The Barrows. Another pureblood family from the long lines of Slytherin ancestry. It's 1991, and Elmira and Clyde Barrows' daughter's first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has arrived.
The Wizarding World is not safe to our young O...
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"𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫,"
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
One month, two days, nine hours, and fifty-seven minutes until she boarded that train. One month, two days, nine hours, and fifty-seven minutes until she started the journey of a lifetime. She felt giddy, like a time-bomb on the brink of combustion.
"Phelie, darling. It's time to go!" Her father called. Ophelia turned away from her closet, a black collared jacket in tow.
"Coming, papa!" She called. Taking one last look at her room, she closed the door and made her way down the hall. Numerous portraits and paintings of her family and distant relatives hung on the walls, all framed inside plenitudes of pine and aspen trims and marked with nameplates and dates—most of the time of deaths. The pictures gradually shifted from grayscale to an abundance of color, the most prominent being green—typical Slytherins. Ophelia smiled softly, the ends of her lips furling upwards as she gazed over her grandmother's photo. She wore a big-brimmed hat, cloaked in velvets and satins in shades of violet and azure that blew in the wind. It was a photo of her and her late grandfather, at least, she suspected so. He disappeared when Ophelia was born, leaving no trace of his whereabouts behind. She stared into his unfaltering eyes, looking into her very soul, encroaching upon her inner thoughts and deep into her mind. The top of her mouth became clammy, her tongue drying up as she tried so hard to swallow again, pinching her eyes shut as her throat closed up.
"Ophelia?" A voice called. Ophelia's eyes shot open, staring over at the staircase, where her mother stood with querying gazes. Her raven hair was pulled back into a low bun, not a single frizz in sight. Her hands twiddled in her snake-skin gloves, creasing, and un-creasing as she twisted her fingers around.
"Are you all right?" She took another step up, inclining towards her distressed daughter. Ophelia shook her head, bringing a hand to the side of her face.
"Yes, mama. Sorry." She nodded her head, taking one last look at the photo before making her way downstairs. Her father was at the door, wand in hand, and poking through his billfold. He tucked it away in his pocket before making eye contact with Ophelia. He smiled, creasing the skin at the corners of his down-turned eyes.
"Come, my dear. We must hurry, or everything will be gone by then!" He exclaimed, practically dragging his daughter by the hand to the foyer. Ophelia giggled, holding out a hand for her mother to grab. And with a flick of her father's wand, they vanished into thin air.
