𝐖𝐀𝐁𝐈 - 𝐒𝐀𝐁𝐈. 𝘩𝘱

ɪɪ. ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴩᴀʀᴛɪᴇꜱ

Ophelia and Harry soon discovered Ragnuk's office, nestled in a labyrinthine corridor deep within the Goblin King's stronghold. With an air of calculated nonchalance, Ophelia adopted a blank expression, her countenance a mask of serene indifference, as she greeted the Goblin monarch.

"After conducting a meticulous examination of the inheritance papers, I chanced upon a pecuniary discrepancy of considerable magnitude," Ragnuk declared, his voice laced with an air of contrition. "Twenty thousand Galleons, ostensibly transferred from the Potter account to Molly Weasley's private account, have been frozen, pending restitution. The Goblin nation seeks to rectify this egregious error."

Ophelia and Harry responded in unison, their voices a harmonious blend of gratitude. "Thank you, Lord Ragnuk."

Ragnuk's countenance betrayed a flicker of discomfort, his eyes narrowing slightly at the eerie synchrony of their response.

Harry's gaze locked onto Ragnuk, his eyes burning with an unyielding intensity. "We wish to peruse our parents' will."

Ragnuk nodded, his movements economical and precise, as he handed them the document. "According to the testament, you were destined to reside with either the Longbottoms, the Blacks, or the Malfoys."

Ophelia's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Are any members of the Black family still extant?"

Ragnuk's response was laced with a hint of caution. "Yes, Lord Black and Walburga Black remain."

Ophelia's thoughts were a maelstrom of calculation, her mind racing with the implications. "Perfect," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

The Blacks, a family renowned for their aristocratic lineage and unwavering dedication to the Pure-blood ethos, would provide the ideal environment for their growth.

As they arrived at the Black estate, Ophelia and Harry were thrust into a world of refinement and elegance, their lives a whirlwind of Pure-blood lessons and etiquette.

February 14th, Ophelia's birthday, dawned with an air of excitement, as the Blacks prepared to host a grand ball, a tradition reserved for the rare occasion when a Pure-blood attained the age of ten.

Regulus, ever the doting guardian, escorted Ophelia and Harry on a protracted excursion to procure the perfect attire, their quest culminating in a resplendent gown of ethereal beauty.

As the days elapsed, the Black family discovered Regulus's true status, and after a series of heartfelt apologies, he agreed to take up residence within the family mansion.

The night of the ball arrived, a spectacle of unparalleled opulence, as the crème de la crème of Pure-blood society converged upon the Black estate, their presence a testament to the significance of Ophelia's milestone birthday.

...

As the diurnal cycle reached its zenith, the atmosphere within the Black estate was electric with anticipation, the very air alive with the promise of an unforgettable evening. The day of the ball had finally arrived, and the collective excitement was palpable, a symphony of suppressed glee and nervous energy.

Ophelia, resplendent in a Slytherin green dress that cascaded down her lithe form like a verdant waterfall, its hem grazing her ankles with elegant precision, stood poised before the mirror, her chocolate brown eyes sparkling like polished gemstones. A pair of black heels, their slender stilettos glinting with subtle sophistication, encased her feet, lending an aura of refined elegance to her overall demeanor.