Eira descended the winding staircase that led deep beneath the White Manor, the air cooling slightly as she moved further underground. The corridor ahead opened into a vast hall, illuminated by crystal chandeliers that cast a perpetual, warm light, reflecting off the polished marble floors. The underground was a marvel, a combination of opulence and memory—long tables of carved oak, velvet divans, statues of forgotten White family heroes, and alcoves holding rare artifacts collected over centuries. This was no mere cellar or storage area; it was a sanctum, a memorial to the lineage of one of the oldest magical families in Europe.
As Eira stepped forward, the walls came alive with the subtle shimmer of magic. Portraits hung in regimented rows, stretching from floor to ceiling. Each canvas held the likeness of a White ancestor, some painted in commanding postures, others mid-action—hunting, dueling, or giving counsel. Most of the figures were moving, their eyes flicking, mouths whispering, as if waiting for her presence.
Eira's gaze swept across the walls. Blonde hair, black hair, blue eyes—an endless array of faces. Here and there, a rare white-haired ancestor like herself, but none sharing the striking green eyes she carried. And then, among them all, she saw him: her grandfather, Elijah White. His portrait, unlike the others, remained static, utterly still. No subtle nods, no flicker of recognition.
Curious, Eira stepped closer. "Why… why didn't you move?" she whispered to the painting. The stillness was uncanny. She remembered that most portraits of her ancestors were enchanted to retain memory, emotion, even guidance. Yet Elijah's was frozen, cold and indifferent. Perhaps he had chosen not to imbue it with magic… or perhaps he had simply not had the time.
As she lingered, the portraits on the walls began to stir. One by one, painted heads turned in her direction, eyes narrowing, lips curling into smirks or frowns. Then the voices came soft at first, then louder, overlapping in a rising chorus. Ancestors muttered, cursed, laughed, and scolded, their words tripping over one another until the hall buzzed with accusation and ridicule. Fingers pointed from the painted frames, their judgment unmistakable.
"Look at her! She dares step here!" one old man shouted, his voice crackling through the canvas.
"She's just a child!" another bellowed, shaking his fist.
Eira's brow furrowed, but she kept her composure. It was her first time in this hall alone, and yet the familiarity of her family's presence—alive, even in paint—was overpowering. The portraits leaned forward in their frames, eyes narrowing, voices rising into a dissonant chorus.
"She dares show her face here again?" hissed an elderly man with a crooked nose. "Three years she's spent across the sea, playing at France."
"She calls herself matriarch, yet did not come home to pay respects to her ancestors," muttered a sharp-faced woman, her tone dripping with disdain.
Another ancestor barked a laugh. "Second visit only, and she thinks herself worthy of this hall? Hah!"
"She should have ruled from Britain, as her grandfather and those before him did," one sneered. "Not hidden away in foreign lands."
The criticism rolled over her mockery, judgment, disappointment. Some spoke with stern authority, others with cruel amusement, but all of them agreed on one thing: she had failed their expectations.
Still, Eira stood unmoved, her glassy composure unbroken. She had long ago learned that their voices, whether in life or paintings, did not matter or had any influence over her ruling the White House.
She stepped toward a calmer portrait, an elderly man with sharp blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard, standing with the dignified air of someone who had once commanded respect. "Excuse me," Eira said respectfully, bowing slightly, "I seek guidance. At Hogwarts, one of the headmistress's portraits gave me hand gestures and signs I cannot decipher. I studied the books, the family records, but nothing matches it. I thought… perhaps one of you could help."
The old man looked at her, tilting his head. "Which headmistress was it?" he asked, with a voice deep and calm.
"Elisha White," Eira replied.
The old man exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Ah… her."
"I saw her portrait at Hogwarts," Eira said, stepping closer. "But I didn't see it here. Why is she absent from the White Manor? She was our ancestor—my family—yet her painting is missing. Why?"
A shadow of bitterness passed over the old man's face. "When she died, yes, her portrait was placed here. But her son… your your great great great grandfather, or rather, the man who succeeded her line… removed it. He hated her. He believed removing the portrait would insult her, erase her influence. He thought it would diminish her memory, and in doing so, elevate himself."
Eira's eyes widened. "He… hated her? And for that… he removed her painting?"
The old man nodded grimly. "Yes. A foolish, petty man. But perhaps in his mind, he was asserting dominance. Where he failed in legacy, he tried to suppress hers."
"Do you know where it might be now?" Eira asked, her tone calm but tinged with steel.
"Hidden, perhaps," the old man said, shrugging. "Somewhere in this manor, or perhaps… destroyed. None of us know for certain. Only those who moved it could tell."
The old man with beard leaned forward, his painted eyes glinting sharply. "So," he said, his voice gravelly, "what were the hand signs she made? Show me. I will see if I know."
Eira turned her gaze downward for a moment, recalling the gestures Elisha had shown her. Slowly, she lifted her hands and repeated each motion—every flick, every subtle twist of her fingers, each deliberate curl held in place before she moved to the next. Her expression remained calm, though inside she weighed the memory carefully, determined not to falter.
The old man followed her movements intently, his painted brows knitting together as though studying a forgotten language. Murmurs rippled through the surrounding portraits—some leaning closer, others scoffing under their breath, but all watching in silence. At last, the old man exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing. "I… I don't understand," he admitted, his voice edged with frustration.
Eira's voice softened, almost to herself. "I need to know. These signs… they may be the key."
The old man's gaze shifted across the hall to another portrait, a more eccentric one—an old woman in a flowing gown, laughing and dancing atop a table. He squinted at her. "Cruella," he asked, voice stern, "do you know these hand signs? Since you were her mother… do you know what your daughter is making?"
The woman barely slowed her spinning, throwing back her head in laughter. "Signs? What signs? Ha! What use have I for these gestures? Let me dance you bastard!" Her laughter rang out across the hall as she twirled, seemingly unconcerned with his question, lost in her own amusement.
Eira let out a long, frustrated sigh, her hands tightening briefly at her sides. "Why are the paintings of my ancestors like this?" she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Some are completely insane… some bitter, angry all day. Some ignore me entirely, refusing to speak. And some… don't even move, pretending they're nothing more than paint. How is this family even respected? How did it survive all this time?" She shook her head, taking a few pacing steps. "If people like this are what passed the White family on to me… then surviving and inheriting it feels like a miracle."
The older man beside her in the portrait chuckled softly, though the sound was tinged with madness. "No curse, child. They are paintings. They have no real emotions now. They are memories, and the memories that lingered… that is how they behave. Their desires, regrets, anger—all frozen in time, reflected eternally."
Eira's eyes narrowed. "So… the angry, the insane—this is their true self? And the rest… restrained or composed?"
"Yes," the old man said simply. "What you see is the residue of who they were."
Eira's gaze lingered on him. "And you… you seem more… sane than the rest."
The old man's eyes twinkled, then darkened in a moment of madness. Without warning, he raised a knife from within the painting, slicing at his own painted wrist, laughter echoing through the hall.
"For Merlin's sake!" Eira exclaimed, slapping her forehead. "What kind of family is this? The White family—one of the oldest, most ancient, most respected—yet the majority of its ancestors are either angry, insane, or petty!" She shook her head, exhaling heavily. "And yet… somehow, they passed down this legacy, this influence. How? How did they endure?"
Silence settled in the hall for a moment. Then Eira turned sharply, moving back toward the stairs. She would not find Elisha's portrait tonight, but that did not deter her. Once back in the upper levels of the manor, she would instruct Emma, Isabella, and any trusted aides to locate whatever remained of the painting, or at least records of it.
For now, Hogwarts awaited, and with the school year less than a week away, she had more pressing matters. Diagon Alley, the supplies, and a meeting with Minister Fudge awaited. The White Manor, with its maddening yet fascinating underground, had revealed only glimpses of the past—but it had also reminded her that legacy, power, and ambition often came entwined with chaos and madness.
Eira straightened posture as her white hair falling over her shoulders like silk, and ascended the stairs with heavy headache 🤕.