Chapter — Return to the Manor
The Normandy beach vanished in a swirl of sand and sea as the familiar tug of Apparition pulled at Eira's core. Colors bled into a vortex, and with a soft pop, the cool air of the Paris White Manor enveloped them. Eira's boots landed on the polished marble floor of the entrance hall, where the grand chandelier cast a warm glow, its crystals scattering light across the intricate frescoes on the walls. Emma stood beside her, steady as ever, her wand already tucked back into her cloak.
Eira brushed a grain of sand from her sleeve, her lips twisting in irritation. "That woman's nerve," she muttered, her mind still on Alina Trévér's unsettling words. Emma's quick decision to Apparate them back had been wise, given the encounter's abrupt end.
Emma's lips twitched, a rare hint of amusement breaking her composure. "Indeed, my lady. I thought it best to return swiftly after… that display."
Eira shot her a sidelong glance as they walked toward the west wing. "You mean after you tried to kill Alina Trévér and she vanished like a smug ghost? Yes, swift was probably wise."
Emma's expression remained steady, but her voice carried a trace of self-reproach. "I acted impulsively. I should have anticipated her defenses."
"You acted on my word," Eira said firmly, not unkindly. "And I don't regret it. She's unhinged, Emma. The way she spoke…" She trailed off, her jaw tightening as they reached the heavy oak doors of her office. Alina's words—"You belong to me, whether you know it or not"—lingered like a chill she couldn't shake.
Emma pushed the door open, and they stepped into the familiar sanctuary of Eira's office. High shelves lined with books on politics, magical law, and wizarding histories loomed around them, the mahogany desk gleaming under the soft light from tall windows. The faint hum of Parisian summer drifted in from the gardens, but the air inside felt heavier, charged with the weight of what had transpired.
Eira sank into the high-backed chair behind her desk, gesturing for Emma to sit opposite. "Close the door," she said, her voice low. Emma complied, the soft click of the latch sealing them in privacy. A flick of her wand sent a subtle shimmer across the walls—a silencing charm to keep their words private.
Emma sat, her posture impeccable, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "My lady, I must again apologize for—"
"Stop," Eira interrupted, raising a hand. "You didn't fail me. Alina's not some petty rival we can dispatch with a single curse. She's the head of the Trévér family, and she's clearly prepared for threats. We underestimated her protections, not her insanity."
Emma nodded, though her fingers tightened slightly around the armrests. "Still, I should have been more cautious. Her words… they were not merely theatrics. There's something deeper driving her."
Eira leaned back, her gaze drifting to the unopened envelope on her desk, its hawthorn sigil glinting in the lamplight. "That's what we need to figure out. She didn't invite me to Normandy for a casual chat or even a genuine alliance. That much is clear. But what does she want? Really?"
Emma's brow furrowed, her mind sifting through possibilities. "Let's consider what we know. Alina Trévér is at war with the Voclains—a feud that's cost both sides dearly. She burned your hotel in the Allée des Merveilles, which suggests either reckless aggression or a deliberate attempt to provoke you. Yet she invites you to a dramatic, isolated meeting on a beach, alone, and speaks of destiny, empires, and… you, in a way that's frankly disturbing."
Eira's lips curved into a wry smile. "Disturbing is putting it mildly. She called me a 'trophy' and a 'storm.' She's obsessed, Emma. This isn't about alliances—it's about her wanting to possess me for her own twisted goals."
"Obsession is a dangerous motivator," Emma said, her voice measured. "She sees you as a symbol of power, a prize to elevate her status. If she can claim you—whether through alliance, manipulation, or something darker—it strengthens her position in the wizarding world."
Eira tapped her fingers against the desk, her thoughts racing. "She talked about reshaping the magical world, building an empire with me at her side. That's not just ambition—it's delusion. She wants to use my name, my influence, to fuel her own glory. But why me specifically? Why not some other powerful house?"
Emma leaned forward, her voice low and deliberate. "Because you're unique, my lady. You're young, yet you command House White with an authority most pure-blood heirs don't achieve until their thirties. You've outmaneuvered seasoned politicians, as she herself admitted, and your neutrality in the Trévér-Voclain feud makes you a wildcard. To Alina, you're not just a prize—you're the key to her vision of dominance."
"And what's that vision?" Eira asked, her tone sharp but curious.
Emma hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "A world where she reigns supreme. Her talk of empires, of a 'new order,' suggests she wants to carve out a legacy that overshadows every other house. You're a means to that end—a symbol of a new era she can claim as her own. Her obsession with you is personal, but it's rooted in her hunger for power."
Eira's expression darkened. "Personal or not, it's possessive. She wants to own me, Emma. That talk about keeping me like a 'relic' or a 'jewel'… it's not flattery. It's a warning."
The weight of those words hung in the air, the firelight flickering in the hearth as the Parisian dusk deepened outside. Eira's gaze lingered on the envelope, its red wax seal a silent reminder of the threat they faced. Whatever Alina's true motives, they were driven by her own selfish desires—and they needed to unravel them before she struck again.
Emma's jaw tightened, a rare flash of anger crossing her face. "Then she's a fool. You're no one's possession. But her obsession gives us an advantage. If she's fixated on you, she's distracted. We can use that."
Eira's eyes glinted with approval. "Exactly. But we need to know what she's after—beyond the creepy rhetoric. Is it just power? A magical artifact? Some twisted fantasy she's built around me? She mentioned 'destiny' and 'binding.' That's not casual language."
Emma nodded, her mind working through the implications. "The reference to 'binding' is troubling. It could imply a magical contract, a ritual, or something darker. The Trévérs have a history of dabbling in obscure magic—blood oaths, soul-binding spells, things most houses abandoned centuries ago. If she sees you as part of her grand design, she might believe she can tie you to her through magic or manipulation."
Eira's fingers stilled on the desk. "You think she's delusional enough to believe I'm… what, her destined partner in her quest for power?"
"It's possible," Emma said carefully. "Or she's using that narrative to control you. Either way, her protections—the shield, the ring she used to vanish—show she's prepared for resistance. She's not just dreaming of empires; she's taking steps to make it happen."
Eira's gaze flicked to the envelope again. "Then we start there. That ring—she didn't pull it out until after you tried to kill her. It's not just a Portkey. It's something more. We need to know what it is and how she got it."
Emma inclined her head. "I'll reach out to my contacts in the French Ministry and the International Confederation of Wizards. Discreetly, of course. If she's using artifacts like that, there'll be records or rumors—something we can trace."
"Good," Eira said, her voice firm. "And look into her recent movements. Where she's been, who she's met. If she's planning something this big, she's left a trail. The Voclains might know something, too, but I'd rather not tip our hand by asking them directly."
Emma's lips curved faintly. "You're thinking of Isabella Voclain, aren't you? She's distanced herself from her family, but she might still have insights."
Eira's expression softened briefly at the mention of Isabella, a rare flicker of warmth. "Maybe. But she's out of that world now, and I won't drag her back in unless I have to. For now, we focus on Alina."
They fell into a brief silence, the weight of the conversation settling around them. Outside, the Parisian dusk deepened, the sky turning a soft indigo beyond the windows. Eira rose and crossed to the fireplace, where a low flame crackled. She stared into it, her mind turning over Alina's words, the intensity in her eyes, the way she'd vanished with that ring.
"There's something else," Eira said, her voice quieter now. "When she talked about the beach, the 'blood of Muggle soldiers,' the 'new order'… it felt like she was trying to sell me on her own glory. Like she sees herself as the architect of some grand new world, with me as her trophy."
Emma stood, joining her by the fireplace. "You're right. Her rhetoric about reshaping the magical world—it's all about her own ambition. She wants to be remembered as the one who changed everything, and she thinks you're the key to making that happen."
Eira turned, her gaze sharp. "She thinks I'm a 'storm.' A force to be harnessed. But she's wrong. If I'm a storm, I'm not hers to control. And I'll make sure she learns that."
Emma's eyes glinted with quiet pride. "She will, my lady. But we must be cautious. Her obsession makes her unpredictable, and her protections make her dangerous."
Eira nodded, her resolve hardening. "Then we build our own strength. The Hogwarts seat is a start. The donation will buy us goodwill, but we need allies—reliable ones. Not just in Britain, but here in France. And we need to know what Alina's planning before she makes her next move."
Emma inclined her head. "As you wish, my lady. I'll begin inquiries tomorrow. For now, I suggest you rest. Today was… taxing."
Eira gave a dry laugh. "Taxing is one word for it. But I'm not tired yet. There's too much to do." She returned to her desk, picking up the envelope with the hawthorn sigil. "This stays unopened for now. I don't trust it not to be charmed or cursed. Have it checked by a ward-breaker tomorrow."
Emma nodded, making a mental note. "I'll see to it. And I'll ensure the manor's defenses are strengthened. If Alina is as obsessive as she seems, she might not wait long to act."
Eira's lips curved into a faint, determined smile. "Let her try. She thinks she's playing a game with me, but I'm not her pawn. And I'll make sure she knows it."
The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows across the room. The envelope sat on the desk, its seal gleaming like a warning. Outside, the Parisian night settled over the manor, the city's lights a distant glow against the darkness. Eira and Emma exchanged a final glance, a silent agreement that whatever Alina Trévér was planning, they would face it together—and they would be ready.