The silence in the room stretched like a drawn blade.
Cecil sat still, bound to the bed by invisible cords of magic, his chest rising and falling with shallow, measured breaths. The fire crackled in the hearth behind him, casting flickering shadows over the carved wood of the bedposts. His dark blue eyes were locked on Eira's, unreadable—for now.
She broke the silence first.
"I never thought I'd see you like this," Eira said, voice soft, almost wistful. "Pathetic. Powerless. A puppet strung along by the Trévér family."
She stepped further into the room, her boots thudding softly against the thick rugs, her wand still lazily in hand.
"Where is it?" she asked, tilting her head. "Where's the great Cecil White? The arrogant heir to nothing. What happened to you, Uncle?"
Cecil said nothing. His jaw clenched.
"But we don't need to dwell on that," Eira continued lightly. She dragged a chair from the corner, turned it around, and straddled it backward—arms resting on the backrest, her chin atop them. "I came to ask you something."
Her tone shifted, cooled.
"Why did you kill her?"
She didn't need to say the name.
Cecil's eyes narrowed, but still, he said nothing.
Eira pressed on. "What did she ever do to you? Was it to get to me? To hurt me because of the bond I shared with her?" She leaned forward slightly. "Or was it just one more chance to twist the knife and watch me bleed?"
Cecil's voice, when it came, was maddeningly calm.
"If you already know the answer," he said, "why ask the question?"
Eira's face tightened. Her fingers curled slowly around her wand. But she forced herself to breathe, to smile—though it didn't reach her eyes.
"Well," she said softly, "when I killed your little lover… he cried."
Cecil blinked.
Eira's smile widened a touch.
"Oh yes. He begged, you know. Begged me not to kill him. Pleaded for mercy. He fought hard—I'll give him that—but in the end…" She flicked her wand lightly in the air. "Avada Kedavra. Just like that. Gone."
Her voice was silk over ice.
"Did it hurt, Cecil?" she asked. "Does it hurt now?"
The effect was immediate.
Cecil's face contorted in fury. His entire body tensed against the magical bonds. With a roar, he hurled the nearest thing he could reach—a half-filled wine glass—straight at her head.
Eira deflected it effortlessly. The glass shattered against the wall behind her with a crystalline scream.
He lunged next, snarling like a feral animal, but he didn't get far. Another flick of Eira's wand, and the binding spell slammed him back into the mattress. Magic constricted across his limbs like iron chains.
His eyes burned with hatred.
"You fucking bitch," he spat. "You filthy, monstrous little bitch. I'll murder you. I swear to—"
"Ah, there it is," Eira murmured, standing now. She stepped closer to the bed. "That anger. That grief. So you did love him. Interesting."
"For a worthless house elf," Cecil growled, still struggling. "You killed a human. A pure-blood wizard. For a fucking creature that should have died in chains."
Eira stopped just a step from the bed.
She stared at him with calm, glacial disgust.
"Her life," she said, "was worth more than a hundred lives like yours… or Josh's. And the fact that I got a reaction out of you—this—it pleases me more than you can imagine."
Cecil's chest heaved with rage.
"You're a monster," he hissed. "A twisted little girl with too much power and no soul. A twelve-year-old with blood on her hands. A monster."
Eira laughed.
"Oh, that's rich," she said. "You? Calling me a monster? Have you looked in a mirror lately? A grown man tormenting a child. Manipulating her. Hurting her. And why? Because you were never a White to begin with? Because the family legacy was never yours to inherit?"
She paced now, slow, deliberate.
"You know," she continued, voice softening, "we could've had something. You and I. You could've been my mentor. My ally. My uncle. You could've stood beside me and shared in the legacy. Wealth. Power. Respect."
She turned, gaze sharp.
"But no. You threw it all away—because of jealousy. Because of petty, childish hate. You weren't cast aside, Cecil. You failed yourself."
He sneered at her, baring his teeth.
"Oh, spare me your lecture. I would never—ever—have supported you. From the moment I was born, my mother told me I was destined to rule the White family. Me. Not your father. And certainly not you."
His voice rose in pitch, in mania.
"I was meant to be the most powerful wizard of our bloodline! And your father stole that from me! And now you—you were just the last thread to cut."
Eira stood motionless, eyes narrowed.
"I took my revenge on him," Cecil snarled. "And I would've killed you too, if I'd had the chance. The moment I learned you survived, I told the Death Eaters to wipe out every last one of you. I gave them the layout of the manor. I was the one who disabled the wards. I watched from the hill as Bellatrix carved her name into our walls."
Eira's wand twitched in her hand, her knuckles bone-white.
"I suspected," she said quietly. "I read the records. I knew there had to be someone on the inside. And I always suspected it was you."
She paused.
"And so did Grandfather."
At that, Cecil laughed—dry and bitter.
"That old fool," he sneered. "He's dead now. And the day I found out, I celebrated. Danced, even."
Eira smirked, tilting her head.
"And yet you spent your whole life trying to win his approval," she said. "Trying to get love from a man who wasn't even your real father. From the man who killed your white of a mother. From the man who called your real father a bastard."
She stepped closer now, wand pointed directly at Cecil's chest.
"You've lived a long life, Uncle. Longer than you deserved. I should have killed you years ago. But I hesitated. And because of that… I lost someone precious."
Cecil chuckled, though his eyes had darkened.
"Kill me, then," he spat. "Go ahead. But don't think you'll walk away from it. The Ministry will hunt you. Do you really think the Wizengamot won't see you for what you are? All this… for a house elf?"
Eira shook her head slowly.
"Oh no, no," she said, almost sweetly. "Don't be ridiculous, Uncle. I'm not taking you to the Wizengamot."
His smirk vanished.
Eira leaned in, her voice low, measured.
"I'm not going to let a room full of crusty old men decide your fate. This is my judgment. My court. My sentence. And when you die…"
She smiled.
"…everything else is just paperwork."
Cecil stared at her now with something more than hatred.
Fear.