The doors of the Great Hall creaked open and conversation faltered. Eira stepped inside with her usual calm stride, her pale features composed as if nothing of consequence had occurred that afternoon. Yet every eye that turned toward her knew otherwise. Whispers rose at once, a ripple moving through the sea of students.
From the Gryffindor table came low voices tinged with admiration.
"She stood up to him, right in front of everyone."
"Never seen anyone speak back like that."
Some even smiled in her direction, though cautiously, as if uncertain whether such an act was bravery or plain recklessness. A few muttered that they hadn't thought a Slytherin would ever bother to defend a Gryffindor, much less one mocked so openly by Snape.
"Well, I'll be," one boy said with genuine surprise. "Didn't think a snake would ever stand for something decent."
That was all the encouragement Fred and George Weasley needed. They slapped their palms together in a loud, resounding high-five.
"From this day forward," Fred announced with mock solemnity, "we are officially fans of Eira White."
"Supporters, admirers, lifelong devotees," George added, grinning. "Perhaps even future business partners."
"Business partners?" Ginny cut in sharply, narrowing her eyes at them across the table. "She's my friend. Don't talk like you're about to extort her for Galleons to fund your ridiculous joke shop ideas."
The twins turned toward her at once, matching looks of exaggerated offense plastered across their faces.
"Extort?" Fred clutched his chest as though wounded.
"Ridiculous?" George gasped, scandalized.
"Dearest sister, you wound us," Fred said dramatically.
"Gravely," George agreed. "We would never extort—only… negotiate fair sponsorship."
Ginny swatted at them with her spoon. "Don't even think about it. She doesn't owe you anything."
"Of course not," Fred said smoothly.
"Which is why," George went on, eyes sparkling with mischief, "we'll just need a proper introduction. Since you're such good friends with her."
Ginny groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. "You two are insufferable and annoying as always."
"Charming, actually," Fred corrected.
"Dashing, inventive, and now," George added with a sly grin, "great admirers of Slytherin's bravest."
Across the table, a few Gryffindors chuckled at the exchange, and even those who still eyed Eira warily seemed to soften a little. Whatever else she was, she had stood up to Snape, and that counted for something.
The Hufflepuffs leaned together in subdued curiosity, their whispers laced more with wonder than judgment. Ravenclaws glanced up from their books and plates, calculating, measuring, some impressed at her nerve, others frowning at her apparent disregard for school hierarchy.
But it was her own house that spat the most venom. The Slytherin table bristled with discontent. The whispers there were not curious but sharp, like the flick of knives hidden beneath sleeves.
"Traitor."
"She dared to humiliate our Head of House."
"Arrogant little Matriarch, thinks her family's name shields her."
"White or not, she will learn that Snape cannot be crossed."
The older years, their voices cutting and deliberate, took the lead.
"She thinks being Governor of Hogwarts gives her the right to say whatever she pleases," one seventh-year sneered.
"Or that she can walk wherever she wants, do whatever she likes," another said darkly.
"Most pure-blood families respect Professor Snape," a sixth-year muttered. "But she defied him—openly—like his authority means nothing."
"She's just a child," a girl scoffed. "Playing at being powerful. Acting arrogant. Believing she can get away with everything just because she carries the White name."
Their words lingered in the air, sharp with resentment.
Eira let them speak. She lowered herself into her place with unhurried grace, lifting her goblet with steady fingers. Then, at last, her gaze swept across the offenders—cold, unblinking, queenly.
The older Slytherins faltered mid-sneer, their whispers dying on their tongues as her eyes passed over them like frost. For an instant, silence clung to the table.
Without a word, Eira raised her pumpkin juice and drank. The movement was regal, deliberate, as if she sat not among peers but upon a throne. Unbothered, untouchable.
The branding names, the hisses of traitor and arrogant child, slid off her like water against stone.
It was not long before Gemma Farley, Slytherin Prefect, rose from further down the bench and walked to where Eira sat. Gemma moved with the practiced elegance of a leader, her long hair neat, her expression calm but firm. She stopped opposite Eira and sat down, folding her hands with deliberate composure.
"Miss White," she began, her voice low but carrying, "you have been here for little more than two months. Perhaps you have not yet grasped what it means to belong to this house or this school, but you should know that what you did today was not only reckless. It was wrong, and a complete disregard of a true Slytherin spirit."
The Slytherins nearest leaned in, eager to hear. A hush settled over the rest of the table as Gemma Farley, the prefect, continued, her chin lifted high.
"Professor Snape is our Head of House. To contradict him so publicly was not only disrespectful to him, but shameful for Slytherin as a whole. You owe him an apology. After supper, come with me to his office. You will apologize, you will accept your punishment, and this unfortunate incident will be resolved."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with authority. Around them, a ripple passed through the table—smirks, nods, a few triumphant glances from those who had spat venom at Eira only moments before. A handful of younger students stared at Eira, wide-eyed, as if wondering whether she would bend to the will of the prefect or defy her as boldly as she had Snape.
Eira set her goblet down and lifted her green eyes to meet Gemma's. Her voice, when she spoke, was cool and precise, every syllable measured.
"I do not believe I did anything requiring an apology, Miss Farley. I did not act on impulse. I did not speak to embarrass him for amusement. I spoke because he mocked a student in front of everyone. Not only a student, but a girl as well. It is cruelty to a student and to the girl herself. You, yourself being a girl, should know better what it is like to be humiliated in such a way. And besides, Hermione is my friend, and I stood up for her against the unfair treatment she received."
Gemma's lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. "You forget yourself. He is your professor. Our Head of House. His authority, his behavior, his treatment of students is not yours to question."
Eira leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. Her voice dropped quieter, yet it carried farther in the tense silence.
"And yet his authority does not transform mockery into justice. Authority is not a justification for cruelty, but it seems he is using it as though it were. Tell me this, Miss Farley. Imagine Professor Dumbledore himself standing in this hall, before hundreds of students. Imagine he singled you out, insulted you, ridiculed you for your appearance, for your grades, for your origins. Imagine him doing so before your friends, your rivals, before every person whose opinion matters to you. Would you smile politely and thank him for your humiliation? Would you say that since he is the Headmaster of Hogwarts he can say whatever he wishes and you must accept it with open arms? Or would you feel what any thinking person feels: anger, shame, the sting of unfairness and the raw weight of injustice done to you?"
The words hung between them like steel. Around the table, no one spoke. Even those who had sneered at Eira before now sat in heavy silence, caught between Gemma's stiff outrage and the cutting precision of Eira's logic.
Gemma opened her mouth, but no words followed. Her composure faltered for the briefest instant. Around them, Slytherins shifted uneasily. At the Gryffindor table several heads were nodding vigorously, their faces bright with satisfaction at seeing Snape's authority challenged even indirectly.
Eira straightened and her voice rose, clear and cutting, carrying easily to the far corners of the hall. "Hermione Granger is my friend. I will not stand by while she is ridiculed. I have not seen a single other professor behave as he did today. And if I witness it again, whether the student is Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin, I will stand against it. Every student has the right to defend themselves against unfairness. To pretend otherwise is to live like sheep, silently enduring humiliation while calling it discipline."
The hall had grown utterly still. Forks hovered in the air, conversations died mid-sentence. Even the clink of goblets against plates seemed to hold its breath.
Eira's words lingered in the charged silence. Some students exchanged glances, uncertain whether to agree aloud. A few Gryffindors nodded to each other, impressed, while many Slytherins glared at her with cold resentment. Yet others in the hall, even among Ravenclaws, seemed to weigh her words with a measure of reluctant respect.
At that very moment, the great doors opened with a slow, heavy groan. The sound echoed across the hall, shattering the silence.
Professor McGonagall swept inside, her tartan robes billowing, her spectacles flashing in the torchlight. She moved with brisk precision, her heels clicking smartly against the stone floor. Her eyes scanned the room, sharp and commanding, until they fixed on Eira.
"Miss White," she called, her Scottish voice clipped and unyielding. "The Headmaster requires your presence in his office. At once."
A rustle of whispers surged through the hall as Eira rose from her seat.
"Are they going to expel her?" a Ravenclaw whispered urgently.
"Impossible," said another. "She is a Governor."
"At most a month's detention," a Hufflepuff guessed.
"She deserves expulsion," muttered a Slytherin with venom. "No one humiliates our Head of House."
Eira ignored the noise. Her chin lifted, her steps measured, she followed McGonagall toward the doors. The stares of hundreds of students pressed on her back, filled with speculation, disdain, admiration, and awe.
And behind her, the Great Hall erupted again into whispers, the weight of her defiance settling over every table like a storm about to break.