The silence in the chamber was oppressive.
Stone walls, scarred with centuries of magic, watched over the crowd like silent witnesses. The torches lining the Hearing Hall cast flickering shadows across the robes of the ancient families gathered in attendance. Their crests glimmered faintly: some stitched in silver thread, others etched in enamel and jewels.
But none bore the crest of the Ministry.
Not a single Ministry official had appeared on the high benches today—except one.
Isabella Voclain, Minister of Magic for all of France, sat quietly near the far western side of the room. Her elegant green robes were folded neatly over her knees. She said nothing. She did not move. Her dark eyes, so often full of command, were unreadable.
She had not been given a voice today as it seemed like.
It was intentional.
Because the one who did speak—the one who ruled the hearing—sat in the tallest chair at the head of the chamber was her brother.
Maximilian Voclain.
Lord of the Voclain family. Dressed in black and deep sapphire, his brown hair was tied neatly behind his shoulders, his eyes as sharp and cold as ever. In his presence, the chamber felt more like a guillotine scaffold than a courtroom.
He sat with perfect posture, fingers folded together.
Below him, in the center of the stone floor, stood Eira White.
Snow-white hair. Green eyes like a forgotten forest. Cloaked in grey and deep blue, her robes bore no crest today—only the simple, silent thread-line of the White family, embroidered over her heart.
She stood still as a statue, hands at her sides, expression unreadable.
Across from her, seated in a place of prominence beneath the judges' circle, sat Charles Trévér, Lord of the Trévér family—stern, pale, long-faced, dressed in rich crimson.
Beside him, in a golden chair with clawed arms, sat Alina Trévér.
She was the least remarkable presence in the room, resembling nothing more than an extra—someone who had merely come to accompany her husband to today's hearing.
The murmuring of the crowd finally faded as Maximilian stood.
He spoke in flawless, firm French—each word slicing through the silence like ice cracking over stone.
"Let this hearing be recorded in the name of the Twelve and the Council of Blood. I, Maximilian Voclain, preside over this session by right of unanimous invocation."
He turned his gaze down toward Eira.
"We are gathered here to address crimes and conspiracies that threaten the foundation of magical unity in France and across the continent."
Whispers returned. Quiet, but present. No one stopped them.
"The accused," he continued, "is Eira of the White Family, claimant to the headship of a British noble line, residing in France under the temporary sanction of Beauxbâtons Academy."
Eira neither flinched nor felt fear as she looked at the man they claimed was her uncle—her mother's own brother. He stood there like a judge, treating her like a criminal.
"You stand before us accused of the following:
— Instigating and perpetuating the renewed blood feud between the Voclain and Trévér families.
— The death of Roman Trévér, heir of the Trévér house.
— The death of Cecil White, member of the White family.
— The spreading of falsehoods to delegitimize and dishonor the Trévér family and disrupt ancestral accords.
— Conspiring to sabotage Trévér family trade across the American continents by way of bribery, tampering, and magical interference."
The hall grew louder again. A few heads nodded. Some looked away. Others stared openly at Eira as if they expected her to fall to her knees and start crying ,screaming or any kind of reaction.
She didn't move.
Maximilian sat again.
"Bring the witnesses," he said coolly.
From the back of the hall, a series of individuals were led forward by Ministry guards. They were not nobles but laborers, tradesmen, warehouse handlers, each holding signed statements.
One by one, they gave their testimony.
"We were paid in gold—White family gold—to tamper with Trévér wand shipments."
"I was hired to enchant potion containers to degrade over time—orders came through agents working under ministry and related to the White family."
"A cloaked woman gave me a purse and told me to reroute Trévér imports to falsified destinations. She wore the sigil of the White estate."
Each statement built upon the last.
Each one drove another nail into the frame of accusation.
Maximilian did not interrupt. Nor did he show emotion.
Only when the final witness was dismissed did he rise again.
There is a clear, persistent, and undeniable pattern.
He stepped forward on the upper dais, his voice growing louder, more forceful.
"The White family has long sought to reshape European magical society, despite its centuries of oppression and scandal. It has clawed at every border, every closed gate. And now, through Eira White, it has brought violence once again."
He turned his eyes back to her, voice like a blade.
"You, Eira White , have claimed that Cecil White was the son of Adrian Voclain, former Lord of our House. That his blood was Voclain. That his death was the result of a great injustice."
He stepped closer to the edge of his platform.
"I, Maximilian Voclain, current Lord of the Voclain house, deny this claim in full. There is no proof. There is no record. Only the word of a grieving girl clinging to ghosts and rewriting bloodlines."
A murmur of approval ran through the upper tiers.
"She has used falsehoods and family tragedy to poison ancient alliances. To turn France into a battlefield of whispers and sabotage."
He turned from Eira now and faced the court.
"She is not a child. She is the acting head of house, and she has wielded that power recklessly. We are not judging a student—we are judging a matriarch."
He raised one hand.
"I now pronounce judgment."
The room fell utterly still.
Maximilian's voice rang like the toll of a bell.
"From this moment forward, by agreement of the Council of Families and under the emergency authority of the Circle of Twelve:
Eira White is hereby banished from French territory.
She is to be expelled from Beauxbâtons Academy immediately.
All holdings and vaults of the White family within France shall be seized and redistributed to families who have suffered verified damages from her actions.
She is never again to be granted entry into the French wizarding community.
Should she return, she will be tried as a magical criminal of the highest order."
The torches dimmed.
The silence was suffocating.
Even the oldest families were holding their breath—awaiting her fall, her tears, her collapse.
Maximilian's eyes gleamed as he spoke the final words.
"Eira White… Do you have any last words?"
The silence rang like a gong.
Dozens of eyes turned to the girl in the center of the stone circle.
Waiting.
Eager.
Predatory.
Eira lifted her eyes slowly.
Her gaze passed over Charles Trévér, who looked smug in his velvet-red robes.
Past Alina Trévér, who stared at her like a panther watching a mouse.
She paused, just briefly, on her aunt—Isabella Voclain—still silent and unmoving.
And then she smiled.
Not kindly.
Not nervously.
It was the smile of someone who had seen this coming.
And then she laughed.
A cold, biting laugh that echoed against the stone walls and froze the air like frost creeping over glass.
Not hysterical.
Not mad.
Just—done.
It rang through the chamber like a ghost's song.
Soft at first, then louder.
And no one in the court dared interrupt it.
Not even Maximilian.
Not even Alina who was astonished by this little girl's reaction .