The skies over the White ancestral estate wept with soft, silver rain. It was as though the heavens themselves had chosen to mourn with those who gathered beneath them. A grey mist drifted between the trees of the ancient forest, curling like spirits past, and the ivy-covered stones of the White Manor stood solemn and unmoving—monuments to an age fading into memory.
Today was the funeral of Elijah White, the last reigning patriarch of one of the oldest surviving pure-blood families in Europe.
He had passed away the night of the Ritual of Ascension, his final breath exhaled with peace, having placed the family's future in Eira's hands. That night, Eira had knelt by his side, her grandfather's still hand resting in hers. She had not cried again. Not after that. Something in her had solidified—grief crystallized into resolve.
Now, she stood at the heart of the garden sanctuary, dressed in regal mourning robes of deep black trimmed with silver. The silver circlet of the White family rested upon her brow, her long white hair cascading freely behind her. Her expression was unreadable—stern, graceful, but far too young for the burden she now carried.
A platform of white stone had been erected before the ancestral tomb. Upon it rested a casket carved from marble and adorned with the White family's sigil—white fox and a serpent with wings entwined in eternal vigil. It shimmered with protective spells and time-honored enchantments, humming softly in the air.
And surrounding it stood the greatest gathering of magical nobility the manor had seen in over a century.
Dozens of chairs lined the garden walk, occupied by figures both illustrious and formidable—each one dressed in dignified mourning, their faces solemn, their wands respectfully sheathed.
Albus Dumbledore was among the first to arrive. His beard was tucked neatly into his robe, and his eyes, though still twinkling with their usual depth, were tempered by sorrow. He wore deep blue robes embroidered with ancient Celtic knotwork, a quiet nod of respect to the lineage he had come to honor.
At his side, Madame Olympe Maxime stood tall and elegant in robes of midnight plum, a matching black lace veil pinned to her hat. Her gaze followed Eira from afar with a motherly concern and deep respect.
René Voclain, Professor of Potions at Beauxbâtons, arrived soon after, standing silently in the rear, wearing sharp grey robes and carrying a single silver lily in hand—a flower sacred to ancient French funerary rites.
Cornelius Fudge, the British Minister of Magic, appeared flustered but composed. He bowed deeply upon arrival, followed closely by Lucius Malfoy, draped in dark finery with his signature silver serpent cane. Lucius offered a silent nod to Eira, his expression unreadable but heavy with formality. He was not here for politics—he was here for legacy.
Then came the Delacours.
Fleur walked ahead, in a long, elegant mourning gown of soft grey-blue, her hair braided back with silver pins. Her eyes, usually bright with youth and confidence, were now subdued, quietly watching Eira with heartfelt concern. Behind her, Monsieur and Madame Delacour followed, dressed with immaculate poise. Monsieur Delacour held a hand over his heart when he bowed to Eira.
And one by one, the pure-blood houses followed. The Greengrasses. The Rosiers. The Travers. The Carrows. The Selwyns. All descended from ancient bloodlines that had once warred and allied with the Whites over centuries past. And today, they came together—not to discuss power or marriage or alliances—but to mourn one of their own.
When the bell tolled across the garden, the rain eased into mist, and Eira stepped forward.
Ludi, the house-elf, held out the ceremonial scroll, and Eira took it with trembling fingers. She unfurled it and raised her voice—not loud, but steady, like the toll of an old bell.
"Elijah White, born in 1935, Lord of the House of White, Archmagus of the Council of Thirteen, Seer of the Continental Eye, father, grandfather, protector… and the last of his era."
She paused, her eyes sweeping across the crowd. "He was not perfect. He was stern. He was prideful. He made enemies, and never apologized for that. But he also suffered, in silence, for the legacy he bore. For decades, he stood alone in this house—fighting to preserve a family that history had all but buried."
A gust of wind fluttered her robes.
"He was not only my grandfather. He was my mentor. My shield. My greatest critic. And the first person who ever gave me a place in this world."
Her voice wavered, only once.
"He died so that I could carry the name forward."
Silence. Only the whisper of wind through the trees.
Then Albus Dumbledore stepped forward. He bowed deeply to Eira, then turned to the gathered assembly.
"There are names in our world that bear history within them," he began, his voice gentle and wise. "White. Black. Peverell. Arcturusveil. These names are not only legacies—they are burdens. And Elijah White bore that burden with quiet, relentless strength."
He looked toward the casket. "I met Elijah in 1958 during a war. He was already powerful then—already feared. And yet, it was in private that I saw his true greatness. He fought not just for legacy, but for those he loved… though he never showed it openly."
He looked toward Eira. "You carry more than a name now, Miss White. You carry history. But I know, as Elijah knew… that you will not falter."
He returned to his seat in silence.
Then Madame Maxime rose. Her voice was thick with accent and emotion.
"Elijah was… a friend and difficult friend at that ," she said. A ripple of smiles passed through those who knew it was true. "But he was also brilliant. And deeply protective. In Eira, he found purpose again. And in his passing, he gives her not just a family, but a future."
Cornelius Fudge gave a short, somewhat hesitant speech—more political than personal—but he bowed deeply at the end and assured his Ministry's "respect for such a distinguished wizard."
Lucius Malfoy did not speak. Instead, he approached Eira quietly, bowed his head low, and said, "Your grandfather was a respected elder of us pure blood families . he was also a master of our craft. I offer you my respect, Lady White."
Eira inclined her head without a word. That title sounded heavy now.
Then Fleur approached, alone. She stood beside Eira and gently took her hand.
"I am so sorry, Eira," she whispered. "He loved you. Everyone could see it."
Eira nodded once. She couldn't speak. The presence of Fleur's hand in hers steadied her more than anything else that day.
Finally, as tradition demanded, Eira stepped forward once more. Ludi placed a small silver urn in her hands—the ashes of a white-blossomed cedar, burned during the vigil the night before. She laid it at the foot of the tomb.
"With this flame," she said, "we send you beyond. But your name remains. I will carry it, as you did."
With a tap of her wand, the urn dissolved into starlight, rising into the sky.
And the garden filled with white butterflies—dozens of them, conjured by ancient spell, fluttering upward into the misted light. They flew in silence, circling once over the tomb, then vanishing into the trees.
The ceremony concluded.
The guests remained for the mourning meal, served in the great dining hall beneath portraits of past Lords and Ladies. It was not a time for chatter, but quiet remembrance. Many came to Eira personally—offering condolences, some with tears, others with stoic bows.
René Voclain approached her with a small, velvet-wrapped box. "He asked me to give you this… should he pass before your schooling ends."
Eira opened it later. Inside was a letter. And his wand.
As the day dimmed into dusk, and the guests departed through the forest path one by one, Eira stood alone beside the tomb.
The mist had returned.
Emma approached her quietly. "They've all gone, young miss."
Eira nodded. "I need a moment."
Emma stepped back, giving her space.
Eira knelt before the grave one last time.
"I'm alone again," she whispered. "But I won't run. I won't hide from this responsibility . You trusted me with this, Grandfather… and I will prove you were right."
She laid her hand against the cool marble.
"I will make our name shine again."
And then she rose.
The last butterfly circled her once and disappeared into the fading sky.