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's stomach turned over, as though her organs had been wound too tightly inside her. Perhaps it was the sheer absence of sound that made her pulse thrum deafeningly in her ears, pinning her to the spot until she felt she might dissolve into the background altogether. Cedric had just left, and she was alone in the empty classroom. She scarcely understood why she had said what she had—let alone what had compelled her to behave that way. It was childish. Petulant, even. She was the one who had deliberately ignored Cedric for the past week—so where, precisely, did she find the nerve to speak to him like that?
"You've been ignoring me for a week, and I know you're doing it on purpose," Cedric said, matching her own frustration. "And I'm not blind, Amelia. I noticed. You think I wouldn't? And now, you're sending me a letter about the first task, and I'm left wondering where you're getting all this information. It's dangerous, Amelia. If anyone finds out you're tipping me off, you could get in serious trouble."
"Well, I'm sorry if my silence is such a shock to you. I suppose it's the first time you've ever had someone ignore you, and it's messing with your head, isn't it? All that popularity, and suddenly, someone doesn't want to play along."
Perhaps it was the way Cedric had so effortlessly steered his way into their conversation—how, despite everything, he still found it within himself to care for her well-being. Amelia detested how the simplest act of kindness from him could send her mind into a tailspin. Perhaps, no matter how hard she denied it, she felt something for him. And she wanted no part of it.
She understood. Of course, he was naturally worried—they had become friends, after all. And friends worry. It was as simple as that. He was right; if anyone discovered she had been sneaking out of the castle late at night—however unintentional it may have been—or, worse still, tipping off Champions, she'd be in an awful lot of trouble. Big, big trouble. She could be expelled.
And perhaps that was precisely where the problem lay. Amelia couldn't quite bring herself to accept that she was just a friend. There was not enough internal monologue left for her to latch onto.
Amelia Phelphs, unfortunately, knew that she was head over heels, no matter how much she tells herself to be otherwise.
Amelia let out a long, shaky breath. Her limbs, stiff with tension, finally obeyed her, and she turned sharply on her heel, heading straight for the door.
The brass handle was cool beneath her fingertips as she pulled it open. Stepping into the dimly lit corridor, she exhaled once more, quieter this time, willing herself to move forward. But the moment she eased the door shut behind her, a prickling sensation crawled up her spine.
Something was wrong.
Her gaze drifted instinctively to the far end of the hallway. And then she saw her.
A figure stood motionless in the shadows, draped in a deep red hood that swallowed her features whole. The fabric pooled over her shoulders, dark as spilled ink beneath the faint torchlight.
