It was a pale winter afternoon at the White Manor. The air was crisp, heavy with the scent of snow, and silence lay across the estate like a velvet shroud. The first snowfall of the season had begun earlier that afternoon, and by the time Eira stepped into the gardens, the earth was already dressed in white. Her boots crunched softly against the frosted path as she walked, her emerald cloak trailing behind her like a second shadow. The vast gardens stretched out in hushed grandeur, their fountains, hedges, and marble statues half-buried beneath the delicate veil of snow.
(Manor Pic)
Emma followed close behind, her breath rising in faint clouds, her wand held loosely at her side. She said little, though her sharp eyes never strayed far from Eira's figure. Together they made their way toward the eastern courtyard, where the garden pressed against the dark fringe of the forest. Nestled there, half-forgotten among the trees, stood a small, weather-beaten house. Its stone walls were gray and its roof sagged under the weight of years. Vines clung to the edges, and snow rested upon its crooked eaves as if trying to bury it further into memory.
"This is the place I told you about, my lady," Emma said softly as they approached the little building. Her voice seemed to tremble against the quiet. "The old house elves spoke of it once. They said Miss Elisha's portrait might be hidden here. We searched everywhere else—even the White properties abroad—but nothing turned up. One of the oldest elves remembered that this building had once been used for storage. We tried to open it, but…" She paused and lifted her gloved hand, her lips pressing into a thin line. "The door repelled us. It refused to let anyone pass."
Eira stopped before the small wooden door, its iron handle blackened with age, and studied it in silence. A faint hum seemed to radiate from the frame, as though ancient wards still clung to the wood. She glanced at Emma and nodded. "When I was younger, I used to walk by this place. I never thought much of it. It seemed like nothing more than an abandoned shed. But if you believe Elisha's portrait may be here, then we should see for ourselves."
Without hesitation, she placed her hand upon the handle. To her surprise, the latch yielded easily, swinging inward with a low groan. Cold, musty air rolled out to meet her, thick with the smell of dust and forgotten years. She raised her wand. "Lumos," she whispered, and light blossomed at its tip, casting sharp shadows across the interior.
The inside was dark, cramped, and suffocating with neglect. Cobwebs hung like tattered draperies, dust coated the floor in thick layers, and stacks of old crates leaned precariously against the walls. No one had stepped here in decades. Eira turned to tell Emma to summon elves for cleaning, but when she looked back, Emma was no longer there. The doorway behind her gaped open, empty.
Frowning, Eira stepped outside again. She found Emma standing just beyond the threshold, wand drawn, her eyes narrowed at the doorframe.
"My lady, are you unharmed?" Emma asked quickly, relief flickering in her tone.
"I am well," Eira replied, though her brow remained furrowed. "But it seems this place does not allow you to enter."
Emma lowered her wand with a sigh. "Yes, my lady. The building is wrapped in old wards—powerful ones. It rejects all others. Only you may pass."
Eira's gaze drifted toward the grand silhouette of the main manor, its towers glowing faintly in the evening snow. "If only the manor itself had been protected this way," she murmured. "Perhaps many tragedies would have been prevented."
Emma followed her eyes and answered in a measured voice. "The manor has been renovated countless times throughout history. Such protections might have existed once, but time and reconstruction would have eroded them."
Eira turned back, her eyes glinting with resolve. She extended her hand to Emma. "Then let us test another way. Take my hand, and we will try together."
Emma hesitated only a moment before clasping Eira's hand. The warmth of her grip was steady, reassuring. As their palms touched, they stepped forward. To Emma's astonishment, the wards parted, allowing them both entry. Inside, darkness gathered close, but Emma immediately lifted her wand. With a swift incantation, she lit the many old sconces and candelabra that lined the walls. Golden flames flared to life, illuminating the vast interior.
Eira's breath caught.
From outside, the building had seemed a humble hut. Yet within, the space stretched impossibly wide, its ceilings high, its rooms sprawling. It was no shed but a hidden warehouse, its size nearly half that of the manor's entire courtyard. Stacks of crates, shelves heavy with tomes, and heaps of forgotten possessions stretched into the dim distance. Dust floated in the candlelight like drifting ghosts.
"It is enormous," Emma whispered, her eyes wide. "A warehouse disguised as a simple cottage. But why seal it so completely, even from the house elves?"
Eira walked slowly forward, her boots stirring the dust. "Because whatever was placed here was never meant to be touched. Perhaps only for the Whites to find."
As she wandered deeper, her light caught upon a strange object draped in thick black cloth. With a flick of her wand, the covering dissolved into smoke, revealing an unexpected treasure beneath.
It was an automobile, its polished brass fittings dulled with age, its leather seats cracked but still intact. The design was elegant, unmistakably from the late nineteenth century, when Muggle engineering had first blossomed into modernity.
Emma gave a soft gasp. "An automobile… It seems one of your ancestors was fond of Muggle inventions."
Eira traced her gloved fingers along the hood, her expression thoughtful. "Pure-blood families often claim disdain for Muggle creations. Yet most of them harbor secret fascinations. They despise in public what they covet in private."
Emma gave a sly smile. "Like Lucius Malfoy. He still flaunts his Muggle title among the English nobility. He has even attended their grand gatherings, and we found out that he once had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen herself."
Eira's brows rose. "Lucius? The arrogant peacock? How curious. Their family has always denied their roots, swearing they are untouched by Muggle blood. It would be… interesting, would it not, to remind the world of his hypocrisy?"
"You mean to expose him to the press, my lady?" Emma asked, eyes gleaming.
Eira tilted her head, considering. "A single photograph at the right moment would suffice. The sight of Malfoy enjoying Muggle company would amuse the wizarding world greatly. Let him stew in his own duplicity."
Emma laughed softly. "As you command. I shall keep my eyes open."
They pressed further into the warehouse. Emma raised her wand and with a graceful sweep began clearing the dust, causing it to vanish in bursts of pale smoke. Eira, meanwhile, let her gaze travel across the forgotten relics. Here were shelves of alchemical vials, their contents long since evaporated to sticky residues. There were silver instruments with spidery legs, enchanted lenses that hummed faintly when touched, and grimoires bound in dragonhide and basilisk scale.
But most startling of all were the trophies.
Along the walls hung the preserved remains of magical beasts. The head of a Nundu, its jaws parted in eternal snarl, stared down with glassy eyes. A griffin's wings were spread in frozen majesty, its feathers preserved in shimmering enchantments. The coiled body of a Runespoor gleamed faintly, its three heads snarling in silent fury. A chimera's skull rested above the fireplace, its twisted horns casting shadows like claws.
It was a gallery of conquest, evidence of some long-dead White ancestor's obsession with the hunt. The sight made Eira pause, her lips pressed thin. "They hunted as though the world were nothing more than a trophy hall," she murmured.
Emma's voice was cool. "It is not uncommon among the old families. Power is displayed in many forms, even cruelty."
Eira moved past, her steps leading her to a corner where several portraits stood, stacked and draped in white cloth. One by one, she lifted the covers. Most were ruined—faces half-painted, colors bled into gray. One showed only a shadowed outline of a woman whose features had been erased by time. Another was slashed across the canvas, as if destroyed deliberately.
At last, she uncovered one that gave her pause.
The frame was gilded, though tarnished, and within it stretched not a face but a room: a chamber with a narrow bed, a single window letting in pale light. Yet the bed was empty. No figure sat within, no eyes turned toward her. Only silence, painted and still. At the bottom of the frame, a brass plate bore the inscription: Elisha White.
Eira's heart quickened. "Emma!" she called.
Emma hurried over, her eyes widening as she saw the portrait.
"I found it," Eira said, her hand brushing the frame. "But she is not here. The canvas is empty."
Emma studied it closely, her expression sharpening. "This is no ordinary portrait, my lady. It is a two-way passage. The subject may travel between portraits linked to this one. Elisha must be elsewhere."
Eira nodded firmly, her eyes blazing with resolve. "We need to bring it back to the main building. I know where it's connected."
Emma lifted her wand, murmured an incantation, and with a shimmer of light the portrait rose from its resting place, floating gently beside them.
They spent some time longer exploring, but the place was too vast and cluttered. The warehouse would require days of sorting, and only with patience could its secrets be truly uncovered. Already Eira's mind turned toward a solution. "We shall find a way to let the elves enter," she said at last. "The place must be cleaned, organized, and catalogued. I will not let centuries of history rot beneath dust."
"As you wish, my lady," Emma said, guiding the floating portrait toward the exit.
By the time they stepped outside, night had already fallen. The snow had grown heavier, blanketing the courtyard in silence. The little house looked harmless again, as though it had not revealed its cavernous heart to them. Eira glanced at the manor, its windows glowing warmly against the dark.
"We shall place the portrait in my office," she said firmly.
"Of course, my lady," Emma replied with a bow. "I will see to it at once."
Together they crossed the courtyard, their footsteps vanishing quickly beneath the falling snow. Behind them, the warehouse slumbered once more.