starcrossed no-voldemort au
'The European Love Affair'
The Triwizard Tournament is a stage, but they are the performance.
Ophelia Evans-Potter with bloody curls akin to spilled wine catching fire beneath the stadium lights, and those beautifully haunting unforgivable green eyes of hers that
Ophiuchus Lestrange had dark curls that feel perfectly over his sterling grey eyes that saw too much, and felt too little except when she stood too near.
They hate each other, everyone says.
The pair duel like devouring stars, casting curses that sing through the air, spells spun like poetry between clenched teeth. Yet when the world isn’t looking—when the crowd’s roar turns distant—their hearts beats as one.
They spat venom in daylight—words like firecrackers, laughter tinged with poison—but nobody heard the way he whispered her name with worship. In late hours of the night, when the castle sighs with old stone breaths, they find each other in places where no champions should tread—her fingertips tracing constellations on his skin, his breath catching like a story unfinished. Their midnight trysts beneath ivy-laced arches, where secrets tasted sweeter in stolen kisses.
The world saw enemies, but one guessed the truth—their war was an old love-song, played backward, hearts bruised and beautiful beneath the ruin.
