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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"𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞."
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It's rather challenging to compose an essay when the holidays are just around the corner.
Her quill danced through the air as she scribbled hastily across the page, with inky loops and streaks uniting into some form of tangible literature—anything to finish writing about the workings of the wand and creation thereof. "A boring subject to the unkeen learner," said Professor Binns, when he announced the assessment earlier this week. Setting her quill in her inkpot, Ophelia took in a long breath. The smell of freshly cut pine and cinnamon wafted through the air of the Great Hall, filling her lungs with warmth and solace. Across the room laid a gaping hearth, ablaze with ocherous flames that licked across the torrid logs, who kindled the inimical nature of the blaze with an omitted obligation. It filled the room with warmth and dim glow, differing greatly against the snowflakes that descended from the leaden clouds, accumulating in a thin sheet above the fading castle grounds.
Turning to the left, she watched as the tiny Professor Flitwick scaled an enormous ladder, dressing the tree's virescent needles with yet another bout of crimson laurels and ribbons with a flick of his wand. There were numerous professors littered around the hall. Whether seated at the High Table grading and receiving last-minute submissions or proctoring the students clumped at the remote end of the tables, they all wore the same mirthful grin that the holidays brought around. Ophelia couldn't help but share the same sentiment. The holidays meant going home. They meant seeing her mother's bronzed face and sparkling chestnut eyes and her father's comforting embrace, with his tickling moustache. She smiled to herself, shaking her head truantly and turned back to her parchment, which was half-way filled with meaningless sentences and monotonous passages. But the ghostly professor wouldn't mind; his lectures were the same way. Scanning the last line she had scribbled, only to find herself in lack. Words had failed her altogether, leaving her stuck with an unfinished line and drying ink spots. She sighed, laying her quill down and reamed holes into the curling paper.
Turning to her satchel, she eyed the silver-wrapped package that peeked out of the supple brown leather, its ribbon bound into small loops by the nimble hands of the elderly shopkeep from which she bought it from. The gift was for Draco, one of the last few she had to give before going back home. She hadn't seen him all day, and she was worried she wouldn't be able to give the package to him before departing. But right on cue, the blonde boy burst through the doors, his platinum hair somewhat unruly and cheeks flushed with breathlessness. His eyes combed the room until they landed on Ophelia, who beckoned him over with a slight inclination of her head. He sauntered over; a festive simper spread across his face as he approached the young girl with his hands tucked behind his back.
