The snow hadn't stopped.
It fell over the villa in thick, soundless sheets, muffling the world in silence. But inside, past the quiet corridors and still-burning hearths, the storm was far from over.
Eira stood with her back to the balcony doors, the cold seeping into her bones through the seams of her cloak. Her face was blank and Composed. Emma returned only minutes later, her boots light on the floor.
"It's done," she said softly. "The portraits are destroyed. Not a face left who could speak."
Eira nodded once. "Good."
A pause stretched between them. Then Eira turned her gaze toward the hallway.
"Bring Roman."
Emma didn't ask why. She knew.
⸻
They found him just where they'd left him—slumped in the bed , his body limp but breathing. Still unconscious and vulnerable. Emma revived him with a gentle jolt from her wand.
Roman stirred slowly, groaning, rubbing his wrists where the magical ropes had burned faint red marks. The warmth of the room contrasted sharply with the cold seeping from the shattered windows nearby.
When his eyes fluttered open and settled on the two women before him, recognition snapped across his face.
And then, laughter.
Low at first. Then louder. Mocking.
"You really did it," he said, blinking through the haze. "You actually did it. You killed him."
He leaned back in the bed , letting out another breathless laugh.
"Oh, Eira," he said, voice full of cruel delight. "You've just started a war."
He leaned forward now, lips curled into a sneer. "And for that, my mother will punish you. She'll burn your entire legacy to the ground. The White name will be dust beneath her boots."
Eira stepped forward.
She looked at him with something unreadable in her eyes—neither pity nor rage. Only inevitability.
"You're wrong," she said softly. "It's not me who'll burn."
Roman's smile faltered.
Eira tilted her head.
"It'll be you," she said, voice like velvet stretched over a blade. "And your entire family already has an enemy, Voclain family. That's what the trail will say. That's what the Ministry will believe."
Now the color drained from Roman's face. The laughter died.
"You… you wouldn't—"
"I already have," Eira said.
Emma stepped behind him, gripping his shoulders firmly.
Roman tried to rise. "You think this will end it? You think killing us will stop her?"
"I'm not trying to stop her," Eira replied. "I'm letting her see."
She paused, letting her next words sink in.
"Now, tell me… What exactly did you do with Cecil? How deep did the poison run?"
Roman's eyes flicked between the two of them. He was trying to gauge whether he could still manipulate this, still talk his way out of it.
But then Emma stepped away from behind him—and gestured.
"Come on," she said coldly. "Let me show you something."
She led him down the corridor. At first, he resisted, until a firm shove from Emma made him move.
They walked in silence.
Until they reached the balcony.
Roman saw him at once.
Cecil's body still hung there—lifeless, swaying faintly in the wind, half-buried in snowflakes and shadow. His face was pale and contorted. His robes stained.
Roman recoiled.
"You're insane," he whispered. "You're a fucking monster."
He turned to Eira, eyes burning.
"You killed your own uncle. For what? For a fucking house elf? For a servant?"
Emma's wand rose at once, but Eira raised a hand to stop her.
She stepped forward instead.
Her face was quiet. Tired. But unshaken.
"You call her a servant," she said, "but she was more human than either of you. She never lied. She never tortured. She never betrayed. She only gave."
Roman scoffed, shaking his head.
"You're deluded."
"No," Eira said. "You're small. And you'll die small."
She turned to Emma.
Emma lifted her wand.
But just before the spell struck, Eira leaned in a little closer.
"Merry Christmas, Roman," she whispered. "I'm sure your mother will be devastated. That is… if she ever truly loved you."
Roman opened his mouth—whether to scream, to beg, or to curse, no one knew.
Avada Kedavra.
The green light struck him squarely in the chest.
He collapsed with a final gasp, crumpling like paper. No cry or defiance. Just a hollow thud as his body hit the frozen stone.
Dead.
Emma stood still for a moment, wand lowered. Then she looked to Eira.
"I'll clean it up."
⸻
The hours that followed were quiet. Efficient.
They worked like ghosts—erasing traces of their presence from every room. Emma took care of the wards, dismantling the magic gently and resetting triggers to fire on any Ministry scrying. The bodies of those who were unconscious transfigured, buried under charm-cloaked snow.
The villa was left as it had been: pristine, proud, and full of secrets.
The only things missing were the two men who had ruled it.
By the time the two women stepped outside into the dark, the snowfall had softened. The storm had begun to die.
Eira looked up toward the sky, breathing in the cold.
She didn't speak.
Emma stood beside her. "No one will know we were here," she said. "Not unless we want them to."
Eira finally nodded.
They turned and began the long walk back toward the road, the path behind them already vanishing beneath fresh snow.
And from the high balcony of the Trévér villa, where once a tyrant had ruled and raged and betrayed, only the wind now whispered.