The famous French writer Dumas's younger brother, Big-Crab Dumas, once said: "If I play along with your nonsense, you'd better laugh; if I give you respect, you'd better take it."
Although Eda didn't own loafers or act like some street tough, she still felt there was some truth in that saying.
She was being watched and followed, and from the sound of it, they truly intended to lay hands on her. What should you do with people who spit on the courtesy you offer them? Of course—tear the mask off and deny them what they want.
In fact, Eda hadn't planned on causing trouble at all. Having a grandmother who adored her—what a blessing!
She just wanted to spend time with her grandmother and let the old woman enjoy a peaceful, happy old age.
But there were always fools who didn't know their place, jumping out to stir up trouble. During these past days in Paris, Eda had often had a tail shadowing her.
Did they really think she was some naïve, helpless little lamb?
She had just personally slaughtered four wizards in Devon, scaring Borgin and Burkes so badly they didn't even dare fart. And these two idiots had the nerve to run in front of her and shout insults—had they eaten too much, or were they simply begging for death?
"Your son talked too much." She shifted the direction of her wand.
Vincent finally caught his breath, gasping heavily. Even though the curse had stopped, his whole body still trembled and convulsed. The light in his eyes was gone; his earlier arrogance had long fled.
"So.." Eda whispered, "Avada Kedavra."
A flash of green light streaked across the room—Eda intended to solve the problem once and for all. Casting an Unforgivable Curse on a human would earn her a lifetime suite in Azkaban; she should have worn the floor out by now.
But Eda didn't care. She lived as she pleased, acted as she wished. Someone who had already died once—every extra day was profit.
But the green light did not solve the problem. The curse missed, shattering the entire window; Alain was only cut in a few places by falling shards of glass.
Eda turned her head toward her grandmother—and saw Vinda shaking her head.
At the final moment of the spell, Vinda had swiftly pushed Eda's arm. It wasn't enough to interrupt the casting, but it nudged the Killing Curse off its target, sending it into the window instead.
Vinda believed this was not the right time to shed blood, nor did she want Eda to bear such a murderous reputation. She hadn't brought Eda home to let her do this—Eda only needed to live as the young lady of the Rosiers.
"Aiya, how did you fall over like that?" Vinda said in a theatrically delicate tone. "That useless old Agnes—can't even tidy a room properly. What's the point of keeping you?"
Her tone was sharp, sarcastic, every word pointed—she was far more skilled at this than Eda. She continued, "Get up, get up. The floor is cold. And don't crush my carpet."
Alain, soaked in cold sweat, had just begun to rise when Vinda's last remark shattered his composure all over again.
The big, bearded man's face turned the color of pig liver—furious but unable to say a word. He knew that if the curse hadn't missed, he and his son would be dead. Yet instead of feeling grateful that Vinda had saved him, he felt mocked—mocked for his incompetence.
The Killing Curse, the Cruciatus Curse—Alain understood he needed to reassess this half-blood girl.
Seeing Alain stand up again, Vinda spoke once more: "Some in the family may truly believe that having a half-blood join the Rosiers will tarnish our reputation. But you don't think that way, do you?"
Without waiting for Alain to answer, Vinda continued on her own:
"You're worried that now Louis's child has returned, I'll support Eda in competing for the position of family heir—just like I supported Louis back then. And of course you're worried, because you know your son is as stupid as a donkey and utterly unfit for the role. Oh—my apologies. I shouldn't insult donkeys."
Vincent, still collapsed on the carpet like a dead dog, had never endured such suffering in his pampered life. Even now, his eyes were unfocused. He didn't hear Vinda's insults— and even if he did, he was in no state to respond.
"Your little calculations aren't bad," Vinda said, as if lecturing a child, pointing out the flaws in the middle-aged Alain Rosier's schemes.
"But the thing you overlooked," Thierry—who had been pretending to sleep—sighed and spoke slowly, "is that what you consider immensely important, the Rosier family, is worth absolutely nothing to Vinda. Not even worth a single strand of Eda's hair."
The family and power he saw as priceless were treated like trash by Vinda—Alain felt even more wretched.
"If that's the case, then why did you help Louis fight for the position back then?" Alain asked.
"So you still are bitter, huh? No. You think Rosier means something? It isn't even worthy of acting as a stepping stone," Vinda said disdainfully. "A Rosier was never worthy of Louis, and now it's no more worthy of Eda."
Vinda had long since seen through the Rosier family's greedy nature. In her hands, the Rosiers were merely tools, and they would have been tools in Louis's hands as well. If Eda ever needed it, the Rosier family would not escape the fate of being used as a tool.
So, during her time in prison, Vinda never felt the slightest sadness over the family abandoning her.
She had lifted the Rosier name to glory with her own hands, yet only Thierry's family ever ran around for her sake. Anyone else would have been heartbroken—but Vinda simply laughed it off.
The difference between people lies in just that—the gap in vision, the gap in thought. Why does everyone want to stand higher? Because only from up there can you see far enough.
To stand on the mountaintop is to look down upon the multitude.
Vinda Rosier had once followed Grindelwald to that mountaintop. She was never some sheltered young lady raised in a gilded cage, bred only to bear children.
"Heh. And aren't you thinking quite prettily?" Alain scoffed back. "You really think those pure-blood families would bow to a half-blood the way they once bowed to Grindelwald? Keep dreaming."
Eda suddenly said, "Grandmother, when I was researching Slytherin, I read a lot of records about pure-blood families—but I still have one question."
"Ask," Vinda replied, her tone turning warm and gentle in an instant.
"Is there a pure-blood family with the surname Riddle?" Eda asked like an inquisitive child.
After thinking for a moment, Vinda answered affirmatively, "No. It's a Muggle surname."
Eda turned to look at Thierry Rosier, who'd been sitting silently on the sofa. Thierry also shook his head.
"So Voldemort wasn't pure-blood!" Eda said, as if in sudden realization. "So he was a half-blood too!"
Where one chooses to stand, what height one chooses to reach—those are her decisions. It is certainly not Alain Rosier's place to lecture her.
Among the true upper echelon of pure-blood families, the fact that Voldemort was a half-blood was never a secret. But these top-tier figures collectively kept that truth hidden, choosing only to acknowledge the Slytherin blood in him—because Voldemort could bring them what they wanted: benefits.
As long as the profit is large enough, pure-blood wizards become selectively blind. Even betraying their own bloodline isn't impossible.
Didn't the first Lucius Malfoy once pursue a Muggle? And not just any Muggle—the Muggle was Elizabeth I.
When his pursuit failed, he resorted to cursing her from the shadows, which supposedly led to Elizabeth I's image as the "Virgin Queen."
The Malfoys never acknowledge this, of course, but the relationships among pure-blood families are right there for all to see.
Who could they possibly fool? Everyone has their own skeletons; it's just that the elder brother doesn't laugh at the younger one.
In the beginning, the pure-blood families only wanted to use Voldemort. They simply hadn't anticipated his power and ambition—nor how many pure-blood witches and wizards would fall for his rhetoric. In the end, things slipped completely out of their control.
The aftermath was devastating for them:
The English Lestranges were all thrown into Azkaban—effectively extinct.
The English Rosiers were all killed by Aurors—extinct.
The last male heir of the Black family had only just escaped from Azkaban—"Always Pure Black Family" was, for all practical purposes, extinct as well.
The remaining pure-blood families survived only by paying an enormous price.
If Tom Riddle could rise, why couldn't Eda?
Just because Tom Riddle happened to be a descendant of Slytherin?
Whether Eda chose to do nothing at all or to accomplish something earth-shaking, Vinda would support her wholeheartedly. What Veda didn't know was that Eda had once met Gellert Grindelwald.
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