The manor had fallen into silence. Beyond the frosted windows of the White family estate, snow drifted heavily in the night, blanketing the courtyards and forests in a stillness so deep that it seemed the world itself was holding its breath. Inside, the corridors slept in darkness, save for the occasional flicker of a candle šÆļø left burning by dutiful elves. The hour was late, far past midnight, when most of the household lay in slumber.
Eira had not gone to bed.
Her office had become a sanctuary of sorts since she had claimed it, a chamber of oak-paneled walls and shelves laden with ledgers, books of lineage, and the weight of history. Tonight, however, her attention was not upon the parchment scattered across her desk, nor the reports Emma had left for her. Her eyes were fixed upon the portrait newly hung upon the far wall.
The gilt frame, though tarnished, was elegant. Within it stretched the painted interior of a small, narrow bedchamber, its furniture simple: a bed draped in faded linen, a high-backed chair, a window overlooking some imagined landscape. Yet the bed lay empty.
Elisha White's portrait remained lifeless.
For an hour Eira had sat in silence, staring at the portrait. She had spoken the name softly at first, then more firmly, her words lost against the still canvas. Her elbows rested on the desk, her emerald eyes catching the dim candlelight. She leaned closer, lips moving with quiet determination.
"Elisha White."
The painted bed remained untouched. The window beyond held only a painted sky filled with stars, frozen in place as though no living world lay beyond it.
Her frown deepened. Portraits were never mere paint and brush. They were vessels, fragments of memory preserved in strokes of magic, capable of awareness if properly awakened. If Elisha's likeness had once moved at Hogwarts, then this one should not remain silent forever.
Eira rose and crossed the office to her shelves. She pulled down book after book, scanning passages about portrait enchantments, activation charms, and binding rituals. Most of it was cluttered theory, needless digressions about painters' intent or ancient preservation methods. None of it gave her what she wanted.
Closing one volume with a sigh, she turned back to the canvas. Dust clung faintly to its frame. The air around it felt flat, as though it had never been kept in a place of strong magic. Perhaps it lacked the connection it needed.
Eira lifted her wand. She whispered a cleaning charm, then another, watching as the surface brightened. With patient precision she cast a restoring spell, coaxing what threads of dormant magic might linger. Slowly the portrait seemed clearer, the shadows less heavy, the paint fresher, as if time itself had lifted from it.
When she finally stepped back, she drew in a steady breath. Her voice, calm and deliberate, filled the quiet.
"Elisha White."
A subtle tremor passed through the canvas. A ripple spread faintly across the painted floorboards, as if stirred by a breeze. The air within the frame seemed to breathe again, touched by something beyond stillness.
Eira leaned forward, eyes wide, watching as the portrait began to change.
Then the faint ripple across the canvas thickened, as though a veil had been lifted. Slowly, the painted shadows gathered shape, and from them a figure began to emerge.
A woman stepped into the painted room and sat gracefully upon the bed. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, her dark hair streaked with strands of white, her bearing regal yet softened by time. Her eyes were a piercing blue, the kind that seemed to see through lies with ease. She turned her head, and when her gaze settled upon Eira, she smiled faintly.
"Finally," she said, her voice low but resonant, "we are able to meet, Eira."
Eira rose instinctively, bowing her head with respect. "Lady Elisha." Her voice softened. "It is an honor."
Elisha's smile deepened. "You carry yourself with dignity. That is good. Our family has always valued strength of bearing."
Eira crossed the room and stood before the portrait, her green eyes intent. "The last time I saw you was in Professor Dumbledore's office. You gestured to me from among the portraits, though you spoke no words. I knew then that you wished to speak with me, but I could not find you in the family halls. I searched the underground ancestral galleries, every portrait of our ancestors. When I asked the others, none of them gave me a clear answer. One finally admitted that your portrait had been removed from among the rest, and that it was your own son who had done it."
Her voice softened, though it carried a quiet edge of determination. "After that I went to the Ancestry library, to search for your name. There I found only fragments. You were marked as the fifth generation head of House White, but nothing more. There was no history of your deeds, no words left behind, no stories passed down. All that remained was your son's record, since he succeeded you. His years were laid out in detail, his actions noted, but he too was later cast out, stripped away from the house by his own children. Those who came after him cared nothing for uncovering what was lost. They left your name buried in silence."
Elisha's expression grew distant, her eyes shadowed by memory. "Yes, those gestures you saw in Dumbledore's office were deliberate. At first they were meant only to catch your attention. But in my time, such movements carried meaning. Among nobles and old wizarding houses, there existed a language of the hand, a way to speak when words could not be spoken openly. It was once understood by many, yet as generations passed, it was forgotten, dismissed as little more than mannerism."
Her lips curved in a faint smile tinged with melancholy. "I used them knowing you might not recognize them. But still, they served their purpose. They drew your eye, they compelled you to seek me, and in the end, you found this portrait hidden here in the ancestral house."
Her gaze sharpened slightly, though her voice remained calm. "As for why my likeness (Portrait in the manor)was removedā¦ yes as you mentioned that was my son's doing."
Eira's brow arched. "It seems he bore resentment toward you. Even in the records, he allowed only your name, while all else spoke of him. Why would he hide his own mother's legacy so completely?"
Elisha exhaled slowly, her gaze turning toward the painted window. "My relationship with him wasā¦ complicated. After his birth, I became Headmistress of Hogwarts. Those were troubled times, when witch hunts swept through England and France. Wizards were forced into hiding, and the burden of protecting both Hogwarts and Hogsmeade fell heavily upon me. My duties consumed me. I could not be present for him as a mother should. And so, he resented me. Perhaps he hated me. When he grew, he removed my portrait, exiling me from the household." She shook her head lightly. "It matters little now. The past cannot be unmade."
Eira's voice was gentle but firm. "Then I shall see that your portrait is returned to the ancestral hall, when the time is right. You deserve to stand among them."
Elisha studied her carefully, then nodded. "Perhaps. But not yet. When the moment comes, I wish to meet them again, the other portraits. For now, my link to this household has been severed, save for one portraitāa knight in the second-floor corridor. Through him, I received news of the family during these years, though I myself could not enter."
"I see," Eira said softly. "So that is how you stayed informed. Clever."
Elisha's eyes sharpened. "I did not summon you only to speak of the past, Eira. I wished to speak of the present. Of Dumbledore."
At the name, Eira's expression hardened slightly. "Ah. Him. To be frank, I remain cautious of him. All I know of Albus Dumbledore is through history, Rumors, and newspapers. My grandfather told me little of the man himself. The few times I have spoken with him, he was difficult to readāhis words cloaked in grandfatherly charm, his emotions buried deep. He is old, and dangerous, though he hides it behind kind eyes. When I pressed him about Severus Snape's cruelty in teaching, he dismissed me with little more than a smile and some superficial remarks. I gained nothing from the conversation but the knowledge that he would not be moved. He prefers to play the kindly headmaster, but I see manipulation beneath it."
Elisha regarded her with a keen gaze. "Good. You are right to be cautious. I have known Albus Dumbledore since he was a boy. I cannot claim to have known him personally in the way one might know a friend, yet my position in the portraits of Hogwarts has allowed me to witness much of his life. From the moment he entered the school as a student, I observed his interactions with professors, his conduct, the stories and events that followed him, all through the eyes of the headmasters and staff of his time. The three headmasters under whom he studied and later taught took note of him constantly, and his name was frequently mentioned in professors' discussions, in staff meetings, and among students, particularly those who observed closely."
Her eyes widened slightly as she continued. "Even though his relationship with Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black was strained, he was a constant visitor to the headmaster's office. Headmaster Dexter Fortescue and headmaster Armando Dippet, by contrast, were close to him. Headmaster Dippet, especially, considered him a friend and guided him as he grew. Albus was followed by rumors and, at the same time, a kind of fame, yet he navigated it with care. From the moment he arrived at Hogwarts as a student, then as a professor, and eventually as headmaster, I was present, quietly observing. I can say I have known him, not as a friend, but as one who has witnessed the entirety of his path."
She paused, letting her words settle. "He is now one hundred and thirteen years old, and his past is darker and sadder than most suspect. Few speak of it. Fewer still remember. But I do."
Eira leaned closer, her curiosity sharpened. "Then tell me."
Elisha's gaze remained steady, but with a slight hint of sorrow. "Albus Dumbledore was remarkable even as a student, exceptionally gifted, and brilliant in every discipline. His early years were difficult. His mother died in an accident, and his father was imprisoned in Azkaban after attacking Muggle children. For the first few years at Hogwarts, Albus lived under constant scrutiny. Among the Pureblood families, rumors spread quickly, and Muggle-born students regarded him with suspicion because of his family's reputation. Yet he persevered. Over time, his intelligence, leadership, and inventiveness became apparent. He excelled in every subject, created spells, and demonstrated a natural aptitude for guiding others. These qualities earned him respect from professors and students alike."
Her voice lowered. "Then came tragedies. His mother's sudden death brought by his sister's uncontrollable magic and him not present there. His sister's fragile health, worsened after that accident of uncontrolled magic. And, most fateful of all, his friendship with Gellert Grindelwald. Together, they dreamed of reshaping the world. But their dream was twisted, born of arrogance and pain. When it ended, it ended in blood. Albus's sister died in an accident that occurred between them. To this day, he carries that guilt."
Eira listened intently, her expression unreadable.
Elisha continued. "When Grindelwald rose to power, it was the old families who forced Dumbledore's hand. They knew only he could face his old friend. In 1945, he defeated him. That duel made him a hero. Since then, he has cultivated the image you know: the wise, benevolent leader. But beneath it lies guilt, and a reluctance to wield authority too harshly. He fears tyranny, for he has seen it in himself."
Eira's lips curved into a wry smile. "He may dislike tyranny, but he is a manipulator. Look at Harry Potter. The boy is thrown into danger year after year, as though he were a pawn on Dumbledore's board. Every crisis, every dark shadow, Potter is there at the center. That cannot be coincidence."
Elisha's gaze grew solemn. "You are not wrong. Dumbledore has a weaknesses: he believes that even the darkest soul may be redeemed. He gives chances others would never give. And he has another flawāhe places burdens upon the young, believing that hardship will forge strength. He has done it before with Newt Scamander and the Order of Phoenix's youth. And now, with Harry Potter, he does it again."
Eira tilted her head. "Why? Why place such weight upon a child?"