The Floo carried Eira forward, and in the next moment she was stepping out into a quiet, tidy office. Tall windows let in the gray light of the afternoon, casting long shadows across shelves lined with books and neatly stacked rolls of parchment. The scent of ink and paper hung in the air, mixed with the faint polish of wood. A sturdy desk stood near the center, its surface ordered with quills, an inkpot, and a few carefully placed papers. The walls were decorated with framed photographs that moved only slightly, a nod to the life of the castle beyond. The space was formal, precise, and unmistakably Professor McGonagall's.
Professor Minerva McGonagall stood waiting, her robes as severe as her posture, yet there was a faint glimmer of politeness in her sharp eyes. "Miss White," she said, inclining her head. "Welcome to Hogwarts. I trust your journey through the Floo Network was without incident?"
Eira inclined her head slightly, careful not to betray her usual habit of scanning the surroundings. "Quite smooth, Professor. I appreciate your reception."
"Good. If you'll follow me, the Headmaster is expecting you."
The corridors of Hogwarts stretched out before them, cool and echoing, lit here and there by torches that flickered against the stone. Eira glanced at the long tapestries draped between archways and at the portraits that lined the walls—witches and wizards of varying importance who whispered behind their hands or leaned forward to get a better look at her as she passed. The castle had a weight to it, older and sterner than Beauxbâtons, its history pressed into every flagstone and stairwell. Yet, for all its shadows and solemn corners, there was something curious and alive about it too, as though the building itself were listening. Eira's white hair stood out sharply against the dim stone, and though her robes were perfectly in order and her step measured, she felt far more like a guest being examined than she cared to admit.
McGonagall, noting her survey, allowed herself a faint smile. "Different from Beauxbâtons, I imagine?"
"Very different," Eira said, her voice measured. "Beauxbâtons is a palace. Hogwarts is… a fortress of memory."
"That is not an inaccurate description," McGonagall said, lips twitching almost imperceptibly.
The spiral staircase beneath them seemed to bend with their steps, and Eira's mind noted the subtle enchantments woven into the stones, older and more complex than anything she had seen before. Beauxbâtons' magic was grand, decorative, a display of refinement and elegance. Hogwarts' magic was woven into its very architecture, alive and purposeful, a living labyrinth of history.
Finally, they arrived before the stone gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office. McGonagall spoke the password, and the stone moved aside, revealing the staircase leading to the headmaster's sanctum. As they climbed, Eira's eyes continued to sweep over every detail—the fine embroidery on the banners, the faint glimmer of magical wards, the intricate carvings of ancient runes she recognized but did not immediately decipher. This school was history incarnate, and every corner seemed to hold a story waiting to be heard.
When the door to Dumbledore's office opened, the room beyond was even more astonishing. The circular chamber was vast, with tall windows through which sunlight streamed in long, golden shafts. Shelves crammed with books and peculiar artifacts surrounded the space. A myriad of instruments ticked and hummed softly. Yet it was not the room but the creature perched near a golden stand that captured Eira's attention immediately.
The phoenix.
Perched on its golden stand, the phoenix turned its head to look at her. Its eyes were dark and knowing, older than she could fathom, and for a moment Eira forgot to breathe. The bird's feathers shimmered scarlet and gold, bright as embers in a fire, and the faint warmth that filled the office seemed to come from it alone.
Eira had read about phoenixes in books—how their tears could heal, how they burned and rose again from their own ashes—but seeing one here, alive and breathing, set her mind racing. She remembered, suddenly, the vial tucked away back at her system space: the potion of bloodline awakening. And with that thought came another, sharper still. What if… what if she could add to it? Phoenix blood, or even a single feather, carried the very essence of rebirth. To bind that into the potion—could it awaken what lay dormant in her blood, or even weave the phoenix's own traits into her veins?
The idea struck her as wild and dangerous, yet impossible to ignore.
"Ah," said a voice, gentle yet commanding.
Eira's eyes snapped back to the desk. Dumbledore himself was rising from his chair. His deep blue robes swept the floor, beard flowing, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. "Miss White. How very glad I am to welcome you to Hogwarts."
Eira inclined her head. "Headmaster Dumbledore."
"Please, be seated. Tea?" He gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk.
"Thank you," she replied, lowering herself gracefully onto the seat. McGonagall excused herself with a polite nod and quiet step, leaving them alone.
Dumbledore poured the tea with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I have heard much of you. Your three years at Beauxbâtons have not gone unnoticed. Madame Maxime herself spoke highly of you—and with some regret that such a gifted pupil should depart before beginning her fourth year."
Eira folded her hands in her lap. "I value her words, but circumstances required change."
"Indeed. Change is rarely comfortable, but it is often necessary." Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, probing. "Olympe described you as disciplined, reserved, yet possessing a rare depth of intellect. She believes you could one day be among the finest of your generation."
"She is kind," Eira said evenly, neutral as stone.
"Kind—and shrewd. She does not bestow praise lightly." He sipped his tea, letting the sound punctuate the quiet between them.
"And yet she trusted me enough to leave," Eira replied softly.
Dumbledore smiled faintly, eyes crinkling. "A prudent mentor, I think. You are capable, yes, and cautious. Those qualities will serve you well here, Miss White. Hogwarts is a school of many challenges, and the world beyond these walls even more so."
Her gaze flicked again toward the phoenix. Dumbledore noticed but said nothing, allowing her silence to linger. "Ah. Fawkes seems to have taken an interest in you," he said gently.
"He is… remarkable," Eira said, voice calm, yet her mind raced with the possibilities of phoenix blood and the power it might grant.
"Indeed. Fawkes has been my companion for decades. His tears heal wounds; his song brings courage. And when the end of his cycle comes, he burns and is born anew. There are few creatures more wondrous."
Rebirth, fire, blood of immortality. Eira allowed herself a quiet nod, her mind weaving possibilities while her face remained serene.
Dumbledore leaned back, hands folded. "Tell me, Miss White, how does Hogwarts appear to you, compared with your former school?"
Eira considered. "Beauxbâtons is beauty incarnate. It is light, refinement, pride in elegance. Hogwarts is… older, heavier. Less polished, yet richer in memory. I feel its walls hold more truth than Beauxbâtons' mirrors."
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed. "A fair observation. Hogwarts has endured much, and carries both scars and triumphs."
They spoke at length, the conversation winding from her studies to broader matters. Dumbledore's questions were subtle, never intrusive, yet each invited Eira to reveal fragments of herself. She responded with care, offering only what she chose, measured words delivered with precise politeness. She did not rush, did not overshare, yet every answer contained the weight of thought behind it.
He praised her academic record, inquired about her magical disciplines, and touched briefly on the tensions in France, the politics that had shadowed her presence there. His probing was gentle but perceptive, sensing both her abilities and her position within the White family's intricate web of influence.
"The White family name carries influence," he said gravely. "Your presence here is not merely as a student, but as a Governor. That is no small mantle for one so young."
Eira's eyes did not falter. "The mantle was not mine to choose, but it is mine to uphold. My responsibility is only to keep it safe until the next generation. It was given to me by my grandfather, as it was given to him before me, and when the time comes, I will pass it on. This power, this position—it isn't mine to own. It is only mine to protect, for a while."
"Spoken with admirable clarity." Dumbledore's gaze softened, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he regarded her much as one might study a fine instrument. "I wish more pure-blood families thought as you do. Too often they clutch at power as though it were treasure to be hoarded, not a duty to be safeguarded. In truth, it is much like the headmastership of Hogwarts—never truly owned, only held in trust. Our task is to guard it, protect it from harm, and when our time has passed, to hand it on as it was handed to us. I am quite delighted by your wisdom. For someone your age, those are remarkably wise words. To see so far ahead so young… it is a very good sign indeed."
Eira offered a small, polite smile. "Everything I know, I owe to my elders—especially my grandfather and my aunt. I have learned from them, and I hope to live up to what they have taught me."
"The Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore continued, changing pace, "brings additional attention to Hogwarts this year. I am grateful for your generous contribution, Miss White. It will ensure that the school is prepared for the arrival of our sister institutions and the various challenges that the tournament entails."
"As a Governor," Eira said, her tone steady, "it is both duty and logic to provide. The Triwizard Tournament, hosting two other schools, necessitates resources beyond the ordinary."
Dumbledore nodded, his eyes gleaming with approval. "Indeed. And so it is that both students and the school will benefit greatly from your foresight."
The phoenix stirred, wings rippling, the light reflecting in its iridescent feathers. Eira's mind lingered, noting the creature as if already weaving a plan, while outwardly she sipped her tea and engaged in polite conversation.