CHAPTER 99: QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

The great golden lift doors slid open with a soft whoosh as Eira and Emma stepped out into the bustling Atrium. Their conversation was quiet, measured—Eira already strategizing her next political steps as they walked past the Fountain of Magical Brethren.

But they hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps before a voice called out behind them, a little too loudly for the setting.

"Lady White! Wait—please!"

Eira paused, her expression unreadable. She turned just slightly, only enough to acknowledge the approaching figure.

Reginald Cornelius Fudge came trotting toward them, his fine wizarding robes swishing, his neatly-combed hair slightly disheveled from the effort. When he reached her, he offered a bright, overly rehearsed smile.

"I—uh—apologies, I didn’t mean to stop you so suddenly," he said, panting a little. "I just thought, well... perhaps we could have a moment?"

Eira blinked once, calmly. "Yes?"

Reginald cleared his throat. "It’s just that... I was wondering if you might like to join me for a meal sometime? There’s this lovely new wizarding hotel that opened just across the Thames. They serve the finest Châteaubriand enchanted to sing while it’s carved—quite the sensation, really."

Eira gave a graceful, polite smile, her tone cool and composed. "That’s very kind of you, Mr. Fudge, but I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment. I have several engagements to tend to."

Reginald chuckled nervously. "Of course, of course, but if your schedule ever clears—maybe I could assist you? In your work, I mean. I’ve done some consultancy for my father’s office. I could serve as an aide—carry documents, attend meetings... whatever you need. Sometimes it’s good to get to know each other through working together, don’t you think?"

At this, Eira’s polite expression didn’t falter, though her eyes lost a touch of their warmth.

"I appreciate the offer," she replied, her voice gentle but firm. "But I already have the staff I require. My affairs are handled quite efficiently."

Before Reginald could conjure up another excuse to linger, Emma stepped forward and placed herself squarely between him and Eira, her posture professional yet unmistakably protective.

"I’m sorry, Mr. Fudge," she said in a tone that was courteous but edged with finality, "but we must be going now. Lady White has a full schedule today."

Reginald looked as though he wanted to protest, but the weight of Emma’s stare—and the quiet authority with which she had spoken—silenced him.

Still trying not to lose face, he attempted one last smile. "Well, if ever you do need anything—truly, anything—I’m always happy to help."

Eira inclined her head. "Duly noted. Good day, Mr. Fudge."

Emma offered a slight, practiced smile and added, "We appreciate your courtesy, Mr. Fudge. Have a good afternoon.

He sighed heavily and muttered under his breath, "I should’ve led with the Châteaubriand."

As Eira and her assistant Emma Bloom walked past the central marble fountain in the Atrium of the British Ministry of Magic, the sound of their footsteps was abruptly swallowed by a sudden flurry of flashes and murmuring voices. A cluster of journalists had gathered in ambush—cameras poised, quills scratching furiously on floating parchment, and voices raised in a cacophony of overlapping questions.

Emma instinctively stepped forward, her arm shielding Eira. "What in Merlin’s name is going on?" she snapped, glancing sharply at the journalists. "Who allowed this?"

A portly wizard in a pinstripe cloak, clearly emboldened by the chaos, stepped closer. "Lady White, a moment of your time! We request a brief statement—just a few questions, Madam White!"

The crowd surged forward. Questions were hurled without order or decorum, their tone aggressive and unrelenting.

Emma turned toward Eira. "My lady, we can use the emergency Floo network from the Minister’s lounge—let’s go before this turns uglier."

But Eira raised a hand calmly. "No, wait," she said, her voice steady. "Let’s not run. Let’s speak."

Emma hesitated, concern etched on her face. "Are you sure, my lady ?"

"It’s alright," Eira replied softly, adjusting the collar of her cloak and stepping forward.

She raised both hands and spoke clearly, her voice firm, elegant, and unmistakably commanding.

"Alright, alright—enough. Everyone quiet down."

The murmurs faded. Cameras lowered. Even the fluttering quills paused mid-air. The journalists stood blinking, surprised into silence as the young Lady White took control of the moment.

"I will answer your questions," Eira declared. "But on my terms. I will choose who speaks. Raise your hands if you wish to ask something—and do so quietly. We are in the Ministry of Magic, not a street market. Do we understand each other?"

A moment of stunned silence followed. Then, awkwardly, one by one, the journalists nodded and raised their hands.

Eira scanned the crowd and pointed. "You—there. The man with the hooked nose."

The selected journalist stepped forward eagerly. "Lady White, for what purpose did you visit Minister Fudge today? What was the meeting about?"

Eira smiled thinly. "That’s a private matter," she said. "Just some family business—nothing political or of public concern."

She gestured again. "Next?"

A woman in violet robes was selected. "For weeks there have been rumors," she began, "that after Elijah White’s death, your family reclaimed all of Cecil White’s assets and vaults. Was that because he was... illegitimate?"

There was a shift in the air. Eira’s expression turned reserved, diplomatic.

"When I became matriarch," she said, "I reviewed our family records. Certain irregularities regarding Mr. Cecil’s lineage came to light. After thorough investigation, I determined he was not—by blood—a White. Therefore, as is standard among old wizarding families, any holdings under his name were reabsorbed into the White estate."

Another hand. Another question.

A lean wizard with wire-rimmed glasses stood. "But is that fair?" he asked. "He was raised in the White household. Elijah accepted him. Doesn’t he deserve something for that?"

Eira’s gaze was cool. "Perhaps. But tradition is clear. In our family—like many others—only those of verified bloodline may inherit. It was not a decision I made lightly. But it was the right one, for the integrity of the family."

She turned again. "Next."

This time, the question came hesitantly from a young woman with curly blonde hair.

"What about the rumors... that Cecil White is actually the son of Olivia White and Adrian Voclain? That he’s a product of a secret affair?"

A hush fell over the Atrium. The quills stilled. Even the fountain behind them seemed to quiet its bubbling.

Eira paused. Her jaw tightened slightly. Then, in a composed but grave tone, she said, "I had hoped this matter could remain private... but I understand the Wizarding World deserves clarity."

She drew in a breath.

"Yes. It is true. Olivia White and Adrian Voclain had a secret affair. Cecil is the result of that union."

The moment hung heavy in the air. Dozens of flashes burst as cameras captured her expression. The journalists murmured to one another in a frenzy. It was no longer rumor. It was a confirmed scandal—declared by the matriarch herself.

Another hand shot up. Eira nodded.

An elderly wizard cleared his throat. "Lady White," he said, "there’s a peculiar claim made by Gilderoy Lockhart. He says you once sent him a love letter—asking for a date, an autograph, and even... a dinner at a hotel. He claims he refused you, citing your age, but offered to wait until you came of age. Is any of that remotely true?"

Eira blinked, looking utterly baffled. "I’m sorry," she said slowly. "Who is... Gilderoy Lockhart?"

Gasps erupted. The crowd erupted into quiet disbelief. Several journalists exchanged shocked glances.

"She doesn’t know Lockhart?" someone whispered. "He’s more famous than the Boy Who Lived!"

Emma leaned close, whispering under her breath, "Miss, did you really forget? Or was that pretending ?"

Eira muttered back with a wry smile, "What do you expect me to say? That I know him? It would be a scandal."

Emma smirked faintly and nodded.

Eira turned back to the crowd. "Ah—now that my assistant has reminded me, I think I may have read one of his books. When I was very young," she added. "It made for amusing bedtime reading."

She lifted her chin. "But let me be perfectly clear: I never sent any letter to Mr. Lockhart. I have no interest in him, and I am certainly not at an age—or inclination—to send so-called love letters. If he’s said otherwise, I suspect he’s simply seeking attention. As I understand, that’s not uncommon for him."

The audience erupted in murmurs again—some laughing, others tutting in disbelief. One witch hissed, "She called him an attention-seeking fraud!" while a wizard muttered, "Finally, someone said it."

Eira motioned once more. "Last question."

A woman stepped forward, a tabloid quill floating over her shoulder. "Is it true you are secretly engaged to Draco Malfoy? That the White and Malfoy families arranged it behind closed doors?"

Eira actually laughed. "No, that’s quite absurd. I’ve met Mr. Malfoy perhaps twice in my life. I don’t know him well at all, and I certainly have no engagement planned. Please, don’t feed into gossip."

She turned back to Emma. "Let’s go."

As they walked away toward the VIP exit reserved for high-ranking officials and foreign dignitaries, the journalists behind them erupted into noise again, shouting follow-up questions, their cameras snapping desperately.

But Eira did not stop. Her steps were calm. Composed. Regal.

And though she had arrived at the Ministry to conduct business quietly, she left having delivered one of the most public revelations the Wizarding World had heard in years.