'Cause she can see right through you

✩₊˚.⋆☾╶⃝⃤☽⋆⁺₊✧

𝔸 deep rumble echoed through the stone walls of the castle, low and growling like a beast stirring from its slumber. The sound rolled over the grounds, vibrating through the air before fading into a tense silence. Moments later, a jagged flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the towering spires and casting flickering shadows across the castle's weathered facade.

The rain followed soon after, beginning with a soft pattering that quickly grew into a relentless downpour. Droplets hammered against the stained-glass windows, cascading in rivulets down the panes and pooling on the stone ledges. Outside, the grounds transformed as the once-solid earth turned into slick, glistening mud, and the trees in the Forbidden Forest swayed violently under the assault of the storm.

The castle seemed to groan under the weight of the tempest. The wind howled through every crack and crevice, finding its way into the drafty corridors and rattling the tapestries that hung on the walls. Students paused in their conversations, momentarily glancing toward the windows as another crack of thunder roared through the air, louder this time, shaking the very floors beneath their feet. Within the Great Hall, the enchanted ceiling mirrored the chaos outside. Dark clouds churned ominously, illuminated by fleeting streaks of lightning, while heavy droplets of rain appeared to fall, vanishing just before they reached the enchanted candles floating above the long tables. The storm's presence was inescapable, its power a reminder of the untamed world beyond the castle's protective walls.

The trio ascended the winding staircase, their steps echoing faintly in the corridor. Ron, hands stuffed into his pockets, glanced at Harry and Ophelia. "Have you spoken to Hermes?" he asked, his voice tinged with both amusement and concern. Harry shook his head slightly, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "He should be out of the hospital in a few days," he replied, pushing his glasses up his nose. "When he stops coughing up fur balls."

Ophelia chuckled softly, though her gaze was distant, as if her mind was preoccupied. The group continued climbing until Harry stopped abruptly, pointing at the ground ahead. "What's this?" he asked, frowning.

The three of them stared at a water trail snaking across the floor, glistening under the flickering torchlight. Without another word, they broke into a brisk run, following the trail as it led them down the corridor. The sound of running water grew louder, almost deafening, as they rounded the corner. "Yuck!" Ron exclaimed, recoiling slightly as they approached the source of the commotion. "Looks like Moaning Myrtle's flooded the bathroom again."

They hesitated for a moment before stepping into the girls' bathroom. Water gushed furiously from every tap, spilling over the sinks and pooling on the tiled floor. The air was thick with humidity, and the sound of water slapping against the stone was almost hypnotic. By the window sat Moaning Myrtle, her translucent form hunched over as she whined to herself.

"Come to throw something else at me?" Myrtle snapped, her voice echoing shrilly as she glared at the trio. Her ghostly presence made the atmosphere even more surreal.

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, exchanging a quick glance with Harry and Ron. "Why would we throw something at you?" she asked, her tone laced with genuine curiosity.

Myrtle's expression twisted into a mix of indignation and despair. "Don't ask me!" she wailed dramatically. "Here I am, minding my own business..." She floated off her perch, gesturing wildly, her ghostly robes billowing. "And someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me!"

Ron furrowed his brow, his confusion evident. "But it can't hurt if someone throws something at you," he said, shrugging. "I mean, it'll just go right through you."

The room seemed to vibrate with Myrtle's outrage as she shot toward Ron, her translucent face mere inches from his. "Sure! Let's all throw books at Myrtle because she can't feel it!" she shouted angrily, her voice reaching a shrill pitch. "Ten points if you get it through her stomach!" She jabbed her hand through Ron's midsection, making him flinch instinctively, though it passed harmlessly through. "Fifty points if it goes through her head!" She repeated the motion, her arm slicing through his head, leaving Ron sputtering and stepping back.

"Myrtle, calm down," Harry interjected, stepping forward cautiously. "But... who threw it at you, anyway?"

Myrtle sniffled, her demeanor softening slightly as she hovered in place. "I don't know," she said, her voice quieter now. "I didn't see them. I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death... and it fell through the top of my head."

Her whining grew louder as she drifted upward and disappeared through the ceiling, leaving the trio alone in the flooded bathroom. Ron muttered something under his breath about ghosts being impossible to understand, but Ophelia wasn't listening. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, catching sight of Harry as he bent down to pick up something from the soaked floor.

It was a small, black book, its cover gleaming slightly from the water. Ophelia tilted her head, watching as Harry examined it with growing curiosity. While he was distracted, she moved to the sinks, turning off the taps one by one. The roaring sound of running water subsided, leaving an eerie quiet in its wake.

"What's so special about it?" Ron asked, peering over Harry's shoulder.

Harry frowned, flipping the book in his hands. "It doesn't have a title," he murmured, his curiosity piqued. He opened it carefully, revealing blank pages that seemed to shimmer faintly under the dim light.

Ophelia leaned closer, her gaze narrowing. "A blank book?" she mused, her voice thoughtful. "That's strange. Who floods a bathroom just to throw a book around?"

Her mind buzzed with questions, and a faint sense of unease prickled at her. Something about the situation felt off—like they'd stumbled upon a puzzle, and this small, unassuming book was the first piece.

𓆙

The castle was quiet, the halls shrouded in shadows as the night deepened. In the common room, the crackling of the fire filled the silence, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room. Ophelia sat curled up on the couch, wrapped in her nightwear—a soft, oversized jumper and cozy socks that didn't match. The contrast of the firelight against her silver hair  gave her an ethereal glow, though her face was set in an expression of mild irritation.

In her lap lay Grim, her baby Niffler, a mischievous creature now unusually serene as he snoozed, his tiny paws twitching in a dream. His little body rose and fell with each soft breath, and Ophelia gently ran her fingers over his fur, a rare tenderness in her touch.

Her other hand held a stack of letters—letters she had dreaded reading but forced herself to endure. They were from her father, written in a formal, precise hand. As her eyes skimmed over the carefully chosen words, her expression darkened. The letters were heavy with expectations, reminders of duty, and a relentless focus on her family legacy. The words felt cold and distant, like a stranger trying to mold her into something she wasn't.

"Legacy," she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with mockery. "As if that's all I am."

She rolled her eyes, folding the letter sharply before tossing it onto the couch beside her. Another followed, and then another, each one filled with the same heavy-handed rhetoric. Ophelia leaned back, exhaling in frustration, her free hand resting protectively over Grim. "Honestly," she muttered, "you'd think he was running a company, not raising a daughter."

The last letter lingered in her hand for a moment longer than the others. She stared at it, the firelight catching the edges, making it glow faintly. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she read the closing words: Remember who you are, Ophelia. You carry the weight of our name.

She let out a dry laugh, low and unamused. Without a second thought, she stood and strode to the fireplace. Grim stirred in her arms but didn't wake as she gently adjusted him. With a flick of her wrist, the letters fluttered into the flames, the paper curling and blackening as they were consumed. She watched them burn, a sense of defiance flickering in her chest as brightly as the fire.

Satisfied, she cradled Grim close, his little body warm and comforting against her. "Come on, troublemaker," she whispered with a small smile. "Time for bed."

She turned and ascended the stairs to her dormitory, her steps soft against the stone floor. As she reached her bed, the room bathed in moonlight, she laid Grim gently on the pillow beside her, watching as he nestled into the fabric with a contented sigh. Sliding under the covers, Ophelia stared at the canopy overhead, her mind briefly drifting back to the letters and the life she was expected to lead before closing her eyes and welcoming darkness. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾╶⃝⃤☽⋆⁺₊✧

By: SilverMist707

<3 <3