers. One wonders—does the White Matriarch intend to return to Britain at all?"
The article concluded with an infuriating flourish:
"The eyes of the wizarding world are watching. And if young Miss White wishes to be taken seriously, perhaps it is time she remembers where she comes from."}
Eira scoffed and tossed the paper onto her desk. "As if you ever cared about where I come from."
Lolly watched nervously. "Miss? Are you… angry?"
Eira leaned back in her chair, eyes thoughtful. "No, Lolly . Not angry. Just… tired. This again. They demand loyalty only when it's convenient. But let someone challenge the way things are, and suddenly you're a traitor."
Eira's lips curled into a cold, knowing smile as she set the newspaper aside. "Of course they would manipulate the media," she said, her voice edged with disdain. "It's the oldest trick in the book—pressure me into returning to Britain, not out of duty or patriotism, but because without my presence there, they have no stage to parade their sons, nephews, and distant cousins before me. No suitors to whisper sweet ambitions under gilded ceilings, no chance to entangle me in a web of marriage contracts tailored for their gain."
She leaned forward , eyes narrowing. "This article isn't about tradition or legacy. It's a summons cloaked in concern, crafted by greedy leeches who see my absence as an obstacle to their ambitions. They want me back, not for my sake—but for theirs."
She picked up the Daily Prophet again, tapped the edge with a finger.
"They didn't say a word when the Parkinsons sent their heir to Durmstrang. Or when the Malfoys spent years on the continent. But now I'm the villain? Because I chose Beauxbâtons? Because I found peace and strength in another place?"
She looked over to Lolly, her voice steady.
"You know what the real problem is, Lolly?"
Loli shook her head gently.
"They're not afraid that I'm forgetting who I am. They're afraid that I remember exactly who I am—and that I don't need their permission to lead."
She stood, brushing her hands against the fabric of her dark navy robes.
"They want me to cower. To go running back to Britain and enroll myself in Hogwarts just to please their sense of tradition. They call it loyalty. I call it manipulation."
Lolly blinked up at her. "So… what will you do, Miss?"
Eira smirked. "What I always do. Outsmart them."
She walked to the window, arms crossed, watching the birds wheel across the Parisian sky. The light fell across her sharp profile, casting a golden edge along her cheekbones. Her short hair ruffled softly in the morning breeze that crept through the cracked pane.
She spoke without turning. "Let them write. Let them shout. Let them call me a traitor. I'm not going anywhere until I'm finished."
Lolly nodded slowly. "Madam Bloom said… she thought you would say that."
"Smart woman," Eira replied with a small grin.
There was a pause.
Then Eira looked down at the paper again and gave an amused snort. "Honestly. 'Foreign frivolities and political theater'? She makes it sound like I'm gallivanting in feather boas at the French opera. As if I haven't been dealing with traitorous relatives, assassination attempts, and economic warfare since January."
She tore out the front page and rolled it up, snapping a conjuring wand from her desk drawer. With a flick, the paper burst into a neat little flame and disintegrated into a puff of rose-scented smoke.
"In your dreams, Skeeter," Eira muttered. "I will not be manipulated with ink and headlines."
She turned back to her desk, gathering the Trévér file again, her expression hardening.
"I've got real problems to deal with. Like corruption. Extortion. Traitors pretending to be allies. And if they think I'm going to let go of this investigation to attend some British tea party at Pure Blood balls, they're severely underestimating me."
Lolly stood a little straighter, pride shining in her wide eyes.
"I will prepare your tea, Miss," she said softly. "Would you like your lemon biscuits too?"
Eira smiled faintly. "Yes, please."
As Lolly vanished with a soft pop, Eira resumed reading the documents, her quill poised again. The gears in her mind were already turning—how to accelerate the Trévér investigation, who to question next, which Ministry contacts in France were most likely to help or hinder.
But even as she worked, part of her mind lingered on the article.
Not because she was hurt.
But because it reminded her of something important.
Power wasn't inherited. It was claimed. And defended. Day by day. Word by word. Action by action.
If Britain wanted a Matriarch, they'd have to accept the one they got.