Harry Potter: The Last Heiress of The White Family

Nine years later.

In a grand chamber within the towering walls of White Manor, a girl stirred from her slumber. The velvet sheets rustled as she rubbed her eyes and blinked against the golden morning light streaming through the tall, arched windows. The room was just as it had been the day she returned from Saint Mungo's Hospital, unchanged by time, like a memory trapped in glass.

Eira White.

She was ten now. Ten years since she was born, and five since she had awoken from the deep, dreamless coma that followed the fall of the ancient White family. Only two remained—her grandfather, Elijah White, and her uncle, Cecile. The rest were long buried, the manor echoing with silence.

The child who had once belonged to this body was gone—killed during the Death Eater raid that claimed her family. Eira, who had awakened in her place, was someone else entirely. A soul reborn, a second chance. She had learned much since then.

Yet, in all this time, she had never seen her grandfather. Her uncle visited rarely, and even then, he was cold and bitter, full of resentment. The only constant in her life was Lolly—the house-elf who had fed her, clothed her, and cared for her since the day she arrived.

Eira climbed from bed and stretched. Her white, snow-like hair shimmered in the morning light. She moved toward the mirror and looked at herself—a child's frame, but a face with an eerie, otherworldly beauty: sharp, intelligent eyes the color of deep forest green, framed by that striking pale hair.

She stared at her reflection and whispered, "Get it together, Eira. You're not that scared girl anymore. You're not the helpless girl who cowered under her father's fists." Her voice wavered but strengthened as she continued. "You're Eira White now. You'll be a witch. You'll have magic. And you'll never be powerless again."

Her small fists clenched.

Then she smiled—softly, bitterly—as she turned her gaze to the photo resting on the bedside table. A smiling woman with kind eyes and dark curls looked back.

"Mother," she whispered, "I wish I could've known you. I know what you did for me… I saw it." She reached out, touching the photo gently. "You were the only one who loved me… in both lives."

She remembered the horror of her former life—her drunken father, the beatings, the screams, the blood. Her mother's desperate defense. Her death. Her own.

That life ended in pain and terror, but this one—this life—could be different.

A soft creak pulled her back to the present. The door opened, and in bustled Lolly, the house-elf, holding a steaming tray.

"Good morning Lolly "

"Good morning, young lady!" chirped Lolly, her large ears bouncing with excitement. "Young lady said 'good morning' to Loli! Oh, how precious!"

Eira smiled gently. "Good morning again , Lolly. What's got you so excited today?"

"Oh! Oh! Young lady, today is a grand day indeed!" the elf squeaked, nearly dropping the tray.

Eira arched an eyebrow. "Grand? What happened?"

"The master—your grandfather—is coming to visit you! He will be having dinner with you tonight!"

Her eyes widened. "Grandfather? He's finally coming?"

"Yes, yes! You must get ready, miss! Take a bath! Pick your best clothes!"

Without hesitation, Eira nodded. "Then let's go. I want to be presentable."

In the warmth of the marble bath, as water soaked into her skin, Eira let her mind wander.

The House of White… one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain. Ancient, powerful, feared. Once rivals to the Black family. Where the Blacks had withered and fallen, the Whites clung to existence by a thread.

Sirius Black, the last scion, rotted in Azkaban. Walburga, the last matriarch, had died in '86. Now the Black name was extinct.

And the Whites?

Only Elijah, Cecile, and herself remained.

After dressing in elegant black robes that made her hair gleam like silver thread, Eira walked out into the manor's garden. The flowers were in full bloom, and fruit hung lazily from the trees. This garden had become her sanctuary—a small escape from the long, dull days without Muggle distractions, with only books for comfort.

She sat, legs swinging from the wrought-iron bench, her eyes watching butterflies dance across flowerbeds.

Where's that helper? she thought. The one that the world will promised me. They said I'd have guidance. A system. Something.

But nothing had come. No magical awakening. No dreams. No signs.

She stared down at her palms. Please… don't let me be a Squib, I don't want be powerless again, I don't want be beaten and broken by those who should have protected me, I want to protect myself this time, I want to rely on my strength to be not killed like my previous life , I don't want to be strangled by a drunken man to death.

She reassured herself—it must be the adjustment. Her soul adapting. Her magic just hadn't manifested yet.

As the sun dipped low behind the trees, a voice broke the quiet.

"It's beautiful, isn't it? This garden."

Eira blinked. "Yes… it really is—"

She paused mid-sentence, her eyes widening. She was alone in the house there shouldn't be anyone here besides Lolly.

She stood, startled, turning toward the voice.

An old man stood by the rose bushes. Tall, regal, with chiseled features and the same cold poise she had seen in her uncle.

"Are you my grandfather?" she asked cautiously.

The man gave a slight nod. "Yes, child. I am Elijah White."

She quickly bowed. "I welcome you, my lord."

He studied her with a pleased expression. "Well done. You've been taught properly. Manners and discipline are what separate nobility from common stock."

"Thank you, Grandfather. I've learned much from the tutors you sent."

"Good," he said with a faint smile. "Let's walk."

She followed him like a shadow—small feet padding after his long strides.

"Do you know what makes our family feared and respected?" he asked as they strolled past the hedges.

"I think it's because of our history. The achievements our ancestors made for the magical world. That's why we're respected. And… whenever our authority is challenged, or one of our own is harmed, we retaliate. Swiftly." she answered. "We do not bow."

Elijah chuckled. "Smart girl. That's right. You are correct. We never bow to anyone. Ever. Every noble family you meet in the future—remember this—they are beneath us. Respect is owed only to power. Only to those who prove themselves worthy of it."

Eira rolled her eyes behind him. You've been here for two minutes and you're already trying to brainwash me, she thought.

"You know the family's history?" he asked.

"Yes, Grandfather. I've read the official records."

"That is only the surface. The real history—our true legacy—is hidden. One day when you are worthy of it, I will share it with you."

"I look forward to that," she replied politely.

He glanced down at her. "Have you had your magical awakening yet?"

A chill passed through her, but she straightened. "Not yet, Grandfather."

He nodded. "It will come. There has never been a Squib in the House of White."

But another voice cut through the evening air.

"But Father—she's already past the age of a magical rite. She's ten, and still—nothing."

Eira grimaced.

Her uncle.

Cecile White stood by the garden arch, his expression as smug as ever.

"She's likely a Squib," he added with false sympathy.

Elijah turned sharply. His expression turned cold.

"I did not give you permission to speak," he said icily. "And I will not tolerate slander against my granddaughter."

Cecile blinked in surprise. Granddaughter? Never before had his father referred to Eira as anything more than that girl.

"I apologize, Father. I overstepped," he said through clenched teeth.

Eira gave him a shallow courtesy. "Welcome, Uncle."

Cecile smiled thinly. "Ah, my dear niece. How have you been? I visited two months ago, but you must've been… occupied."

"Reading," Eira replied coolly. "I didn't realize I had company."

Elijah gestured. "Let's eat. Dinner is ready."

At the long dining table, Cecile moved to sit beside Elijah—but was stopped.

"Don't sit there," Elijah said curtly.

"Excuse me?"

"I said don't sit there."

Then, turning to Eira, he said, "Come, granddaughter. Sit here."

Cecile stood frozen as Eira walked forward and took the honored seat—reserved for the heir of the family. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the chair beside them and sat in silence.

During the meal, Elijah watched Eira eat—elegant, graceful, precise. He nodded with approval.

Cecile glanced sideways. His father's face—smiling.

He's smiling . 

Suddenly, his eyes widened. In all his life, he had never once seen his father smile not at his mother, not even at his favored son, Damien. But now, for the first time, he watched Elijah smile. And not just at anyone at her. The sight sent a tremor through him. It wasn't just the smile it was what it meant. In a single moment, it became painfully clear: Elijah was showing Eira a kind of warmth he had never offered his own blood. And this was their first meeting.

After the main course, Elijah set down his fork.

"There is a ball next week, hosted by the Ministry. Eira, you will attend with us . It will be your formal debut into the Pureblood Circle."

Cecile's voice jumped, sharp. "But Father—no one knows of her existence! There are questions surrounding her parentage—"

Elijah's hand slammed against the table.

Eira flinched but caught herself. She wouldn't look weak.

"I said enough," Elijah growled. "Her records are verified. She is Damien's daughter. She is of our blood."

"But her appearance—"

"I said enough!" Elijah stood, voice hard and final. "You will not bring this up again. Next time, watch your words."

He turned to Eira. "Be ready. I will return for you."

"Yes, Grandfather," she said, her voice even.

With that, Elijah swept from the room.

Cecile remained seated, staring at the table.

Eira leaned back, exhaling softly.

"Oh boy," she muttered to herself. "This family drama…"

And just then—

Ding.

A chime echoed in her head, sudden and strange. A familiar, long-awaited voice followed.