The White Manor's gardens stretched in soft terraces of green, a place of serene beauty where the clipped hedges rose like walls of emerald and the fountains whispered their delicate song. Marble statues of stags, owls, and foxes adorned the walks, gleaming pale in the morning light. Roses bloomed in rich clusters along the borders, their fragrance mingling with the sharper perfume of lilies.
Eira and Isabella walked side by side through the garden path, their pace unhurried. The afternoon light fell across the trimmed hedges and flowering bushes, and now and then a breeze stirred the leaves. Isabella pointed out a bed of roses she had ordered planted that spring, since she had only joined the family this year, and Isabella made a small remark about how much Eira had grown. For a while, they simply talked—nothing heavy, just comments about the plants, the weather, and the quiet around them—as they enjoyed the walk together.
They spoke at first, the sound of gravel beneath their shoes and the distant rustle of birds filling the silence. The anticipation of their guest's arrival hung in the air like a weight.
At length, they settled upon a stone bench beneath a tall ash tree. The bench, carved with the crest of the White family, commanded a view of the fountain at the centre of the garden. A gentle breeze stirred Eira's silver-grey gown, carrying with it the scent of lavender and rose.
They waited.
Soon enough, the crunch of approaching footsteps echoed across the path. Emma appeared, her expression calm, her bearing efficient, and behind her walked a rotund wizard in a green bowler hat: Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. His face bore a practiced smile, though it trembled faintly with the effort of maintaining its cheer.
"Lady White, Lady Bloom," he said, bowing with exaggerated flourish. "How utterly delighted I am to be in your company this morning. An honour, truly, to be received at White Manor."
"Minister," Eira replied softly, her voice as smooth as still water. She gestured toward the bench opposite. "Be seated. You are welcome."
Emma guided him forward, and soon the four sat together—Eira and Isabella side by side upon their bench, Emma slightly behind them, and Fudge opposite, perspiring faintly though the day was cool. Servants arrived swiftly, laying a light repast upon the small marble table: sugared fruits, a pitcher of chilled pumpkin juice, delicate sandwiches. All arranged with the grace and wealth befitting the House White.
Fudge dabbed his brow with a handkerchief, then clasped his hands together as if to convey ease. "Ah, how pleasant. How very pleasant indeed. It has been… a rather exhausting few weeks, you see. A thousand matters pressing upon me, the Ministry in ceaseless uproar—one hardly finds a moment for peaceful company such as this."
Isabella gave a measured smile. "Then we are fortunate that you spared the time."
"Yes, yes," Fudge agreed hastily, "fortunate indeed. I tell you, Lady White, Lady Bloom, these are trying times. The incident at the Quidditch World Cup—" He shook his head, puffing. "Utter chaos! A band of thugs, vile troublemakers, set upon the gathering. Spells flying, tents destroyed, panic everywhere… My word, the financial losses alone were catastrophic! The Ministry treasury strained, strained, I tell you. And who do they look to for answers? Always to me."
Eira regarded him silently, her green eyes calm and unreadable. Only after a pause did she speak, her tone as delicate as a blade's edge.
"Before you ask for sympathy, Minister, I would ask you a question."
Fudge blinked, his smile faltering. "Of course, my lady. Anything."
Eira's gaze sharpened, though her posture remained as elegant as ever. "The attackers. The seven who were slain that night. Have their identities been confirmed?"
A flicker crossed Fudge's face—hesitation, discomfort, swiftly hidden beneath a laugh that rang hollow. "Oh, well, you see, Lady White, they were… nobodies. Ruffians. Common thugs with no real significance. Hardly worth your attention."
The garden seemed to still around them. Birds ceased their song. The air itself grew taut.
Eira's voice fell, cold and cutting. "Minister Fudge. Answer my question."
The forced smile wavered. Fudge shifted in his seat, glancing from one woman to the other. "Truly, Lady White, I assure you—"
"I know," Eira interrupted, her words slow and deliberate, impossible to mistake, "that they were pure-bloods. Do not insult me with evasions. I spoke to one myself that night—he claimed the Nott name. The brother of Lord Nott, if I am not mistaken." Her gaze was unwavering, her elegance now turned into iron. "Now. You will tell me who they were. One by one. Name them. Otherwise you will know the consequences of your coverup."
Fudge's handkerchief trembled as he pressed it to his brow. A bead of sweat ran down his temple.
"My lady, I—" He faltered, then attempted bluster. "Surely you do not mean to threaten me?"
Eira's expression did not soften. Her voice was calm, but with the weight of command. "I do not threaten, Minister. I advise. Be careful in this moment. For years, the White family has extended its support to your Ministry. Do not make us regret it. Now… answer."
The silence stretched. Isabella's eyes, sharp and unwavering, fixed upon him. Emma stood like a shadow, silent yet watchful.
Finally, Fudge sagged. His voice was low, miserable. "The bodies… there were seven. Six, perhaps seven, recovered. But they—vanished. Taken. Removed before we could complete our work."
"Removed by whom?" Isabella asked, her voice cool as steel.
"I cannot say!" Fudge burst out, wringing his hands. "If I reveal it, the entire wizarding society may collapse into unrest. We need stability, ladies. What happened… happened. No one of consequence was harmed. A few injuries, yes, but healed. No lives lost—save for those… those seven you slew. And I must urge you—let it rest."
"You would cover this up?" Isabella's tone sharpened, her noble features stern. "Do not play the fool with us, Minister. Those were not drunken boys. They were not nameless thugs. The truth will come out."
Fudge mopped his brow furiously, his voice rising in desperation. "Why make my burden heavier? Why press me so? The matter is past. Why drag it back to light?"
"Because," Eira said, her voice low, resonant and unyielding, "you are hiding it. And I will not permit lies in my presence. Speak, Minister. Who were they?"
The weight of her gaze broke him. His shoulders slumped. His voice was a whisper.
"They were young men of the old families. Pure bloods, some called them once. Reckless, yes, but with names you would know…"
He listed them, one by one, each syllable reluctant, dragged from his throat like a confession.
When the names were done, Eira's expression was unreadable. "And those who fled? What of them?"
"We… we could not identify them," Fudge admitted. "They vanished without trace."
"Yet," Eira pressed, "were any pure-blood families seen to suffer injuries? Healers summoned in secret, perhaps?"
Fudge hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "I heard only a handful of healers were called to Malfoy Manor. They said Lady Malfoy had suffered a stroke, and treatment was needed at once."
Eira's eyes flickered, cold with disdain. "Curious. For Lady Malfoy sat with us in the VIP box. How, then, did she suffer a stroke that same night?"
Isabella's lips curved in a mirthless smile. "It seems, then, that Lord Malfoy was among the attackers."
"Impossible!" Fudge cried, desperate. "Lucius Malfoy is a staunch supporter of the Ministry. An honourable man—"
Eira ignored his protestations, her tone turning colder. "Did the families of the dead request their bodies back?"
Fudge's hands twitched as he adjusted his robes. "Yes… yes, they did. We had to send them."
Her gaze sharpened. "And how much did they pay for you to return them?"
Fudge's composure broke. "Please! Are you suggesting I was bribed? That I sold the bodies of terrorists to their families?"
Eira did not flinch. "How much?"
The Minister's eyes darted, then dropped. "Five thousand galleons. Each."
Eira inclined her head once, elegantly, as though she had expected no less. "Then you will, in future, inform me of any others discovered. I have… matters to settle." She rose gracefully, her cloak falling in silken folds. "Emma, see the Minister out. He is, no doubt, a busy man."
Fudge scrambled to his feet, his hands spread in appeal. "But—but Lady White, the Ministry's coffers! Our losses are grievous. Surely the House of White could—"
Eira's interruption was calm, absolute. "Not a single galleon, Minister. I did not attack your Quidditch World Cup. I will not pay for others' crimes. If you require reparations, request them from the pure-blood families involved. Not from me."
Her words left no space for argument. Fudge's mouth opened, then shut. At a gesture from Eira, Emma led him, red-faced and sweating, back along the path toward the manor gates.
The garden returned to quiet. Eira sat once more, her poise untouched, her gaze thoughtful.
"What do you think, Aunt?" she asked softly.
Isabella folded her hands in her lap. "I think he has been bribed. Or perhaps blackmailed. Certainly, he fears the truth more than he fears dishonour. He seeks to preserve his reputation, to keep peace upon the surface, no matter what festers beneath." Her tone grew colder. "As for the Malfoys—Lucius grows bolder, more reckless. Sending cursed objects to Hogwarts, terrorizing official events, clinging ever tighter to power. His ambition is dangerous."
Eira's eyes glinted. "Then we will keep watch. Lucius Malfoy is trying far too hard to draw close to the White family—grasping for power through us, one way or another. He has become reckless in his hunger. Every move of his must be observed, so he does nothing that could harm the White family, or twist our name for his own gain."
For a moment, silence settled again over the roses and fountains. Then Isabella, with a faint smile, shifted the conversation.
"And tomorrow, you go to Hogwarts."
Eira's composure softened, a hint of tenderness in her voice. "Yes… tomorrow morning, the train departs for Scotland. I must be there."
"Then you must prepare," Isabella said. "A new environment awaits. Best to be ready."
Eira inclined her head in agreement, her voice serene. "I shall be."