Harry Potter: The Last Heiress of The White Family

Beneath the looming green skull of the Dark Mark, suspended like a vengeful star above the treetops, the silence of White Manor was broken by a thunderous crack.

Three figures Apparated just outside the iron gates.

At their lead stood an older man—tall, upright despite the weight of decades, his silver-streaked hair pulled back in sharp lines. Elijah White. Patriarch of the White family. Father of Damien. The last true lord of the house.

His sharp eyes narrowed at the smoke rising from the shattered upper floors of the ancestral manor. The firelight reflected in his pale eyes with a quiet fury.

"Surround the manor," he ordered coldly. "Search for any signs of remaining threats."

"Yes, Master," the two men behind him responded in unison. They turned at once and disappeared into opposite directions, swift and efficient, leaving Elijah alone in the open courtyard.

He raised his wand and began to walk forward, each step echoing in the eerie silence. Rubble crunched beneath his boots as he passed through the ruined entrance. The grand white castle—once a symbol of noble power and pride—was now drenched in blood and ruin. Smoke curled from smoldering beams. Fires hissed from broken tapestries.

With a flick of his wand, Elijah muttered, "Aguamenti," conjuring a wave of water to extinguish the flames.

The path ahead was grim. Dead house-elves lay strewn across the corridors. Loyal servants—some who had served for over forty years—were collapsed in pools of crimson. The walls bore the burns and scars of magic long spent.

Elijah's face betrayed no emotion. It was cold expression .

As he moved through the halls, his gaze was fixed on one thing: evidence.

The green mark above. The precision of the attack. The brutal efficiency.

Dark Lord .

He entered Damien's study. Blood streaked the floor. A chair overturned. Shattered glass on the carpet. But no body. Just silence and the ghost of chaos.

He continued on.

He reached the family wing—his daughter-in-law's quarters. The nursery door hung broken off its hinges.

For a moment, Elijah thought the room was empty. Then he stepped inside.

The sight stopped him in place.

Maria White lay sprawled on the stone floor, her eyes open to the ceiling, wand still clenched in her hand. Her robes were singed. Her arms were covered in bruises and burns. She had died fighting.

He moved forward slowly, solemnly, and knelt beside her. One glance at the body told him what had happened.

Avada Kedavra.

And there, near the crib—half-buried beneath debris—was a smaller figure. Still. Motionless.

His breath caught.

Even Elijah White, cold-hearted by reputation, felt a pang of something deep and ancient stir in his chest.

He turned away. Couldn't bear to look. Couldn't see the child's body. Not his granddaughter. Not Eira.

He closed Maria's eyes with one hand, then conjured a shimmering white drape and laid it over her gently. A burial shroud for a warrior. Then, rising to his feet, he turned to leave the room—

Breath.

He froze. Head tilting. Ears straining.

There it was again—a small, wheezing breath.

He turned sharply and walked to the edge of the crib.

There, buried beneath the wreckage, was a pale-haired girl. Tears had dried on her cheeks. Her eyelids were closed. She looked like a sleeping snowflake.

Elijah leaned in. Touched her tiny chest.

Still beating.

He exhaled—perhaps the first real breath he'd taken since arriving.

"Lolly!" he barked, summoning the ancient family elf. The creature Apparated instantly, kneeling low.

"Lolly is here to serve Master…"

"Take the girl to St. Mungo's immediately," Elijah ordered. "Urgent care. If anyone asks, tell them I sent her."

"Lolly understands. Lolly will protect the young mistress," the elf whimpered, cradling the baby with shaking hands before vanishing into the night.

Elijah turned from the room just as his two subordinates reappeared, soot and blood on their robes.

One bowed. "My condolences, Master… Lord Damien has passed away."

Elijah's fingers twitched—but his face remained stone.

"Where did you find him?"

"In the escape tunnel," one replied. "He was… lying there. Alone."

"Did he die with his wand in his hand?"

"No, sir."

Elijah's jaw clenched. "Bring his body. Place it in the study."

"Yes, Master."

As they moved to obey, Elijah asked, "Any sign of Cecile?"

The men exchanged glances and shook their heads. "No, Master. We believe young master Cecile was not here during the attack."

"Very well," Elijah muttered. "Begin repairs at once. I want this manor restored to its original state. No Ministry interference. No rumors. Rebuild the walls, scrub the blood, and bury the past."

He turned sharply. "Prepare two graves at the ancestral grounds. One for my son. One for Maria. They will rest in the earth of their forebears. I want it done tonight."

"Yes, sir."

As the men left, Elijah finally dropped to one knee, burying his face in his hands.

"You were a coward, Damien," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You ran. You abandoned your own family—the very people you swore to protect. And now… now I am ashamed to admit that I failed as a father. I have brought shame upon myself, and upon the legacy of our ancestors."

He didn't cry. Elijah White had long since lost the ability. But the silence around him echoed with all the tears he could no longer shed.

Then a voice called from behind.

"Father?"

Elijah turned. A young man stood in the doorway—thin, pale, with a stern face shadowed by regret.

It was Cecile.

They hadn't spoken in months.

The boy stepped closer, eyes wide as he looked up at the Dark Mark still hanging above.

"Why is it there? What happened?"

Elijah rose slowly to his full height. "Your brother and his wife were murdered. By the Dark Lord's followers."

Cecile staggered back. "No—no, you're lying. He can't be—he can't be dead…"

He broke down, shaking as he started to cry loudly.

" No , No, no he can't die , my brother can't die like this "

Elijah slapped him across the face. Hard.

"Stand up," he snapped. "Men do not cry like children, where were you when the attack happened?, why weren't you here to fight and protect the family?"

Cecile wiped his eyes, trembling. "Where… Where was I supposed to be? He banished me. He excommunicated me from the family. I haven't been here in a year."

"Why?" Elijah demanded. "What did you do?"

"I… I disagreed with him," Cecile said quietly. "He was planning to aid the Ministry. I told him we should remain neutral—stay out of the war. I told him the Dark Lord would retaliate. He said I was a traitor, that I was eyeing his position…"

Elijah stared at his youngest son, unreadable.

Then he said, "Go. Summon the Ministry. I want them here within the hour. We need answers—and they need a warning. Now go."

Cecile turned to obey, then hesitated. "What of Eira? Is she…?"

"She's alive," Elijah said simply.

Cecile exhaled, deeply relieved. "Thank Merlin…"

Elijah turned away, staring out the broken window, the Dark Mark fading in the sky.

"Yes," he murmured . "Thank Merlin."

But as Cecile left, Elijah's eyes narrowed. A whisper left his lips, cold as frost.

"I truly hope, Cecile… you had no hand in this. For if you did…"

⸻

At St. Mungo's, the senior Healer stood at the bedside of a small, pale child.

"She's stable," he said softly, addressing the elf named Lolly, who stood with red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands. "But… we don't know when she'll wake."

Lolly Asked " how long until young lady wakes up? "

And the senior Healer replied " I don't know, maybe a week or maybe a month or years it depends on her magical healing process in her body and mind "

Lolly bowed her head. Tears dripped silently from her chin.

"Oh, my poor young lady… She's so young… She lost everything."

She sat at her bedside, never leaving her side as the wind howled gently outside the ward.

In that quiet room, one last flame of the White family flickered—small and wounded but alive.