Harry Potter: The Last Heiress of The White Family

In the hidden folds of the British wizarding world, far from Muggle eyes and Ministry roads, stood an ancient white castle, gleaming like bone against the forest that surrounded it. Its spires pierced the mist of the highlands, and its heavy gates bore the sigil of the House of White—a coiled Fox over a silver sun. This was Whitehall Manor, ancestral seat of one of the oldest and most elusive pure-blood families in magical Britain.

Inside, the grandeur was as formidable as its reputation. The high-ceilinged halls were adorned with enchanted tapestries, marble statues, and oil paintings whose subjects blinked and murmured with life. Velvet drapes, oak floors, and candlelit chandeliers whispered of wealth and lineage. This was not a house that bowed to change. It had existed before the Ministry, before the world had split into Muggle and magical.

In a long, firelit chamber, two men sat opposite one another at an obsidian table. One was in his mid-thirties, tall, calm, and dressed in elegant black robes embroidered with silver trim. The other, younger by more than a decade, leaned forward in his seat, his voice urgent.

"Brother," the younger man said, his hands clenched tightly on the polished wood, "I beg you again—reconsider. We should aid the Dark Lord. He's the only one who can throw down Dumbledore, bring back order, restore our place in the Ministry. We've been forgotten, Damian. I want the House of White to matter again."

The elder brother, Damian White, Lord of the House of White, folded his hands calmly and replied, "Cecil, I've told you before—stop this nonsense. You're young, ambitious, yes—but don't let your ambition blind you. I will not stain the name of White by aligning with a lunatic."

Damian White stared firmly at his brother.

"Look at the Black family. A house that once rivaled ours—now reduced to nothing. Most of their members are either dead or fugitives, sacrificed at the altar of the Dark Lord's ambition. I will not let our house fall to that fate. I don't care for this war between Dumbledore and Voldemort. The House of White chooses its battles wisely—and I see no gain in joining this one."

Cecil's jaw tightened. "And what if he wins? What if he defeats Dumbledore and we're left among the neutrals? You think he'll spare us for sitting on the fence? You think neutrality protects us? It makes us targets. I'm not asking to become one of his fanatics. But if we align ourselves now, offer something—discretion, support, anything—he'll remember that. We won't be the next Weasleys."

Damian's voice turned sharp. "Don't compare us to the Weasleys. And don't pretend this is anything but ambition, Cecil. You want power. You want recognition. And you want me to hand it to you."

Cecil rose from his chair, his expression twisted in bitterness. "The only reason you're Lord is because you were born first. That's all. Father chose you because you were the favored son. But I—I dedicated my life to this family. I studied harder than anyone. I endured every painful lesson thrown at me. I bore every burden without complaint. And what did you do?"

He sneered.

"You wasted your youth in Muggle pubs, chasing filth, living like some carefree squib. I stood for this family when you vanished. I protected us from being devoured by other houses. I sacrificed everything."

His voice cracked. "And still, you were handed the title. Just because of the order of our births. It's not fair. It never was."

Damian's voice remained calm, but his eyes darkened.

"Go, Cecil. You're emotional. You need to calm yourself. Don't lecture me on sacrifice. Father chose me because I was worthy. You were raised to assist—not to lead. I was raised to rule. Let go of your delusions. You're still young… and clearly, still foolish."

Cecil's face contorted with rage. He turned for the door, but then spun back around with a cruel smirk.

Cecil's eyes burned. "No wonder Mother hated you."

That pierced deeper than he expected. Damian stiffened, but said nothing.

"She always favored me. She saw through your mask, your lies, your arrogance you are just like dad and that's why she hated you. You think you're the heir to this house, but you were never even loved in your own home."

The words were cruel, and they struck with precision. Damian flinched, just barely—but Cecil saw it.

Cecil continued and looked over his shoulder. His voice was colder now, mocking.

"You'd better be careful, brother. Especially now that your child is born. No one believes she's yours. The girl doesn't even look like a White. Must be hard—ruling a house, when you can't even keep control of your own wife."

Damian's fists clenched. "You will not speak of Maria like that."

"I'm only saying what everyone else is thinking," Cecil sneered. "That your noble wife spread her legs for a Muggle, and now you're raising a bastard."

In a flash, Damian crossed the room and struck his brother across the face. The slap echoed like a whip crack. Blood touched Cecil's lip, but he only smiled.

His grin widened. "Oh? Did I strike a nerve? Can't satisfy her, can you? Perhaps that's why she went looking elsewhere."

"There it is," Cecil said. "The real you. Rage and nothing more. That's all you have when the truth cuts too deep."

"Get out," Damian roared. "Out of my house!, never put your foot in my house again ever you are banished from this family."

Cecil didn't flinch. "You're disowning me?"

"As Lord of the House of White, I am excommunicating you. Your name will be struck from the family tree. You are no longer one of us."

"You don't have that right!"

"I have every right. Father gave it to me. He chose me. He trusted me with this house, and he will stand by my decision."

Cecil's face darkened. "You'd cast aside your own brother, who grew up by your side, for that whore of a woman you call your wife? ,You'll regret this, brother," he hissed. "Mark my words. You'll regret this."

Without another word, he stormed out of the house, the great doors slamming shut behind him.

Damian said nothing more. He watched his brother storm out into the cold night, fury and bitterness trailing behind him like a curse.

...

The silence after Cecil's departure was suffocating.

Damian remained standing, breath uneven. He turned toward the corridor—but paused. A soft sound carried through the halls. Sobbing.

Following it, he reached the doorway of a nearby room and pushed it open gently. Inside, his wife, Maria, sat on a velvet chaise, her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

"Maria," he whispered, moving to her. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have heard any of that. He was only trying to provoke me. You don't need to take his words seriously."

"I trust you completely," Damian said. "I would never believe such filth."

Maria pulled back, looking at him through tear-streaked eyes.

"Do you really mean that?"

He nodded. "Yes."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then her voice rose in fury.

"Don't lie to me!"

Damian stepped back, startled.

"I've seen the doubt in your eyes," she said, her voice trembling. "Every time you look at her—our daughter—you look at her with suspicion. You haven't touched her, not since the day she was born. Everyone in this house whispers about me—about my supposed betrayal. They call me a whore, a traitor. And you… you do nothing."

Damian looked away.

"I tried," Damian said quietly. "I tried to accept her. I truly did. But I can't. Every time I look at her…"

Maria broke down again. "I told you to use Veritaserum. I begged you to make me take an Unbreakable Vow. I offered every proof of my innocence—but you refused. Why?"

Damian's voice was barely a whisper. "Because… if I did… and you failed… I wouldn't survive it."

Damian whispered. "Let's just… say she was adopted. We found her while traveling. Let's say she's not ours. That way, no one can speak against us. Everything will return to normal—"

Maria recoiled as if struck. "So instead, you pretend. You live with me in silence and raise our daughter like a ghost. And now—now—you want to lie? To say she was adopted? To pretend she's not mine, not yours?"

"It's for her safety," he said, desperate. "If we say she's adopted, the blood rules won't apply—"

Maria slapped him.

He froze. It was the first time she had ever raised a hand to him.

"I thought you were cruel, Damian," she said through tears. "But I didn't know you were this weak. You would sacrifice her to save your own name. To protect this house. To protect your pride."

She stood, her tears falling freely now. "We did the magical blood test. She is yours. But you won't believe it because she doesn't look like you. You believe rumors over your own wife. Over your own child."

She stepped toward the door, pausing only to say, "You are not the boy I fell in love with."

And she left him, alone in the firelight.

Damian stood in silence, staring at the empty doorway.

Then, slowly, he turned toward the far corridor—the nursery. The room where his daughter slept.

His daughter.

His lips curled in bitterness.

"I wish you weren't born," he whispered. "If you hadn't been born… none of this would have happened. My wife wouldn't be mocked. My name wouldn't be questioned. Everything would've been normal. Everything would've been different."