The echo of footsteps carried through the marble corridor of the French Ministry of Magic, each step sharp and deliberate, like a drumbeat heralding the inevitable. The chandeliers overhead bathed the grand hallway in a cold golden glow, glinting off the polished floors and the gilded crests of the old wizarding families etched into the walls.
Isabella Voclain walked at the center, her bearing calm but solemn. To her left, Emma Bloom matched her pace, her sharp eyes sweeping the hall with a strategist's caution. To her right, Eira kept stride, the younger girl's green gaze fixed forward, her expression betraying neither fear nor surprise.
The air was heavy, thick with expectation. Rumors had already spread like wildfire across France and beyond: Isabella, Minister for Magic of France, missing from public sight for over a week. Her absence had stirred criticism, speculation, and conspiracy alike. Now, she would return—but not as the Minister they remembered.
As they approached the wide doors of the auditorium, a ministry clerk—a thin, nervous wizard in green robes—hurried to intercept them. He bowed quickly before Isabella.
"Madame Voclain," he said, his voice rushed, "the Minister—" He corrected himself mid-sentence, realizing that within moments she would no longer bear that title. "The entire press corps, the department heads, and even your… administration are gathered inside. They await your presence."
Isabella inclined her head, composed as ever. "Yes. I will be going."
The clerk hesitated as if to speak further, but something in Emma's steady, assessing gaze silenced him. He bowed again and scurried off.
Isabella continued, but suddenly Emma's hand shot out, her fingers closing gently but firmly around Isabella's wrist.
"Wait."
Isabella stopped and turned. Emma's eyes searched hers, the tension in her grip betraying what words did not.
"Are you certain you want to do this?" Emma asked quietly. Her voice, though soft, carried weight—steel beneath velvet. "Once you speak the words, there's no turning back. Power surrendered is rarely regained."
For the first time in days, Isabella's composure cracked—not with hesitation, but with something warmer, gentler. A smile curved her lips, and she reached her free hand to cover Emma's.
"Yes," Isabella said, her voice low but unwavering. "I am sure. More than sure. I have carried the weight of this office, the burden of family, the shadow of loss… long enough. It is enough for me now. I want only quiet. To live the rest of my days in peace, and to be with those I love."
Her gaze lingered on Emma's eyes, then flickered briefly toward Eira—standing silent and watchful. The message was unmistakable: Emma was not the only one she meant.
Emma's grip loosened, though her expression remained unreadable. She inclined her head slightly, conceding.
"Then I will stand by you," she said.
"Always," Isabella returned softly.
With that, the three women advanced.
The double doors to the auditorium opened with a low groan, spilling bright light and the roar of voices into the hall. The room beyond was vast, its ceiling enchanted to mirror the shifting skies of Paris outside—grey clouds rolling over the vaulted expanse. Every seat was filled: Ministry officials in crisp robes, department heads seated like judges, and at the center, rows upon rows of journalists, their quills poised above enchanted parchment, eager to catch every syllable.
A hush fell as Isabella entered.
She moved to the podium at the center stage, her long black robes trailing, her posture regal, the image of a woman in control even as she prepared to relinquish it. Behind her, Emma and Eira took their places, standing like twin shadows—supporters, guardians and witnesses.
The murmurs began at once. Quills scratched. Flashing light burst from cameras.
"Madame Voclain!" a journalist shouted almost immediately, raising his voice above the rest. "Where have you been this past week? The nation demanded leadership, but you were nowhere to be found!"
Another voice cut in. "Is it true your absence was due to mourning your mother, René Voclain? Tragic as it may be, do you not still hold responsibility as Minister?"
The questions grew louder, harsher.
"Were you involved in the death of Alina Trévér?"
"Or was Maximilian Voclain behind it? What ties did the Ministry have?"
"Do you still claim neutrality in the feud between Trévér and Voclain?"
The auditorium became a storm of accusation, each voice sharper than the last, until Isabella raised her hand.
"Enough."
The single word, firm and resonant, silenced the chamber.
She stood taller, scanning the sea of faces before her. For a moment, the only sound was the echo of quills hovering in the air, waiting.
"Yes," Isabella said slowly, "I mourned. My mother's death struck me harder than any blow politics or war has dealt me. René Voclain was not merely my mother—she was a force, a guiding presence in my life. Her loss has hollowed me. These days of absence… they were days of reflection. Days of grief. Days of truth."
She paused, her breath steady, her eyes sweeping across the crowd.
"And today," she continued, "I have come to share that truth with you."
The room leaned in.
"Effective immediately, I resign from the position of Minister for Magic of France."
The words dropped like a thunderclap. Gasps erupted. The journalists shouted all at once, voices colliding in disbelief. Department heads who had long awaited her downfall sat stunned, their satisfaction drowned by sheer shock. Even Emma, prepared as she was, felt the weight of that moment.
Isabella let the uproar surge and crash against her, unmoved. When she lifted her hand again, the noise broke, silence grudgingly restored.
"I have given my years, my strength, and my heart to this Ministry," Isabella said, her voice resonant. "But I will no longer give my peace, my soul, or my life to it. Politics has consumed enough of me. From this day, I choose a quieter path. A life removed from power, from endless conflict. I have severed my ties with the Voclain name, with its endless wars. I wish only for stillness now."
A reporter near the front, his hat tilted low, raised his quill. "Madame, what will you do now? Without office, without family—what remains?"
Isabella smiled. Slowly, she turned her head, looking not at the crowd but at the girl standing behind her.
"My future," she said clearly, "is in service not to this Ministry, nor to the Voclain name, but to my niece—Eira White—and to the White family. From this day forward, I will devote myself to aiding her, and her house."
The reaction was instantaneous. Shock rippled through the hall, sharp as lightning. The name White hung in the air, unfamiliar to some, but to the keen-eyed rivals and journalists, it was a revelation.
A rival official, pale and stiff, whispered furiously to his neighbor. A journalist nearly dropped his quill. Another shouted over the din:
"House White? You would abandon France for them?"
"Do you pledge your allegiance to a foreign family?"
"Is this political maneuvering or a betrayal?"
Questions fired like arrows, but Isabella did not flinch. She stood composed, her decision already carved in stone.
"Call it what you will," she said. "Betrayal, surrender, or choice. I call it freedom. And I call it loyalty—to blood, to the ones who will shape the future, not cling to the ashes of the past."
Her voice rang through the chamber.
Behind her, Eira felt dozens of eyes burn into her—a mix of curiosity, fear, and calculation. She stood tall, calm, her face unreadable. Emma beside her allowed the faintest smirk to touch her lips.