But then something shifted.
It was one of Eira's casual remarks, spoken without any hidden weight. She had commented simply that tomorrow would be a long day, and that it might be wise to rest early. A harmless observation.
Yet Pansy bristled.
Her posture stiffened, her eyes flashing with controlled fire as she leaned forward. "Don't tell me what to do," she said, her voice low and heated. "You think you can come in here and act like you're above everyone? Like you own the place? I'm not one of your servants to accept everything you say or bow to every command. If you think you can intimidate me, think again."
The way she spoke made it clear she found the attempt almost comical.
Eira blinked, surprised—but only faintly. Then, slowly, her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. She tilted her head, regarding Pansy with an amused glint in her green eyes.
"I think it's best if you tell me why you've been so hostile," she said softly, her tone even but firm. "Admit it. Let me know the reason for this, because I don't plan to spend the whole year in this… mess with you. Or are you just trying to assert your dominion over me? Look, I don't care if you consider yourself the boss girl here. I don't care about that. All I ask is that you respect me. If you do, I will respect you. If not… don't behave like an animal."
Pansy's eyes narrowed, her tone dripping with offense. "Are you calling me an animal?"
Eira shook her head slightly, a faint amused smile still playing on her lips. "No. I'm not saying you're an animal. You're a good, beautiful girl. But the way you're behaving—trying to assert dominion over me—is childish. I don't want a problem with you. If a problem arises… I handle it. Clearly. I don't want you to see how I solve problems."
Pansy sneered, her voice sharp. "So… are you threatening me, Mrs. Matriarch?"
Eira's smile deepened slightly, calm and unshaken. "No. I'm not threatening you. You're a child. I have no desire to intimidate you. I only want to remind you: I will not tolerate unnecessary hostility."
For a heartbeat, the room thickened with tension. Tracey shifted nervously on her bed, and Daphne's eyes flicked between them but she said nothing.
Eira leaned back slightly, folding her arms across her chest, utterly unbothered. "What I don't understand," she continued, her voice calm, "is why. We've only just met. You don't know me. I don't know you. So why the hostility?"
Pansy's mouth opened as though to answer, but no words came. She scoffed, turning sharply away, muttering under her breath as she climbed into her bed.
The moment broke.
Tracey, looking uneasy, slipped over toward Eira. She lowered her voice, whispering just for her. "It's not exactly about you. Not… directly."
Eira arched a brow, waiting.
Tracey hesitated, glancing at Pansy's bed to make sure she wasn't listening. Then she leaned in closer. "Her father was… attacked. During the Quidditch World Cup. That night." Her voice wavered. "He… he lost his foot. Completely cut off. And his right eye… it's gone. He can't see. He's bedridden now, at home. Her brother's taken up as acting Lord Parkinson."
Eira's expression remained steady, her face betraying nothing, but inside, everything clicked into place.
That night—the chaos, the dark cloaks, the burning light, the screams—she remembered it all as if it were happening again. More than twenty of them had attacked her at once. She had fought them all, wielding her gravity charm with absolute control, pressing them down with relentless weight until their bones shattered beneath it. The memory was sharp, vivid, and utterly clear.
She remembered each of them, especially those who had tormented the Robert family—how they had laughed at fear, how they had struck with cruel precision. And now, looking back, she saw the truth. One of those men, one of the attackers she had crushed under her gravity charm… that man had been Pansy's father.
A faint smirk curved across her lips, though she kept her voice even. "I see. That explains it."
Tracey rushed on, perhaps mistaking the calmness for concern. "They've brought in a healer from America. They say he might be able to regrow his foot, but the eye… that's gone forever. He'll never see out of it again."
Before Eira could answer, Pansy's voice rang out across the room, sharp as a whip.
"Don't talk about my father to strangers!"
Tracey flinched, paling, and ducked her head quickly. "S-sorry," she stammered, her voice small. Then, more quietly to Eira, "She's… she's moody. But it'll pass. Give her time. You'll see."
Eira shook her head faintly, her silver hair shifting against her shoulders. "I don't care," she said softly. Then, more firmly, "Go to sleep. Tomorrow classes begin. We'll need the rest."
She returned to her own bed, drawing her wand in a smooth motion. With quiet precision, she layered subtle protective charms around her space—not because she truly feared an attack from a sulking girl, but because it was habit. And because one could never be too careful when vengeance stirred in the hearts of others.
The glow of the spells shimmered faintly, then faded into invisibility.
Satisfied, Eira lay back against her pillows. Her eyes closed, her mind quiet once more.