Harry Potter: The Last Heiress of The White Family

After the end of the Potion class, Professor Voclain walked slowly between the rows of cauldrons, examining each one with a sharp, calculating gaze. When she reached the front of the classroom, she folded her hands and spoke in a crisp, no-nonsense voice.

"Well," she began, "I've reviewed your attempts at the Lueur Douce Potion. I must say, the results were… underwhelming. However, you are still first-years, so I shall grant some leniency. But be warned—I expect nothing less than perfection by the end of this school year. Anything short of that, and you will fail."

A murmur of nervous whispers spread through the class.

"As for your assignment ," she continued, "you will remake this potion at least three times over the course of the next week. Bring your finished samples to the next class. And let me be clear—don't try to be clever. I'll know whether you brewed it yourself or begged help from a seventh-year. I'm already quite aware of your individual skill levels."

With that, she gave a brisk nod and swept her cloak around before retreating to her desk. The students rose and began filing out of the classroom. Eira gathered her things and exited alongside Marin, who practically bounced with excitement.

"You look way too happy for someone who just got threatened with failure and talked with professor the whole time ," Eira said, raising an eyebrow as they stepped into the corridor.

Marin gave her a smug grin. "Please, the Lueur Douce is child's play. I had it under control. I was just chatting with the professor to double-check a few technique details."

"Hmm," Eira said, feigning doubt. "Didn't expect you to be good at Potions."

Marin gasped dramatically. "Excuse me! Did you think I was some talentless little toad? I've practically lived in a bookshop my whole life. Of course I study."

Eira smirked. "Book-reading is one thing. Potion-making is something else entirely."

"Well, actually," Marin said, puffing up a little, "my mother taught me the basics ages ago. I have loads of rare flowers at home that require delicate care—and potions are a part of that. I used to watch her brew them. She did the wandwork, obviously, but I learned through observation. Like how some girls learn to cook watching their mothers? That was me—except it was bubbling cauldrons and precise infusions."

"Your mother sounds… pretty chill to let you learn that young."

Marin rolled his eyes. "Grumpy as a troll on a diet, but brilliant."

They were walking back toward the Ombrelune Hall when someone called out loudly across the corridor, "Who is Eira White?"

Eira turned, blinking. A tall, older student wearing the prefect badge stood near the archway, scanning the students.

"I'm Eira White," she said, stepping forward. "Why?"

"The Headmistress has requested your presence in her office," the boy replied. "Please come with me."

Marin frowned, clearly reluctant to let her go. "Want me to come—?"

"I'll be fine," Eira said, offering a reassuring smile. "I'll see you tomorrow class I guess."

The prefect led her back through the winding corridors of the Château, up grand staircases and past balconies bathed in warm sunlight. At last, they stepped out onto the very roof of the building. To Eira's astonishment, it was not just an open space—but a hidden garden in full bloom.

The rooftop garden was enchanting, with winding stone paths, clusters of flowering trees, and a crystalline stream running in a perfect circle. Birds fluttered in the branches above, and butterflies danced on the breeze. In the center of it all stood a large circular room covered in ivy and blooming roses, its dome-like roof framed with shimmering stained glass.

The prefect knocked on the flower-covered door. A soft, accented voice responded from inside, "Entrez."

They stepped in. Eira's breath caught slightly.

The Headmistress's office was more splendid than anything she had expected. The ceiling was enchanted to mimic the sky above, and soft golden light filtered through hanging crystals. The walls were lined with shelves of elegant books and trophies. Moving portraits of past headmistresses nodded politely at her as she passed.

At the far end of the room, seated behind a curved desk carved from white oak and decorated with mother-of-pearl inlays, was Madame Maxime.

She was tall—regal even as she sipped tea from a delicate porcelain cup, steam rising gently from its lavender-colored contents.

"The student you requested, Madame Maxime," the prefect said politely.

"Merci," she replied with a nod, and the boy bowed out of the room.

Eira curtsied gracefully. "Thank you for inviting me, Headmistress."

"Oh, just call me Madame Maxime," she said, waving her hand with a kind smile. "I much prefer the way Dumbledore does things—less formality between student and headmaster. Makes everything more comfortable, non?"

Eira nodded. "Of course, Madame Maxime."

The Headmistress leaned back, setting her cup down. "I was rather surprised when Elijah told me you would be attending Beauxbatons. Your father studied here too, of course—but only for his final two years. I didn't expect the next generation quite so soon."

Eira offered a polite smile. "Grandfather said that since I've been named the heiress early, it would be good to begin my education here—to understand France better, for the future of our family's business."

Madame Maxime nodded in approval. "Yes, yes… quite right. Every White heir has studied here at one time or another. But I must say—how lovely to have a young lady this time. It's been decades."

She paused, studying Eira thoughtfully. "And how was your first class? Potions, wasn't it?"

"It was excellent," Eira replied sincerely. "The atmosphere here is very encouraging. I've already learned quite a bit."

"Good. I'm pleased to hear it." Maxime's eyes twinkled. "Now, I asked you here for a reason beyond introductions. Your grandfather mentioned that your family is to renew some ties with another old house—one we've long had business with. The daughter of that house is also studying here, and I thought it only right the two of you meet."

Before Eira could respond, there was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in," Madame Maxime called.

The door opened—and in stepped the same girl Eira had seen that morning in the bathhouse. Her silver hair shimmered like liquid starlight, and her pale blue eyes held a calm, mysterious glow. A faint scent of roses and rain seemed to trail her as she walked.

Eira blinked.

It was her. 

The Veela girl that she saw at the bathhouse Today .