The night was heavy with darkness, a thick velvet darkness that wrapped itself around the quiet streets of London like a protective shroud. The sky was clouded over, stars obscured from sight, as if the heavens themselves wished to conceal what was about to unfold. Among the twisting alleys and narrow lanes of an unremarkable neighborhood, one home stood isolated, hidden by magic and craftiness. This was the residence of Rita Skeeter, a journalist known both for her relentless curiosity and her biting pen—traits that had earned her as many enemies as admirers.
Rita moved cautiously, her footsteps muffled on the worn cobblestones as she approached the small iron gate. Her breath came in small clouds in the chilly night air, and a flicker of unease twined with her usual confidence. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally, and an uneasy feeling gnawed at her. She shook it off. "Just paranoia," she muttered under her breath, unlocking the gate with a practiced flick of her wand and slipping inside.
The house was modest, but the enchantments she had layered over it rendered it invisible to most eyes, tucked safely out of sight from anyone who might wish her harm. She prided herself on her secrecy—her power lay not just in words but in remaining untouchable. Or so she believed.
Inside, the rooms were dimly lit by low, amber lamps. She crossed the living room, her eyes darting around nervously. A faint creak made her freeze. On the far side of the sofa, where the room dipped into shadows, a figure sat quietly. At first, Rita thought it was a trick of the light—until the figure shifted, and a calm, confident voice cut through the silence.
"I was waiting for you, Rita."
The name sounded like a whisper of ice, a soft threat that sent a shiver down Rita's spine. She spun, wand outstretched, trembling slightly. But before she could utter a spell, her wand leapt from her fingers, flying smoothly through the air and landing in the waiting hand of the figure in the shadows.
Emma stood tall, her presence overwhelming the room like a dark storm. Clad in a simple, elegant black cloak that seemed to drink in the faint light, her face was calm but utterly commanding. Her eyes glinted with an unsettling mix of warmth and warning, and an aura of quiet power radiated from her. She might have been mistaken for a ghost or a creature of the night had anyone else been in the room.
"You thought you were safe here," Emma said, her voice low and measured, "hidden away in this tiny, forgotten corner of the world. But we know where you live. We know what you do. And we know who you really serve."
Rita's mouth opened, then closed. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic drumbeat. This was no ordinary visit. This was a warning.
Emma stepped forward, the soft swish of her cloak like a gathering shadow. "My lady, Eira White, has been more than generous. She barely noticed your latest article. But I cannot allow you to besmirch the name of the White family without consequence."
Rita swallowed hard, her bravado flickering. "I… I don't mean to be cruel. It's just my job."
Emma's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, an expression that was almost a smirk. "Your job? Your job is to spread lies and poison. You've done it before, and you will do it again. You think you can write whatever you want and hide behind your little pen. But we are not like the other pureblood families you love to mock. We do not tolerate disrespect."
Rita took a step back, her breath uneven. "I'm careful. I know what I'm doing. I have sources. People talk. I only reveal what I'm told."
Emma shook her head slowly. "That makes you complicit. Do you think you are untouchable? We have ways of finding out who whispers in the shadows. We can make your sources vanish."
The room seemed to close in on Rita. Her eyes darted to the dark corners, as if expecting darkness to twist into hands that would seize her. The silence stretched for a moment, thick and heavy.
Then Emma spoke again, her tone almost gentle. "This time, consider it a warning. My lady showed mercy. She does not care for your petty provocations. But I do. This is not a threat born of anger; it is a promise of consequence."
Rita's lips trembled. "You… you won't do anything. You can't."
Emma's smile was sharp, cold. "Oh, but I can. And I will. Not to harm you, but to remind you of the power behind the White name."
Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped perceptibly, a faint shimmer in the air as if magic was tightening its grip. Emma raised a hand, and a faint whisper echoed—barely audible but laden with menace.
"You will find that your pen does not always protect you. Choose your next words carefully."
Rita nodded quickly, swallowing her fear. "I… I understand."
Emma released the magical pressure, the room warming again. She stepped back, her eyes never leaving Rita's face.
"Remember, Rita," she said softly, "I am always watching. And you know what happens if you make a mistake."
With a flick of her cloak, Emma moved toward the door, disappearing as silently as she had come, leaving behind an echo of power and warning.
Rita sank onto the sofa, trembling but alive with a new respect—and fear—for the White family's reach. She knew that the next article would be tempered, careful not to cross a line she might never return from.