The stone gargoyle leapt aside at the password, and Eira followed Professor McGonagall up the spiral staircase. She had half expected Snape to be waiting for her beyond the oak door, but when she entered, it was only Albus Dumbledore, sitting serenely behind his desk, quill in hand, eyes twinkling beneath the half-moon spectacles.
"Ah, Miss White," he said, laying aside the quill as though it had been expecting her arrival. "Please, sit."
Eira crossed the room and settled into the chair opposite him, her composure cool, though her pulse thrummed faintly beneath the surface.
Dumbledore's blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "I heard your words in the Great Hall just moments ago."
Her lips curved faintly. "It seems you were present, then."
A soft chuckle escaped him. "When one is Headmaster of Hogwarts, there are certain privileges. The walls are very good at carrying words where they must be heard." His tone was light, whimsical, almost grandfatherly.
Eira tilted her head, her voice calm. "Then I shall have to be more careful in future. One never knows what the walls may choose to tell you."
"Care need not trouble you," Dumbledore replied gently. "This castle belongs to its students as much as its teachers. You are here to learn, to live, and to grow. My wish is not that you silence yourself, only that you remember—students, however extraordinary, are still students."
His words floated kindly, yet settled heavy with meaning. Eira did not miss it.
Dumbledore leaned back, fingers steepled. "Your speech was spirited, and very loyal. Hermione Granger is indeed fortunate to have such a friend. She is, as I am sure you know, one of the brightest witches of her age. Her heart is as generous as her mind is sharp. I daresay Harry Potter himself would have stumbled more than once had she not been beside him."
His voice softened as though reflecting on a fond memory, before his gaze sharpened again, resting firmly on Eira. "And yet, I could not help but notice something curious. You spoke with conviction about standing against unfairness. Yet earlier today, when Miss Granger was mocked by her peers, you held your peace. And these past days, when young Harry has been maligned in whispers and mocked openly, you did not rise. In Potions lessons, you have seen students cut down by harsh words. Still, you did not speak."
Eira's lips pressed together, the faintest narrowing of her eyes betraying her focus.
Dumbledore's tone was mild, never accusatory, as if pointing out a simple inconsistency. "It gives the impression, to some at least, that your noble declaration does not always extend beyond those you call friends. That, perhaps, is a contradiction worth considering."
For a moment the silence stretched, broken only by the faint ticking of an odd silver instrument on a side table.
Then Eira spoke, her voice steady and cool, carrying with it a calmness that sharpened each syllable into something unyielding. "You seem well informed, Headmaster. But if you would remind me of my contradictions, I must ask you to consider your own."
Her eyes did not waver from his, though the blue depths behind his spectacles glimmered with their usual quiet amusement. "You are Headmaster of this school. You say you hear the whispers, see the cruelties, know the injustices that happen within these walls. I am but a student, new to Hogwarts, barely three months within its halls. Yet even I have noticed what others seem content to ignore."
The words gained strength as she continued, her tone measured but edged with something colder, more accusing. "Severus Snape has tormented Gryffindor students for years, most of all Harry Potter. He has mocked Neville Longbottom for every stumble, humiliated Hermione for her eagerness to learn, and poured disdain over Harry at every opportunity. The pattern is not hidden, it is not subtle, it is plain to anyone who bothers to look. And what have you done, Professor, except watch?"
The silence that followed pressed against the room like a heavy curtain. The quills on Dumbledore's desk lay still, as though even they refused to scratch upon parchment while her words lingered in the air. Fawkes shifted upon his golden perch, the faint rustle of feathers the only sound to break the tension.
Dumbledore's expression did not falter. His smile remained, eyes still twinkling, though the light within them was less playful now, more deliberate.
"Ah," he murmured softly, "a fair question. One might almost believe you are trying to place me upon the witness stand."
Eira's voice cut cleanly. "Perhaps you should be."
For the first time, Dumbledore's chuckle carried a weight beneath it, like velvet wrapped around steel. "Severus is, as you may have observed, an exacting man. Potions is a delicate art. Precision, discipline, attention—these are qualities he demands, for good reason. Strictness is a tool, though sometimes wielded with more sharpness than kindness."
Eira leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. "Strictness is not cruelty. Mockery is not discipline. You cannot hide his conduct beneath the veil of academic rigor. Yes, he is a brilliant Potioneer, perhaps one of the finest alive, but brilliance in a subject does not excuse torment. Because of him, many students despise potions. Many dread his class, not because of the work but because of the man."
The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes flickered. His smile remained, but Eira sensed it was now more carefully worn. "You speak with great passion, Miss White. And with keen observation. Yet I wonder—do you suppose I am unaware of these things?"
Eira held his gaze. "If you are aware, Headmaster, then the question is not whether you know. It is why you allow it."
Silence thickened in the office. The silver instruments whirred faintly, the phoenix upon its perch ruffled its feathers but made no sound.
At last Dumbledore spoke, his voice softer, though still measured. "Miss White, in the span of a century I have learned that no man, however powerful, can mend every flaw or correct every failing. One chooses battles, and one chooses times. Severus is not without his faults, yet he serves this school, and serves it with loyalty. My task is not to create perfection, but to keep the balance. Perhaps that is unsatisfying to you, but it is truth."
Eira studied him. His words were smooth, his tone unyielding. She understood, at last, that she was not merely speaking to a professor. She was speaking to a man who had lived more than a hundred years, who had steered wars and councils, who smiled while hiding weapons in every word.
Her anger cooled into something sharper, more cautious. She could press harder, but instinct told her the ground here belonged to him. She sighed faintly and said only, "I see."
Dumbledore leaned back, the lightness returning to his voice, though the weight of authority never left. "I hope, Miss White, that you will remember one thing. Severus is your Head of House. Disagree with him, yes. Even criticize, when you must. But do so with care, and not in a way that erodes the trust between student and professor. You will spend years under his guidance. Better that those years not be poisoned."
He folded his hands upon the desk, smiling again in that gentle, disarming way. "And please, do not feel the need to send your fellow Governors a letter about this unfortunate incident. Hogwarts hosts guests from two great schools this year. A scandal now would serve no one, least of all the students. I suspect you love this school already too much to wish it harm."
Eira regarded him quietly, weighing each word. She saw the kindly mask, the wisdom, the power carefully veiled behind soft tones. This was her first true glimpse of Albus Dumbledore, and it left her wary.
At last she inclined her head. "Of course, Professor. I meant no harm to the school. I have grown to care for it, and I have no wish to see its reputation diminished."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled again, more brightly now. "Excellent. Then we understand one another." He gestured toward the door, his smile as benign as ever. "Go, Miss White, and enjoy your evening. Hogwarts will continue to offer you many lessons, both inside and beyond the classroom."
Eira rose, nodded politely, and left the office. Only once the heavy oak door closed behind her did she allow herself a slow breath. The air in the corridor felt cooler, sharper, as if she had stepped from a furnace into winter air. Her heart was steady, yet there was a weight in her chest she had not felt before, something colder than fear and sharper than doubt.
For all her words, for all her conviction, she understood now that she had crossed wands not with Severus Snape, but with Albus Dumbledore. And he was far more dangerous.
As she descended the spiral staircase, her mind replayed every word that had passed between them. She could see now how he had chosen each phrase with exquisite care, how his calmness had never wavered, how the gentle cadence of his voice concealed a net of iron that had closed around her without her even noticing. What she had thought a righteous challenge had been turned, twisted, and softened until it seemed little more than a child's indignation. He had played her with ease, not cruelly, not mockingly, but with a mastery that left her feeling stripped of all defenses.
For the first time, she had felt intimidated by him. Not by anger or threats, but by the sheer depth of his experience, the way his mind seemed to reach further than hers could follow. She had spoken with confidence, but he had spoken with the weight of more than a century behind him. He was a man who had fought wars, faced monsters, devised strategies that shaped the course of wizarding history. She was a girl of fourteen, even with memories of another life, even with scars that whispered of suffering. Before him she was still, painfully, a child. A toddler even, fumbling in the presence of a master who had walked the earth long before her first breath.
And in that moment of realization came a clarity she did not want to admit. Her cleverness, her pride, her defiance—all of it had crumbled in the space of a few sentences. She had glimpsed just how fragile her position was, how easily he had shifted the ground beneath her feet. With only a few measured words, Dumbledore had shielded Snape, had deflected her accusations, and had left her with nothing but silence.
She clenched her hands at her sides as she stepped into the corridor, her green eyes narrowing with quiet thought. It was not defeat she felt, nor submission. It was awareness. A sobering recognition that she had underestimated the Headmaster. That she had believed herself clever, sharp, and untouchable, only to be reminded that there were those who could turn her boldness into dust with nothing but patience and wisdom.
Eira inhaled deeply, steadying herself. The castle seemed to loom higher, its stone corridors echoing with secrets she had not yet begun to grasp. If Albus Dumbledore could so easily control the course of their conversation, then she would need to be wary, more wary than she had ever been.
She had always thought Severus Snape her adversary. Now she knew the truth. Snape was only the shadow. Dumbledore was the one who stood behind him, and Dumbledore was far more dangerous.