In the White family's Parisian manor gardens, the colors were softer under the filtered light—roses that on a sunny day blazed scarlet now glowed like old wine, and the beds of lavender seemed dusted in smoke. A breeze moved through the hedges, rustling the leaves in a gentle, steady rhythm.
Eira walked along the gravel path at an unhurried pace, her posture composed, hands loosely clasped behind her back. The garden's gravel paths wound like pale ribbons through archways of climbing roses and overhanging boughs, with statues of mythic figures at quiet intervals.
Beside her, Emma kept pace with the same measured step, one gloved hand holding a folded Daily Prophet. The paper's edges were creased and worn, as though she had read it more than once.
They had been walking in companionable silence for several minutes, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the soft gravel, before Eira finally spoke. Her voice was calm, but there was a quiet curiosity beneath it.
"So," she said, glancing toward the folded paper in Emma's hand, "who do you think is responsible for this?"
Emma tilted her head slightly, as though weighing her words. "I investigated, my lady. There are influences—subtle ones, whispers in the right ears. But mostly…" She gave a slight, almost disdainful shrug. "Mostly, this is Rita Skeeter's own work. She's been a thorn in the side of pure-blood families for years. Her favorite targets are those who either lack the will to strike back or lack the means to make her regret it."
Eira's lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes remained on the path ahead. "So, she pokes only where she thinks the hornets won't sting."
"Exactly," Emma replied. "And she thrives on dramatics. I believe she took advantage of some quiet discontent and made it louder, more scandalous. But the pen was hers, and the style unmistakable."
They turned beneath a stone archway overgrown with pale climbing roses. The blooms hung heavy, their fragrance mingling with the lavender nearby. Eira paused briefly to touch one of the petals, the softness brushing against her fingertips before she moved on.
"And what do you think?" Eira asked after a moment, her gaze still forward.
Emma shifted the paper to her other hand. "I think there are families in Britain who want you back. In the public's eyes, you are… distant. You've spent the past two years here, appearing only in print or in the occasional, carefully staged announcement. You've declined—or simply been too busy for—most of the gatherings among pure-blood circles. And although you were invited, those who invited you may now feel slighted."
Eira let out a soft hum of amusement. "Ah, so they feel ignored."
"They do. And resentful," Emma confirmed. "It seems some have decided to use the same tactic as last year—manipulating public opinion through the papers. They hope to draw you back, perhaps even push you into their social orbit again."
A small, dry laugh escaped Eira's lips. "And they believe a few printed lines will make me obedient? How quaint."
Emma's mouth curved slightly. "It is the tactic of those unwilling to confront you directly." She lowered her gaze briefly to the paper. "That said, most of what Skeeter wrote was pure invention. The so-called anonymous quotes—especially those attributed to Hogwarts professors—are hers. I could find no evidence of such remarks ever being made."
Eira stopped walking for a moment, looking toward a bed of pale pink peonies. She leaned slightly, inhaling their fragrance. "I see. Well, that may be so."
The two resumed walking, the cloudy light muting the garden's colors to something softer, almost nostalgic.
After a while, Emma asked, "What's your plan, my lady? Do you intend to return to Britain? Perhaps even transfer to Hogwarts?"
Eira didn't answer immediately. Instead, she glanced toward the far edge of the garden, where the hedges grew tall enough to hide the walls beyond. "What about Alina Trévér? Have you found a way to… remove her?"
Emma's expression tightened. "No, my lady. Your aunt and I are still working on it, but she is more cunning than we anticipated. She hides her movements well, rarely acting in her own name. She gives orders from behind the scenes, and the rest… the rest is left to her family. The Trévérs are fighting openly with the Voclains, but Alina keeps her hands clean."
Eira's gaze darkened slightly. "Until I resolve that problem, I will not be going back to Britain."
Emma nodded. "If that is your choice, then we should turn to the more immediate matter—the new term. Beauxbatons begins in ten days. There will be preparations to make."
"Yes," Eira agreed after a pause. "You're right. That's where my focus should be for now."
They passed a marble fountain shaped like a swan, the water glistening faintly under the dull light. Emma glanced down at the paper again before speaking. "My lady, about this article… do you wish to respond?"
Eira tilted her head, considering. "No. That would give her exactly what she wants—more attention. I am not so foolish. Still…" She let the word hang in the air for a moment, her gaze following a drifting leaf until it landed near her feet. "Even though this wasn't particularly damaging, there must be consequences. If there is no response at all, others may think the White name is theirs to toy with. Criticism is one thing, but there are limits."
Emma inclined her head slightly. "Of course."
Eira began walking again, slower this time. "Punish her. Not heavily—just enough to remind her, and everyone else, that I am not to be taken lightly." Her tone was still mild, but there was steel beneath it.
"As you wish, my lady," Emma said, her voice calm but with a calculating edge.
Eira's eyes lifted briefly to the clouded sky. "Good. Then we can be done with this nonsense. There are far more important matters ahead."
As they reached the stone steps leading to the terrace, the first faint drops of rain began to fall—soft, cool against their skin. They stepped inside the manor together, leaving the garden to the gathering rain, the faint perfume of flowers lingering in the air behind them.