The green flames swallowed her, and in the blink of an eye, Eira stepped out into the familiar hearth of the Leaky Cauldron. The cool stone beneath her boots, the scent of oakwood smoke, and the faint chatter of wizards finishing their morning meals met her at once. The pub had always been a crossroads of sorts—half hidden from the Muggle world, yet central to magical Britain.
Today, however, the atmosphere shifted the moment she appeared.
A ripple passed through the room. Conversations faltered. Chairs scraped against the floor as heads turned. Someone nearly dropped a spoon into their porridge. A few witches at a corner table whispered behind their gloved hands, their eyes darting toward her with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
"That's her—" one man muttered too loudly.
"House White's matriarch…" another added in a hushed voice.
"She's younger than I imagined—"
Eira's expression did not change. Her features remained serene, her bearing impeccable as she stepped lightly out of the fireplace. Her posture was tall, shoulders relaxed yet commanding, every movement imbued with elegance. She was not dressed extravagantly—her travelling cloak was a rich shade of dark silver, clasped neatly at the throat—but the cut and quality were unmistakable. Refined, understated, and distinctly noble.
Tom, the stooped barkeep, recovered first. His eyes widened, then softened into a respectful, almost reverent smile as he shuffled toward her.
"Lady White," he greeted, bowing his head slightly. "An honour to have you here. Welcome back to the Leaky Cauldron."
Eira inclined her head gracefully. "Thank you, Mr. Tom. The courtesy is appreciated." Her voice was smooth, cultured, her tone neither warm nor cold—simply elegant.
Tom seemed faintly flustered at the attention he suddenly found upon himself but stepped aside quickly. "The entrance to the Alley is yours, my lady."
She moved forward without haste, her steps silent against the old wood floor. The crowd parted almost unconsciously, forming a quiet passage for her. A child tugged at his mother's sleeve and pointed; the woman quickly hushed him, though her eyes lingered with admiration.
At the rear courtyard, Eira lifted her wand with unhurried precision. She tapped the correct bricks, watching as the wall shifted and folded back upon itself, stone groaning softly as the archway to Diagon Alley revealed itself. The whispers of the pub behind her seemed to hush entirely at the sight of her commanding the passage with such calm authority.
Sunlight spilled through as the cobbled street stretched out before her, bustling with wizarding families, vendors, and owls fluttering between shop windows. She stepped through the archway, and at once the chatter of Diagon Alley swelled.
***********************
Diagon Alley bustled with its usual noise and movement. Witches and wizards hurried past with bags of spell ingredients, children pressed their faces to shop windows, and the calls of vendors drifted through the air. Yet as Eira stepped forward, her presence did not go unnoticed. A handful of wizards paused mid-conversation to glance her way, while others leaned closer to each other, whispering behind their hands.
"Isn't that Lady White?"
"It is—by Merlin, she's here in London."
"They say she's already on the Hogwarts Board—"
"And donated more than all the other governors combined…"
Another voice cut in, lower but sharp. "Isn't she the one they wrote about in the papers? The one said to be in love with a girl? How vile… disgusting."
"Hush," someone else muttered. "I heard she might be a bastard of the Malfoy family look at that hair, it's almost the same."
A woman's retort came swift and cutting. "Don't be ridiculous. Are you colorblind? Look properly—her hair is white, like snow and milk. The Malfoy family are pale blondes. There's a difference, clear as day. And those beautiful green eyes—it's so mesmerizing. That's completely different compared to the Malfoy ones."
"Yes, yes," another voice agreed quickly. "But isn't it rumored she's betrothed to young Draco Malfoy? If that's true, their children would be some of the most beautiful children that British Wizarding World has ever seen."
"Nonsense," a man scoffed. "I heard she has a relationship with a girl."
"And where did you hear that?"
"In a French newspaper. So… who knows if it's true."
"Rumors, all of it," another dismissed. "She's the only one left of her family. She's obligated to marry a man and continue the bloodline—there's no other path."
"Well… you have a point there."
The whispers chased her down the alley, but Eira's expression never shifted. She neither acknowledged nor dismissed them, her composure untouchable. White hair gleamed like a beacon in the crowd, making her impossible to miss, and her face was already familiar to many from the newspapers. Yet she moved with a graceful aloofness, as though their speculation was no more than the rustle of parchment in the wind.
Her steps carried her on, unhurried, until she reached Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
The bell chimed delicately as Eira stepped into the robe shop. Rows of mannequins stood along the walls, each draped in finished robes or half-completed designs. Bolts of fabric in deep blacks, muted greens, and traditional patterns filled the shelves, while enchanted needles worked quietly on a mannequin dressed in a set of Hogwarts uniforms.
It was a far cry from Madame Rochelle's boutique in France. Rochelle's shop had been filled with elegance and artistry, every gown a statement of grace and power. Madame Malkin's, by contrast, felt older, more practical, rooted in a distinctly British style—serviceable, respectable, but without the same refined brilliance.
Madame Malkin herself, a kindly woman with plump cheeks and sparkling eyes, bustled forward at once. Her expression shifted from routine professionalism into a delighted surprise the moment she recognized her guest.
"Oh! Lady White!" Madame Malkin exclaimed, clasping her hands together as if welcoming royalty. "I must confess, I had been expecting you years ago, when you first ought to have purchased your Hogwarts robes. Imagine my disappointment when I learned you had gone to France instead. But to have you here now—it is such a pleasure, such an honour!"
Eira allowed a faint, graceful smile. "You are most gracious, Madame Malkin. Circumstances drew me elsewhere, but I am here now."
"Yes, yes, and Hogwarts shall look all the finer for it," Madame Malkin said warmly, bustling around her. "Come, my dear, we shall see to your school robes straight away. Black wool, the finest cut—oh, but with a touch of elegance, of course. A young matriarch must never look ordinary."
With practiced dignity, Eira removed her cloak and stood for the fitting. The enchanted measuring tape zipped around her form, taking measurements with cheerful little twitches. Madame Malkin fussed with fabrics, comparing textures and holding them up against Eira's figure, muttering to herself about hems and linings.
"You wear the black so naturally," Madame Malkin remarked admiringly. "Truly, you carry it with such grace. And I shall have the crest embroidered in silver thread—it will suit you perfectly."
Eira's answer was soft, polite. "I will trust your judgment."
The seamstress beamed, clearly enchanted by Eira's composure. "It is so refreshing, my dear , to see a young witch with such bearing. You make my work an absolute delight."
When the fitting was complete, Madame Malkin wrapped the finished set with extraordinary care, tying the package with a silken ribbon. She pressed it into Eira's hands with a kind of reverence.
"Welcome, at last, to Hogwarts," she said warmly. "May these robes bring you luck and pride."
Eira inclined her head once more, her voice calm and melodious. "Your work is appreciated, Madame Malkin. Thank you."
The seamstress almost glowed with joy as she watched the young matriarch depart.
******************
Next was Flourish and Blotts. The bookshop was crowded with Hogwarts families purchasing their school lists, but the crowd shifted as soon as Eira entered. The whispers followed her here too—parents nudging their children to stand straighter, young witches staring wide-eyed.
The shopkeeper, a balding wizard with ink-stained fingers, hurried over immediately. "Lady White! A privilege indeed. Your books are prepared for the fourth-year curriculum, of course. Would you like me to select the most finely bound editions?"
"Yes," Eira said simply. Her tone was measured, elegant, almost distant—but it carried the weight of authority.
The man scurried to collect the volumes: Intermediate Transfiguration, Advanced Potions Theory, Defensive Spells and Counter-Curses, and more. Eira drifted lightly among the shelves as he worked, her fingertips brushing the spines of ancient tomes. She paused at one shelf in particular, running her eyes over titles of magical creatures.
She selected a single leather-bound bestiary and placed it on the counter with her other books.
The shopkeeper wrapped her purchases with fumbling eagerness, offering clumsy bows as he handed them over. Eira accepted with serene composure, her "Thank you" as light as silk.
*******************
At last, her errands complete, Eira allowed herself a small indulgence. Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour stood at the end of the Alley, its tables crowded with children enjoying bright sundaes.
Her arrival silenced the chatter. A spoon clinked against glass as a boy gawked openly, earning a scolding from his mother. Fortescue himself, the genial owner, came hurrying forward.
"Lady White!" he said, beaming. "An absolute honour. Allow me—today, the finest sundae is on the house."
"That is kind," Eira replied with quiet grace. "But I will pay for what I take."
She sat like any ordinary teenager, a mango-flavored sorbet in hand, and gazed out the window. Outside, Diagon Alley moved with its usual rhythm—children running about, boys tugging at their parents' sleeves and begging for the newest Firebolt, adults arguing as they hurried along, families wandering from shop to shop. It was the normal, noisy life of the Alley. And for that moment, Eira simply enjoyed her sorbet and the view, blending quietly into the scene.
******************
When the dish was finished, she rose, gliding back through the Alley with the same measured dignity she had carried all along. At the Leaky Cauldron, Tom rushed again to assist her, bowing low as he guided her toward the Floo.
"Safe travels, Lady White," he said respectfully.
Eira offered him a final graceful nod. "Thank you."
She stepped into the fireplace, spoke the name of her manor, and vanished in a swirl of green flame—leaving behind a Diagon Alley that buzzed with the memory of her visit, her presence lingering like an echo of elegance.