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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"Explain."
"Ophelia, you must calm down—" Dumbledore's voice was firm, but to Ophelia, it felt like a slap in the face... Calm down.
"Calm down? Calm down!?" She snapped, her voice cracking with raw emotion. The air around her seemed to tremble, and suddenly, with a burst of uncontrolled magic, Dumbledore's desk caught fire. It was a small blaze, but the flames danced wildly, reflecting the turmoil within her. She could see the concern in Dumbledore's eyes, but she didn't care. Not anymore.
"Please, tell me how I'm supposed to calm down when I've just found out that everyone I love has lied to me AGAIN, that you put Harry through hell, AGAIN, by making him compete in these bloody games, and you've put my life at risk, AGAIN, by not telling me the truth!"
"Ophelia, we didn't know." Dumbledore's voice softened, as if he were trying to soothe a wild animal. "I suspected it during the second challenge, but I wasn't certain of anything yet—until tonight."
They were in his office... Harry, Dumbledore, Minerva, Snape, and Ophelia. The room was thick with tension, the silence heavy and suffocating. Ophelia had forced them into this conversation as soon as Snape had returned. She needed answers, and she needed them now.
"Why? Why are we connected?" Ophelia demanded, her voice trembling with desperation.
"I'm not certain as to why—"
"Don't lie to me!" Her voice was a raw scream, echoing off the walls. "You must know why or at least have a suspicion."
"I do have a theory..." Dumbledore admitted, his voice heavy with the weight of the truth he was about to reveal. "The night your parents were murdered. You and Harry shared the impact of powerful dark magic and survived. Surviving such an attack is bound to leave a mark."
"My scar..." Harry murmured, his hand reaching up to touch the familiar lightning bolt on his forehead. "But Ophelia—she doesn't have a scar."
"Ophelia has many scars," Minerva said softly, her voice tinged with sorrow. It was true; Ophelia had many faded scars all over her body, each one a testament to the pain she had endured at the hands of her Muggle guardian.
"Yes, the ones 'Man' gave me—"
"Except for one... that scar on the left side of your chest. The one that always used to bother you when you were a girl." Snape's voice was low, almost gentle, as he spoke. It was an odd contrast to his usual demeanor, and Ophelia felt a pang of something— nostalgia? Sadness?—as she remembered.
"You used to wake up from your nightmares, scratching at that scar," Snape continued, his voice carrying a hint of something old and bitter as he thought back to those countless nights. "Do you remember?"
"I do... that's why you had to teach me how to clean cuts." Ophelia's hand instinctively moved to her chest, covering the scar. "You used to heal it every time I scratched at it," she whispered. "But it looks nothing like Harry's—"
