The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Eira's study in the White Manor, falling across stacks of parchment and polished oak. Yet its warmth did little to soften the cold irritation tightening her expression. At her desk, she held the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, her gaze fixed on the bold headline sprawled across the front page. The enchanted photographs flickered with swathes of green and gold Irish flags, shimmering as if the paper itself sought to drown its readers in forced celebration.
IRELAND'S VICTORY MARRED BY A FEW DRUNKEN TROUBLEMAKERS
But Thanks to Minister Fudge's Steadfast Leadership, Order Was Swiftly Restored!
The moving ink shimmered with false cheer, the words practically beaming. The article began in the usual pompous fashion, downplaying every ounce of what had truly occurred.
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The Daily Prophet — Official Edition
By Special Correspondent Barnabas Cuffe
{Last night's splendid Quidditch World Cup final ended in roaring celebration as the Irish team soared to victory against Bulgaria in one of the most dazzling matches of the decade. Yet, as with any great occasion, a few thugs sought to spoil the festivities.
A group of drunken troublemakers—emboldened, perhaps, by too much Firewhisky after Ireland's victory—took to parading in masks, disturbing the peace, and frightening spectators with childish displays.
Some even conjured a crude imitation of You-Know-Who's former symbol, the so-called Dark Mark. Such nonsense was clearly a tasteless prank intended to stir memories of darker times.
Thanks to the swift, calm, and fearless actions of our own Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, the situation was resolved before it could spiral into anything resembling danger. With Ministry officials dispatched immediately and the Minister himself at the scene, order was restored within the hour.
The culprits—who are best described as young hooligans desperate for attention—were apprehended on the spot and have already been sent to Azkaban for their recklessness. No injuries were reported. No real harm was done.
"We must not allow the delusions of a few drunken louts to disturb the peace our world has worked so hard to achieve," said Minister Fudge in a brief statement to the Prophet. "I can assure the wizarding community that everything was firmly under control. I was there personally, and the danger was minimal at best. Our international guests are safe, and our great nation remains unshaken."
Several prominent pure-blood families echoed this sentiment, dismissing the incident as "juvenile antics." Lord Fawly commented: "It is clear some misguided youths thought it amusing to dress up and use old symbols to frighten the weak-minded. They achieved nothing except embarrassing themselves."
Lady Selwyn added: "We must not lend power to these crude displays by overreacting. Such pranks dishonor the memory of the last war but mean nothing in themselves. We commend the Minister's steady hand in quelling the nonsense so swiftly."
The Daily Prophet can confidently report that Britain remains safe and secure. Our international visitors should rest assured that no real incident occurred beyond the exuberance of the crowd. Thanks to the leadership of Minister Fudge, the festivities will be remembered for Ireland's victory—not for a few drunken mistakes.}
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Eira's eyes narrowed, her fingers curling into the parchment until it crumpled under her grip. She slammed the newspaper down on the polished mahogany desk of the study, the sound sharp and final in the stillness of the room.
"Drunken thugs?" she said coldly, her lips twisting into a sneer. "No injuries reported?" Her voice was like ice splintering through glass. "They call that chaos nothing more than drunken antics?"
Across from her, Isabella sat gracefully, legs crossed, her pale hands folded neatly in her lap. She had been reading quietly until Eira's burst of fury caught her attention. Her aunt's expression carried none of Eira's raw fire—only a cool, calculating calm.
"Well," Isabella murmured, voice smooth as velvet, "that is precisely what the Daily Prophet must say. If they admitted the truth that Death Eaters, or something like them, had appeared, that the Dark Mark had shone in the sky—it would spread panic like wildfire. And what would that do to Fudge's reputation?" She tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes glittering. "He would be remembered as the Minister who lost control, whose Ministry allowed chaos at the most international gathering of the decade. Scandal is poison to him, and Fudge is a man who drinks only what pleases his palate."
Eira exhaled sharply through her nose, her jaw tight. "It seems he grows more unruly and out of touch day by day. He twists reality to suit himself."
Isabella allowed herself a faint smile, sipping her tea. "My dear, that is politics. Truth bends where power demands it. He wants to remain Minister, and for that, he must present a spotless record. The Daily Prophet is his mouthpiece an obedient, eager and easily manipulated."
Eira's gaze slid away from her aunt, fixing instead on the sunlight streaking across the floor. Her voice dropped, colder, almost contemplative. "And what of the Muggles? That family—the Roberts. What became of them?"
At this, Isabella's composed façade shifted ever so slightly. Her eyes softened, though her tone remained steady. "Ah, the Roberts. Yes. Well, Emma and I went to them ourselves. The Ministry, of course, claimed it would 'handle the matter'—but we both knew precisely what that meant. Obliviated, discarded, erased as though they had never suffered at all."
She set her teacup down gently. "We intervened. We brought them to St. Mungo's first—though discreetly, under another name. The couple and their children were treated for their injuries. Once their health was restored, we sent them back into the Muggle world with a generous sum of Muggle money to ease their recovery. It does not erase what happened, but it gives them the means to live with dignity."
Eira's lips pressed into a thin line. She shut her eyes briefly, recalling flashes of that night—the screaming, the fire, the Roberts family dragged through the air like puppets. Her hand tightened into a fist.
"They endured a lot of pain that night," she said softly, her voice low with restrained anger. Then, firmer: "See that they continue to receive compensation. Regularly. Not only money—protection, if they ever need it. Someone must bear witness to what they suffered. If left to the Ministry, they would be discarded like trash."
Isabella inclined her head, almost regal. "I will appoint someone to oversee it. They will have support, when needed, and reminders that they have not been forgotten."
Eira gave a short nod, her shoulders loosening, though her eyes remained hard. For a moment, silence filled the room—silence thick enough that the faint ticking of the old clock seemed unnaturally loud.
The door opened with a soft creak, breaking the quiet. Emma stepped inside, her posture brisk, a sealed envelope clutched in her hand. Her expression was composed, though her eyes flickered briefly toward the crumpled Daily Prophet on the desk and the fury that still lingered on Eira's face.
"My lady," Emma said, bowing her head slightly as she crossed the room. She extended the letter. "A message has arrived. From Albus Dumbledore."
Eira arched an eyebrow, curiosity flickering amidst her irritation. She took the envelope, the opened wax seal glinting red under the light. "Dumbledore? What does he want?"
Emma clasped her hands in front of her. "He has requested a meeting with you at Hogwarts. It seems, given your transfer from Beauxbâtons, he wishes to speak with you directly."
Eira opened the letter, scanning the short, polite note. Dumbledore's hand was elegant, every word carefully chosen yet deceptively simple.
"A meeting?" she muttered. "For what reason? Surely he has already received my records."
"I personally delivered them," Emma replied, her tone brisk. "All three years' worth of your scores, certificates, and evaluations. I handed them to Deputy Headmistress McGonagall myself. They already know your accomplishments."
Eira's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then this is not about academics. Perhaps about the attack, then?"
She turned her gaze toward Isabella. Her aunt had leaned back in her chair, watching her with a faint, unreadable smile.
"What do you think?" Eira asked.
Isabella's answer came slow, deliberate. "Albus Dumbledore…" She tapped one finger lightly against her armrest. "He is a fox dressed in a sage's robes. I have crossed paths with him more than once in council meetings. He is clever, disarming, and dangerously skilled with words. If he wishes to meet you, it is not for idle conversation."
Her eyes sharpened. "Remember this: he is a master of Legilimency. You must keep your Occlumency strong when you face him. Do not let him pry into your thoughts. He has a way of coaxing answers without ever asking the question aloud."
Eira tilted her head, studying her aunt, then folded the letter and set it down carefully.
"Well then," she said quietly, almost to herself. "Let us see what this 'headmaster' wants."