Amelia Phelps was an anomaly-a rare Muggle-born in Slytherin, never expected her sixth year at Hogwarts to spiral into chaos. A chance encounter with a mysterious woman in a dark alley unlocked secrets she wasn't ready to face, and falling for Cedri...
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Amelia had realized that night that she, apparently and unfortunately, fancied Cedric Diggory.
Just like the rest of the girls in Hogwarts, she had fallen for The Golden Boy's charms. It was embarrassing, couldn't she have fancied someone more unexpected?
While she was on her bed last night, twisting and turning, she thought of Cedric Diggory walking her to the dungeons. She remembered the scent of his cologne and his face, and his hands, and the way he would tilt his head to the side and smile. Amelia would stare at the ceiling hopelessly like a little girl before throwing her pillow to her face to muffle her screams. Thankfully, August and her other roommates were already deep in slumber. Amelia huffed the hair that fell on her hair aggressively.
He did say he was on rounds. He was just being nice.
That is the problem. Why is he being nice?
Why can't he be arrogant. He should be an arrogant prick!
His face suddenly flashed in her mind. Amelia turned red. He was so tall, so much taller than Amelia expected. His eyes were so brown, it was hurting Amelia. She noticed how slender his fingers looked and how big his hands were, and she wondered what it felt like to hold it. It looked so soft. Cedric's face was pale but his cheeks were stained pink. His lips was pink, too and Amelia wondered what would it feel like......No! She shouldn't have thoughts like that.
It was a very confusing night for Amelia.
Amelia woke up the next morning feeling dreadful. She rolled to the side to see August sleeping on her bed, wrapped in a thick blanket, snoring lightly. There wasn't any shade of sunlight down in the dungeons, but the lighter shade of the usual green-tinge was indication that the sun had risen. Amelia sat up on her bed and watched the calm and flowing lake water outside the tall glass window. Right after her eyes had adjusted to the light, she searched for the photo of her mother. Amelia stared at her, and Anya Phelphs was staring back at her.
Anya Phelphs with eyes that were so black, it could pierce, and a smile that was so knowing, it could mean anything.
Amelia didn't know both of her parents. She only recognized her mother by the one photograph that Gran had given her, and she had the faintest idea about the existence of her father. Gran refused to talk about him.
If she was a little younger, maybe around seven or ten, she would've ached and longed for a family. A complete one, wherein everyone is not six feet below the ground. But she was seventeen now, and she was old enough not to whine at the tragedies of what is called living.
