Ophelia Black is the daughter of notorious killer Sirius Black. Ophelia's mother Portia Black (a veela) died with her friends Lily and James Potter and so did Ophelia... atleats that's what the world thought.
Follow along with Ophelia as she ventur...
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"Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Bloody—Oh, what are those? What are those?!" Ron yelled as Harry walked into view.
"My dress robes?" I replied, not knowing how else to justify myself against his accusing tone.
"Well, they're all right! No lace. No dodgy little collar," Ron muttered as he fumbled with his... vintage dress robes? If you could even call them that.
"Well, I expect yours are more traditional." I tried to make them seem better, but there really wasn't much I could do.
"Traditional?! They're ancient! I look like my Great Aunt Tessie! I smell like my Great Aunt Tessie."
"It's really fine, Ron. Honestly. I'm sure you won't be the worst-dressed there." We started making our way down to the ball.
"No, you're right. Mum was talking about having to give Ophelia some old hand-me-downs after she gave money to Ginny. She went on and on about how she would fix it so that it looked nice, but man... I saw the old thing, and there's only so much magic can do..." As we kept walking, I couldn't help but think that even in a trash bag, Ophelia would still be the most beautiful girl there. She didn't need a fancy dress for that.
"Poor kid. I bet she's alone in her room, crying her eyes out."
"Who? Ophelia?"
"Hermione, of course," Ron clarified. We were now at the entrance of the hall, in front of the stairs, waiting for our dates. "Come on, Harry, why do you think she wouldn't tell us who she's coming with?"
"Because we'd take the mickey out of her if she did," I muttered. Ron could really be pigheaded sometimes.
"Nobody asked her," he said as if he had cracked some code. "I would've taken her myself if she wasn't so bloody proud."
"There you are, Potter. Are you and Miss Chang ready?"
"Uh—Cho hasn't shown up yet. Ready, Professor?"
"To dance. It's traditional that the three champions—well, in this case, four—are the first to dance... Surely I told you that."
"No." My eyes went wide. I do not dance. Not ever. Not willingly.
"Well, now you know. As for you, Mr. Weasley, you may proceed into the Great—oh my..." McGonagall's eyes suddenly watered as she raised a hand to her mouth. She was looking at something behind us. "She looks just like her mother... my darling girl. If only Portia could see her now."
Ron and I turned around to see what had gotten McGonagall so emotional. And all I can say is that her reaction was not exaggerated.
I was instantly captivated, my heart frozen as our eyes locked. My star. She outshone everything else. Her beauty transcended mere words, resembling an exquisite Monet painting, the ones she so admires and rambles on about. Every detail meticulously crafted—every brushstroke, color, line, and curve a masterpiece of divine artistry. She must have been his muse, because the resemblance was uncanny.
