The echo of footsteps rang across the polished black tiles of the British Ministry of Magic's Atrium. Shadows of golden statues stretched across the high ceiling as hundreds of witches and wizards bustled about—clerks shuffling parchments, memos fluttering like silver fish overhead, the sound of fireplaces roaring to life every few seconds as Floo travelers appeared and vanished in green bursts of flame.
Eira walked with her chin high, her long white robes brushing against the tiles. Fleur lingered by her side, graceful as ever, her silver-blonde hair gleaming beneath the enchanted lanterns that cast a steady light across the enormous hall. Despite the quiet murmur of the Ministry crowd, there was a distinct pocket of silence around them—people making way for the matriarch of the White family and the companion who walked at her side.
Fleur leaned close, her voice a low murmur just for Eira.
"Well, the last time we came was three years ago, non?" she said, her French accent lacing each word with soft sharpness. Her blue eyes darted about the Atrium, unimpressed. "And it has not changed at all. Look at these walls—grey, dull stone. Such a classless people are these British wizards."
Eira's lips curled into a small, amused smile.
"Come now, Fleur," she said, her tone warm, almost teasing. "I know the French Ministry renovates every year—new floors, gilded mosaics, and flowers in the corridors. But let's not judge too harshly. This hall hasn't been changed for a hundred years." Her gaze rose to the gilded Fountain of Magical Brethren in the middle of the Atrium, its gold still gleaming with age. "They want it exactly like this. English witches and wizards value preservation. They're far more focused on keeping old traditions intact than chasing the new."
Fleur scoffed delicately, folding her arms.
"Tradition is one thing. Dullness is another."
Eira laughed softly, the sound carrying through the Atrium just enough that a few heads turned to glance at her. She was used to stares—some filled with respect, some with suspicion, others with envy or even lust.
As they crossed the Atrium toward the lifts that would lead them deeper into the Ministry, a tall young man in official blue robes stepped into their path. His hands trembled slightly as he bowed his head.
"Lady White," he said quickly, his voice careful, "forgive the interruption. As the matriarch of the White family, you are exempt from wand inspection." His eyes flickered nervously to Fleur. "But your companion must submit hers. It is… protocol."
Eira tilted her head, her expression calm but her eyes glinting.
"My companion?" she repeated softly.
"Yes, my lady," he stammered. "It is Ministry procedure. Every guest must—"
Eira raised a hand, silencing him without sharpness, only with the effortless authority of someone born to rule.
"I have come to this Ministry a number of times," she said, her voice low but steady, carrying easily. "Never once have my companions been subjected to wand checks. I do not think I shall allow it this time either."
The clerk flushed scarlet. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly aware of the stares gathering from nearby witches and wizards. Finally, he gave a pained sigh and lowered his gaze.
"Of course, my lady. If that is your wish, then it shall be so. I… only wished to uphold protocol."
Before Eira could answer, a sharp voice cut from behind him.
"What are you doing, Max?"
The clerk flinched. From behind, a tall witch in plum-colored robes swept forward, her dark hair bound tightly into a bun. Authority radiated from her as she fixed the clerk with a steely glare.
"Haven't I told you not to harass the British noble families?"
The woman turned swiftly, her expression softening into deference as she bowed her head toward Eira.
"My apologies, Lady White. He is new, and unfamiliar with the subtleties of protocol here. Please forgive his ignorance."
Eira's stern gaze softened. She shook her head gently.
"No need for alarm. It was merely a misunderstanding. He wished only to do his duty." She turned her eyes back to the clerk, who was now pale as parchment. "Good work. Learn carefully, and you'll do well. Don't trouble yourself further."
The man nearly sagged with relief, bowing deeply.
"Thank you, my lady. Thank you."
The woman touched the young clerk's shoulder, then gestured for Eira and Fleur to follow.
"Please, Lady White. Allow me to guide you to the courtroom."
The three of them entered the lifts. Fleur stood very close to Eira as the golden grilles clanged shut, and the lift jolted into motion. The magical voice announced their descent into the lower floors of the Ministry.
By the time the gates opened, they stood before the familiar black stone corridors that led to the Wizengamot's chamber.
The heavy doors of the courtroom loomed before them. The witch gestured respectfully.
"Please, Lady White. Your seat is prepared. The session will begin at one o'clock. You have half an hour to settle in."
Eira inclined her head. "Thank you."
Inside, the Wizengamot courtroom spread like a great amphitheater of dark wood and cold stone. High benches circled the chamber in rising tiers, with golden nameplates marking the seats of Britain's oldest families. At the center stood the chained chair reserved for the accused, though today it remained empty. Above it, the judge's dais, where Dumbledore himself had once presided years ago.
Eira found her place near the front, close to the dais, her name etched into the plaque before her seat: Lady Eira White. Beside it, a smaller chair—ostensibly for an assistant—had been permitted, though such exceptions were made only for the pure-blood elite. Fleur slipped gracefully into it, ignoring the murmurs that rose like low wind from the benches.
The courtroom gradually filled. Names of weight and history echoed as family after family entered. Edgar Greengrass, head of his house, his sharp eyes scanning the chamber. Lord Theodore of the ancient Theodore line, nodding solemnly to Eira as he passed. Members of the Knott, Fawley, and Rosier families filed in, followed by Augusta Longbottom, formidable in her vulture-topped hat, who gave Eira a curt, approving nod.
From the Ministry's side came officials: Barty Crouch Senior, stern and rigid; Madam Bones, composed and observant; Arthur Weasley, somewhat out of place among the grandeur but polite nonetheless.
Yet the murmurs did not fade. Across the chamber, whispers slithered through the air.
"Is that the French girl?"
"Her rumored lover?"
"How shameless, to bring her here…"
"A disgrace. A White consorting with another woman, and a foreigner no less."
The words burned against Eira's ears, but she kept her gaze forward, her posture unbent. Fleur shifted slightly closer, her hand brushing against Eira's beneath the desk—a subtle gesture of solidarity.
But not all voices were scornful.
"The White family has always mixed with the French," one witch reminded her neighbor. "Nearly every Lord or Lady took French wives. Why should this be any different?"
"Perhaps they are only friends," another whispered. "The rumors may exaggerate."
The balance of gossip hung heavy, yet Eira ignored it, her calm presence a shield against their judgment.
At precisely one o'clock, the great doors of the chamber opened again. A hush fell.
Albus Dumbledore entered, tall and serene, his silver beard gleaming in the enchanted light. Behind him walked the Governors of Hogwarts, their robes formal and their faces solemn. Minister Cornelius Fudge followed, blustering in his green bowler hat, flanked by aides.
And then—her. Dolores Umbridge. Pink-clad, smile stretched too wide, eyes darting like a vulture scenting weakness. When her gaze fell upon Eira, her lips curved into a sickly-sweet grin, followed by an unsettling giggle.
"Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee…"
Fleur stiffened beside Eira, disgust flickering openly across her face.
The chamber filled completely. Dumbledore mounted the dais, standing tall. Fudge stood beside him, puffed with self-importance. Wands clicked against the benches as the Wizengamot settled into silence.
The hearing was about to begin.