After the funeral, once the last of the guests had vanished through the iron gates and the manor had fallen into a dense, grieving silence, Eira returned to her room. The silence there felt different. Heavy. Still. She changed out of her black funeral gown, slipping into a simpler robe, and sank into the armchair by the tall window. Outside, the sky hung low and grey, like the heavens, too, had entered mourning.
A quiet knock broke the silence. The door creaked open, and a house-elf stepped in with a solemn bow. It was an older elf, the wrinkles beneath her eyes deep with age and loyalty.
"My lady," the elf said softly, "as per the tradition of the White family… when the Lord passes, both men and women must cut their hair in mourning. Will you uphold this rite?"
Eira looked up slowly. Her fingers instinctively moved to touch the long, white strands of hair cascading past her shoulders. The weight of them had always been part of her image—her identity. For a moment, she thought. Then a whisper of memory stirred.
She had heard of such practices even among Muggles. In many cultures, death brought change. Some shaved their heads. Others wore white, or silence, or withdrew from society for a time. Perhaps this wasn't so different.
She stood up, her voice quiet but steady. "Yes. As the new head of this family, I will uphold our traditions. As my ancestors did before me, so shall I."
The elf gave a respectful nod. "Very well, my lady. Please, sit."
Eira lowered herself onto the high-backed chair near her vanity. The elf moved with delicate precision, summoning a pair of silver shears. With a soft snip, the first strand fell. The sound echoed through the still room like a bell. One by one, the long, moonlight-white locks were severed and dropped into a crystal bowl. Eira sat silently, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the window. There were no tears or anything painful .
When it was done, the elf stepped back, holding the bowl reverently.
"What will you do with it?" Eira asked, her voice low.
"As per tradition, my lady, the hair of the matriarch is to be burned at the foot of the Lord's tomb. This is a rite reserved only for the family's servants. The heir is not to witness it."
Eira nodded slowly. "So be it."
Later, she stepped into the bathroom. The steam curled around her as she let the hot water run over her body. It felt like washing away the last pieces of childhood. Of innocence. Of the girl who once sat by her grandfather's side without a care or burdens of the family .
When she emerged, she stood before the mirror. The image looking back startled her—her hair was now cut short, barely brushing the nape of her neck. She reached up and touched the unfamiliar shape of her head.
(Pic Here)
Strange. She didn't feel devastated. Just… different. Hollow, perhaps. Her grief had no tears—only weight.
"Get it together, Eira," she murmured to her reflection. "That's enough mourning. You are now the Lady of this House. The Matriarch. And it's time to act like one."
She walked through the manor's long, echoing corridors until she reached the room that had once been Elijah White's private office. The door opened with a quiet creak. Inside, the scent of old parchment and sandalwood lingered. Everything was still in place—his desk, the tall shelves, the white fox crest mounted on the wall. The hearth glowed softly.
She crossed the room and sat in the Lord's chair. Her chair, now.
"Lolly," she called.
With a soft pop, the elf appeared, bowing deeply. "At your service, my lady. What can Lolly do for you?"
"Inform Emma. I want to speak with her."
"At once, my lady."
Lolly vanished.
A few minutes passed before Emma entered. She wore her mourning robe still, her face pale but composed.
"Was my uncle, Cecil, present at the funeral?" Eira asked without preamble.
Emma's expression tightened faintly. She shook her head. "No, my lady. I was watching carefully. He was not there. Many of the pure-blood families whispered about it. They wondered… where was Cecil White?"
Eira's eyes narrowed slightly, the air around her growing colder.
"Find him," she ordered. "I want to know where he is, and what he's planning."
Emma bowed. "Understood, my lady." Then she turned and left the room with quiet efficiency.
Once alone, Eira reached into the drawer of the desk and withdrew the letter Professor René Voclain had given her earlier that day—an envelope bearing her name in her grandfather's bold script. Alongside it was a wand. She lifted it carefully. The wand was smooth, bone-white, with a silver inlay of a fox curled at the base—emblem of the White family. It pulsed faintly in her hand. An heirloom. A relic and a responsibility.
She unfolded the letter.
{To my dear granddaughter,
If you are reading this, it means I am no longer with you. I had hoped for more time—but the curse moved quicker than I had prepared for. Still, I wanted you to have this.
Enclosed are the family's records. I have entrusted all contracts, alliances, and internal affairs to Emma Bloom. She knows every corner of our family affairs . If you are uncertain, turn to her. She has your complete trust—and now, mine as well.
In your absence, while at school or otherwise, she may represent you. You are young, Eira, and there is much to learn. But I have no doubt that you will grow into your role—and surpass even my own accomplishments.
The wand enclosed is our ancestor's. It is bound by blood and legacy, passed from lord to lord. You are now its rightful bearer. It will not work for any other.
If ever you find yourself in danger or in need of counsel, seek Isabella Voclain, the French Minister of Magic, and Madame Maxime. I trust them both with my life—and now, with yours.
Lastly, a warning. Be cautious of the pure-blood families. Many will come with kind smiles and marriage offers. They will flatter you. Manipulate. Entangle. Do not go to any gathering alone. Always take Emma. Until you have grown strong enough to stand on your own, never trust a charming tongue.
My sweet Eira. I regret leaving you so soon. But I believe in you. I always have. You carry our legacy, not as a weight, but as a banner. I hope you make the White name greater than it has ever been.
—Elijah White }
When she finished reading, her hand trembled slightly as she folded the letter back with care. Her eyes rested on the white wand, now lying beside the parchment.
Even in death, he was still guiding her.
She smiled. A quiet, genuine smile—not bitter or broken, but full of warmth. The first true smile since he passed.
"You were always worrying about me," she whispered. "Even now. You were the kindest man I've ever known, Grandfather. And I'm proud to be your granddaughter."
And for the first time since he died, she didn't feel lost.