Ophelia Frump - Tumblr Posts

Sisters Frump

Twinsieees! (but not really). I do feel that Morticia is the eldest, their mother just dressed them the same as children. And maybe their habit to match or coordinate outfits would persist for some time.

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙬𝙤: 𝙊𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙖 𝙁𝙧𝙪𝙢𝙥

Harry had everything packed and ready for his trip to England. He checked and double-checked his trunk to make sure he had everything, and placed his travelers’ ID he received from MACUSA in his suit jacket he was to wear tomorrow.

Everything was in order. He had a port key scheduled for 10:30 AM, and was to meet his dear Aunt Ophelia at the British Ministry of Magic. Then after that, together they would go get his supplies for his first year at Hogwarts. Apparently, Aunt Ophelia was excited to see her nephew again and reassured Harry that her eldest daughter was in her second year at Hogwarts, so he wouldn’t be alone.

It amused Harry to no end that his mother’s twin was so different, though she looked the same. They were two sides of the same coin.

“Harry?”

Wednesday stood in the doorway of his room, clutching her doll. He looked at his sister with his cold green eyes and patted the space on the bed next to him. She scrambled in and sat down. Wednesday’s hair was loose and in waves and she wore her long black nightgown. She looked up at Harry and he noticed that his little sister’s eyes were red and tears flowed down her corpse-like cheeks.

“What’s wrong, little spider?” asked Harry. He gave her a concerned look and watched as her bottom lip quivered. “I don’t want you to go,” she whispered. Harry brought his arms around her and held her close as she sobbed into his shoulder. “I-I don-don’t want you to-to go,” she hiccupped. This was the first time Harry had seen her cry and let out so many emotions. His usual level-headed sister, who thought emotions were a weakness and tried her best to remain as cold and distant as possible — broke in front of him.

“Oh Wednesday,” He rocked her back and forth, trying to provide comfort to his beloved sister. “I wish I could stay. I wish I could stay here and play headless dollhouse and show you all the ways to psychologically torture someone. But I can’t,” she looked up, sniffling. “Why not?”

“Because,” he sighed. “Because I need to practice and perfect my magic skills. I also wish to see the school that Mother attended when she was a girl,” he explained. Wednesday nodded her head, sadly. “One day you’ll understand that some decisions have to be your own and you must choose your own path.” Harry kissed the top of her head.

“But you’ll be home for Yule, right?” she asked, hope in her eyes. He nodded his head. “Of course, little spider. How could I miss out on Grandmama’s Chocolate death and Mother’s Yule cake?” She laughed as he tickled her, making her smile of death appear on her face.  “You promise to write to me and tell me all your adventures?”  “I promise.” Wednesday flicked Harry on the nose and scrambled off his bed.

“Night, Harry,” she bid. “Night Wednesday. I hope you’ll have pleasant nightmares.” She gave him a smirk and returned it with his own. He surely was going to miss his little sister and her antics.

•••★•••

Harry waited patiently for his aunt to show up. The office of the Department of Magical Transportation was spacious, yet it felt suffocating. The two Aurors were stiff and didn’t engage in small talk — which Harry was grateful for—and stood in silence. He didn’t mind the stiff nature of the Aurors, but he did mind when their eyes kept flip-flopping between staring at him or the door.

Every time their eyes landed on him, he knew they were staring at the scars that marred his forehead and ran down his left brow and down his cheek. It was something he’d always had as a child, this scar, and he wasn’t at the slightest self-conscious about it. He was used to no-magic staring at him and his scar, always wondering what happened to him and always thinking it happened because his family was the Addames.

Harry didn’t care what they thought in their small minds, but these “Aurors” kept staring at it like it meant something to them. As if they wished they had the scar on their face. It made him want to deploy a smoke bomb and slip out and wait for his aunt at the Atrium in this Ministry.

Finally, after throwing glares at the Aurors, the door opened and an exact replica of his mother walked in. However, she wasn’t wearing her long black dress, or had sharp dipped red nails, or even blood-red lips. No. She was wearing a yellow sundress with white polka dots littering the fabric. Her hair was black but was up in an elegant twist on her head, and she wore white pumps on her feet. Behind her was a young girl with the same black hair as Harry’s own sister, but instead of wearing a scowl, she wore a small smile and wore a light green skirt with a white oxford button-down short-sleeve and had black mary-janes on her feet.

Aunt Ophelia’s eyes were bright, making her black eyes seem like a dark brown, and she smiled prettily at the Aurors and Harry.

“Beloved nephew!!” She pulled Harry into a hug and his body immediately stiffened up. He didn’t like hugs unless he was the one to initiate them. In fact, he didn’t really like to be touched and would rather prefer to keep a distance. Aunt Ophelia pulled back and patted his face, smiling at him. “How good it is to see you! You’ve grown!” Her eyes traveled down the length of his body, inspecting his growth. He was tall for his age, he’s been told that many times. But he was also very lanky.

“Aunt,” he greeted, after realizing his aunt was waiting for him to greet her. She smiled even wider — if that was even possible — before turning to speak with the Aurors. The young girl behind his aunt gave him a shy smile and wave.

“Hello, I’m Beatrice, your cousin.'' She had a quiet demeanor and Harry liked that. Perhaps she would be the tolerable one in his aunt’s children. “I’m Harry,” he said, quickly and quietly.  “I know. I think everyone knows who you are.” Harry gave her an odd look. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” she blushed, her fingers started trembling, and she started making weird patterns on her skirt. “What I mean is that, your scar. Everyone knows who you are because of your scar.” She pointed her index finger at his forehead.

Harry was still confused but was saved by his aunt before he asked his cousin another question.

“Come darlings, let’s get going. We have to shop for both yours and Beatrice's Hogwarts supplies.” Harry shook his head. “What about my trunks?” He asked, pointing to the trunks piled up. Ophelia smiled at him and chuckled.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve scheduled a few Aurors to take your trunks to my place. I’ve also asked them to place some more protective charms around the property and house. That way, we won’t have any paparazzi or wizards trying to break in and see you, my famous nephew.”

Harry tried to speak, but was interrupted by Ophelia once more. “Now, come along. We must get going if we’re to beat the noon rush. I’d really hate to get stuck in Madam Malkins for hours. That place is terribly dull.”

She ushered her nephew and daughter out of the office and they made their way to the lift/elevator and she pressed a button before a lady spoke in the overhead and they were off.

~~~~

Next Chapter

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚: 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣 𝘼𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮

London was busy—but Wizarding London was even worse. While the no-magics sometimes stared and looked at his scar, they were not like the wizards and witches of the magical world.

They bowed and shook Harry’s hand, claiming it was a joy to meet “The Boy Who Lived” and were offering him discounts and offers to their shops if he ever needed something. Children pointed and shoved when they saw him walking with his aunt and cousin, whispering and shouting his name.

“Harry Potter?”

“That’s the Harry Potter?”

“Harry Potter, look at his scar!!”

Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that. Fingers were pointed in his direction and he was glaring at every one of them. He wished he could’ve taken Kitty and maybe let him have a fingery snack or two.

All while this was going on, his aunt greeted each wizard with kindness and a polite smile. Something unlike his mother. His mother would’ve glared and spat in their faces while holding an aura of sophistication and superiority over them. His father would’ve stood in front of him, glaring at the wizard folk, calling them names in Italian.

“Harry, darling, this way,” Aunt Ophelia held Harry’s pale hand in her tanned one, leading him through the pub he rathered liked (the dark and damp aesthetic of the pub spoke to him and reminded him of home) out the back where a large and tall brick wall stood. Harry gave his aunt a curious look.

“Dearest Aunt, I don’t mean to be rude, but why are we here?” Ophelia giggled behind her hand and shook her head. “Watch my dear.” She whipped her wand and tapped the tip to certain bricks. Harry’s green eyes widened in shock as the wall shifted and opened, revealing a long cobblestone alley with shops lining both sides of the streets.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley, Harry dear,” Ophelia smirked at her nephew and he smirked back at her, pleased to see this magic. The three family members walked down the cobblestone pathway as Ophelia led them to a tall, marbled building.

“Gringotts, the wizarding bank,” whispered Beatrice. Her eyes held a mischievous glint as she studied Harry’s reaction to the building.

Aunt Ophelia stopped, turned her head, and smirked at Harry. Her eyes held a glint of excitement, and Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Nephew, Bea darling, why don’t you two go wait for me in Flourish and Blotts? That way, we can get your books first and get that out of the way, dear. Oh, and you’re welcome to look around, and if you see anything you’d like, let me know. I do love to spoil my family.” She smiled at Beatrice and Harry before she disappeared into the marble building.

“Come, Harry, I’ll show you the way. Do you like to read?” Beatrice slipped her hand into Harry’s cold porcelain one, tugging him in the direction of what he’d assumed was the store his aunt talked about. Grimacing at the touch of his cousin, he recoiled away from her and dusted his hand on his trousers.

“Yes, I do. Though I’d hardly think this bookstore will have the certain titles, I particularly enjoy.” He frowned, shaking his head. When he did read, he read books about war, certain weapons of different time periods, and medieval torture devices. Sometimes he picked up a fiction title at the local library here and there, but he never enjoyed all the happiness and love that oozed off the pages.

“Oh, that’s sad. But let’s hope they will, shall we?” Beatrice gave him a smile and together they weaved through the crowd. The cousins ignored the gasps and whispers that followed young Harry. Witches and Wizards spoke behind their hands, leaning into each other, trying to point out or make out his scar. It sent Harry on edge. He wished to scoop out their eyeballs and feed them to a dragon, yet his mother’s voice echoed in his head.

“Remember, dear spider, we do not commit murder in front of witnesses; that sets you up for failure. In order to get away with it, you must lure them to a secluded place where no one can hear or see them. Talk to your father about the murder of his dreadful cousin. That’s how we met, you know, He was still a suspect. But he was able to be cleared of all suspensions. Yes, your father was rather cleaver in his murder of his Cousin Alberto.”

Biting his cheek, Harry breathed deeply before he stuffed the instinct to kill deep down, locking it in its box. He threw away the key and made sure to lock the doors where he kept his urge.

He sighed and allowed Beatrice to pull him into the bookshop.

The shop was… cozy. It had bright colors; reds, oranges, yellows, deep purple armchairs, mahogany bookshelves, and a spiral staircase that led to a loft with a railing. Signs hung from the ceiling.

“Wizard Fiction,”

“Hogwarts Material,”

“Arcane & Unusual,”

“Little Wixen Fiction,”

“Muggle Works,”

“Creatures & More,”

“Witches Tea & Books Bookclub: this way,”

“Book signings every month!”

Young and old witches and wizards occupied the space, combing through the shelves, while others spoke in whispers. Somewhere in the back of the shop came a soft lull of music, and the sound of a fireplace crackled and popped, giving the shop an atmosphere.

Harry’s green eyes took in everything. He raised an eyebrow, quizzically, as his cousin pulled him towards the staircase.

“Up here is where our Hogwarts books are. They should have everything on our list. If not, we could go to Obscurus Books or Charlus’s Tomes & Scrolls, they’re second-hand bookstores.” Beatrice smiles softly. “Mum likes to go to them every now and then, she says buying second-hand books is like purchasing souls. Each book has a unique character—it’s been places, has seen things, has aged and withered and has seen life. It’s almost like a person or a soul.” Harry nods his head in understanding. He could see what his aunt meant. Souls were precious things. As a person ages and explores; they see the world and experience certain situations—they take in and remember. Learning from their lives and others.

“I quite agree, Beatrice,” Harry mutters to his cousin. Together, the cousins walked up the spiral staircase, pulling out their letters of acceptance from Hogwarts where their list of supplies was located.

“The first year section is right there Harry.” Beatrice pointed a finger towards the back wall. “The second year–” she pointed to a section near the first year. “Is right there. If you need help, just ask me, okay?” Harry nodded his head. He watched as his cousin's dark hair disappeared between the stacks before he turned his attention towards his list.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

When Harry received his letter of acceptance, it was the first time he realized that this was the first time his name did not contain his adopted surname. Addams was not attached to his biological surname of Potter. There was no indication that he was an Addams. He was reduced to the name of his birth. The name of his father and grandfather he never met. Though Harry knew of his adoption and his true family and their demise; he’d grown used to seeing his name with the addition of Addams. It was the name of the family that raised him, who helped him tie his bow tie, who showed him how to use his toy guillotine (without child-proof of course), who showed him the art of dueling, who showed him how to be an Addams. He was a Potter, but he was also an Addams. And seeing his name without it made something in him crack. What was it? He did not know. Only he hated seeing his name so bare.

So cold.

So unfeeling.

He disliked emotions but seeing his name disconnected from his beloved family he loved and would kill for made the viper in him uneasy.

He wanted to strike.

“Mother, come on, let's go!! I want to go see the latest broom!” A sickening high pitch voice interrupted young Harry’s thoughts, making the boy look up, a glare in his emerald green eyes. He watched as a boy with straw hair pulled his mother down the stairs, yelling all the way down about the sport of Quidditch.

Harry growled and rolled his eyes at the boy with no manners. How was it that mothers raised such unruly and loud children? His mother would be displeased. No. His Grandmama and Aunty Selma would have a right old fit, learning of the lack of manners. Thank goodness his dear Aunty was away in Italy, staying in one of the Addamses estates with her newest boyfriend. How the old bat could still hook up with men Harry had no clue. She was a scary woman who clearly stopped aging when she was in her late thirties (Harry once asked when his parents them visited for Yule and his Aunty told him she bathed in the blood of virgins and drank a concoction that stopped her body from aging—apparently it was an old ritual within the Addams family—and she simply gave him a smirk before she continued speaking with her sister, Aunt Greta Hyde.) and wore an eyepatch. She knew how to dance the mazurka since she was a toddler and took her first heart when she was barely Harry’s age. Yes, she was a very scary woman to cross.

Tearing his eyes away from the rude boy, Harry looked back at his letter and skimmed down to where his supplies were listed.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)

by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic

by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory

by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration

by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi

by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions

by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection

by Quentin Trimble

Harry walked through the section, keeping an eye open for any of the titles on his letter. As he browsed, finding Magical Drafts and Potions and A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, he found curious titles he’d thought were interesting. Picking up Hogwarts: A History, he skimmed through the book. Smiling to himself, he placed it onto his pile. He also grabbed a few other titles about the Wizarding World of Britain and its history. If he was to go to school here, he must adapt and be educated as much as possible. Smirking, he walked over to the fiction area of the first-year section. Perhaps he could buy a few wizarding novels for his sister? As long as it was dark as possible, of course. Dear Wednesday could not stand a happily ever-after.

As he thought about his little sister, Harry didn’t see where he was going until it was too late.

His shoe caught on something that made an “Ouch!” before he tumbled down to the floor. Books were scattered, his glasses tumbled off his face, and his chin made contact with the hardwood floors. He groaned, feeling the throbbing pain spread through his face.

“Oh, Merlin! I’m so sorry!” said a small, timid voice. Harry opened his eyes and blinked repeatedly. His vision was blurry, but what he could make out was a small figure picking up the books that fell from his arms. He could tell it was a girl as she continued to ramble her apologies and tried to tell Harry her story and as to why he couldn’t see her, all while she stacked up the books into a pile. Harry groaned and rubbed his head.

“Again, I’m so sorry. I thought I was out of the way, truly I did! I feel so terrible that I tripped you. Oh! Your glasses, right.” She scrambled over to where his glasses fell as Harry stood up, rubbing his chin. “Here you are, all fixed!” She practically shoved the frames into Harry’s hands. Harry placed them back on and his eyes adjusted to his prescription. Relieved that he could see once again, he narrowed his eyes at the girl standing before him.

Green met silver.

Her eyes were wide, full of fear and recognition. The silver pools flickered to the scar before flicking back to his narrowed eyes. She was scared, yet curious. He noticed her hands were twitching at her sides, her bottom lip was pulled in between her teeth, and loose strands of hair framed her face.

“I—I—I,” She tore her eyes away from Harry, focusing on her mary-jane shoes as if she found those more interesting than him. He glared.

“(Y/n!) let's go!” The girl turned her head towards the spiral staircase, obviously noting the urgency in the voice that called her name. She whimpered before looking back towards Harry. She took a deep breath.

“Again, I’m sorry. I …” She shook her head before striding to the staircase, leaving Harry to glare at the place where she once stood, stuttering and whimpering.

“You okay Harry?” Harry turned to look behind him. Beatrice walked up to him, carrying her own stack of books. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He picked up his pile of books and together they walked down the staircase, forgetting the book he wanted to pick up for Wednesday. As they walked up to the front desk, Aunt Ophelia walked in carrying a yellow pouch with embroidered daisies with what Harry assumed were her initials: O.B.H.

“Harry dear, did you find all your books you needed?” she asked sweetly. She still wore the obnoxious smile that Harry never saw on his own mother’s face. Reminding him once again, though they might look the same, they were not. He felt a stab in his heart.

“Yes, Aunt Ophelia.” She nodded her head, pleased, before she spoke with the witch behind the counter. It seemed the overweight witch knew who he was and quickly whispered frantically with his aunt until Ophelia gave her an extra galleon as a way to silence her about their visit to the shop.

“Alright dears, here ya go. Make sure you get yer wands!”

The family of three exited the shop and as they walked towards Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions, Harry thought about the girl with silver eyes. Why was she scared? Why is it that everyone knows him or makes a fuss about his scar? Why was she scared?

Nothing made sense.

~~~~

Next Chapter

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙞𝙫𝙚: 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 & 𝙐𝙣𝙪𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡

More and more Harry realised that even though his mother and aunt were twins, they were not the same. No matter how similar they were—though they had totally different aesthetics and viewpoints—his aunt was not his mother.

Case in point, the home his aunt and cousin live in was bright. It hurt his eyes to look at it—it was different from what he was used to. It looked as if it was plucked from an impressionist painting and plopped onto a piece of land outside Ottery St Catchpole in Devon. Harry narrowed his eyes at the sight of roses with their heads still attached and tulips growing in the front of the house.

His aunt really was strange, allowing those pesky red flowers to keep their heads and not behead them. Thorns really were the much-preferred choice, in Harry’s personal opinion.

As Harry studied the large house, his aunt was rambling on about how they—he assumed she and her husband—built the house after they graduated from Hogwarts and how it was their pride and joy. Beatrice just stood there, silently, as she, too, stared at her home. Harry wondered if she felt the same as he did. The house was just too happy. It reminded him of the houses back home, all of them happy and white, with bright flowers blooming brightly. Harry preferred the dead trees and the tall sentient willow tree that lived on the grounds of the Addams Manor, Ichabod.

“Shall we go in?” Aunt Ophelia didn’t leave room to object, and Harry followed his aunt and cousin inside. If the outside was ghastly, the inside was worse. The walls were painted pastel colours and had splashes of yellow and orange splayed here and there. There was no grey nor black in the house. Flowers practically grew everywhere. And somewhere in the house was the sound of laughter. Not the terrified and sadistic laughter he and his siblings were used to, but joyous and reaching-inducing cheerful laughter. It turned his stomach.

“Richard? Cordelia? Olivia? We’re home!!” The cheeriness of his aunt’s voice made him sneer. His mother would’ve never held such a tone. It would’ve been cold and vindictive.

Harry watched as two little girls, one sporting the same blonde–yellow like hair as his aunt, and the other black hair, dark as night, like Beatrice. Like his mother and Wednesday.

“Mummy!” the black-haired girl jumped into his aunt’s arms, and… Harry didn’t understand what she did, but she looked as if she was squeezing his aunt Ophelia. It reminded him of a snake coiling around its victim.

The yellow-haired girl simply stared at Harry. Her blue eyes were studying him, taking in his appearance. He did the same and was repulsed to find her dressed in a horrid pink dress with frills and bows. Wednesday would’ve gotten shears snipped them off, claiming she wanted to hang herself with the fabric.

“Harry, dear,” Harry looked away from the ugly, pink-dressed girl. “I would like you to meet your other cousins, Olivia,” she gestures to the black-haired little girl. Olivia waved and smiled brightly at Harry. While Harry simply nodded in greeting. “And that’s Cordelia.” What a fitting name for her. Cordelia, what a horrid name for a horrid girl. Harry had many questions for her. First, why did she choose to wear that hideous colour? And second, did she hear of hair dye? Her hair was literally the colour of the sun.

“Girls, this is your eldest cousin, Harry. Say hello.”

“Hello Harry.” They spoke in unison. “Hello, cousins,” He responded.

“Darling? You’re back already? I’d expected you to be gone all day,” A man bounded down the stairs. He wore a three-piece suit and square glasses on the tip of his nose. He had dark brown—almost black hair—that was cropped close to his head.

“Richard, darling, meet my nephew,” Harry watched as his aunt walked towards whom he assumed was her husband, meeting him at the last step of the stairs, holding her hand out towards him. Richard clasped his hand in hers and Ophelia pulled him towards Harry.

“Harry, this is my husband, Richard. Richard, this is Harry. Morticia’s eldest boy.” Richard offered Harry his hand.

Harry stared at the hand, his cold green orbs eyed the piece of flesh in front of him. Realising that Harry wasn’t going to shake his hand, Richard coughed awkwardly and turned to his wife. “Um, h-h-has Ophelia showed you to your room, H-Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “No. Not yet. Are you some sort of doctor?” Richard gulped and nodded. His hazel eyes flickered back and forth to his aunt. “Why y-yes! I’m an h-healer at St. Mungos. H-how’d you know?”

The green-eyed boy smirked. “I can smell it on you. The darkness. The curses. The death. The antiseptic. You smell like death. I like it. Reminds me of the cemetery.”

Richard’s smile fell from his face, and he cleared his throat. “Oh. H-h-how nice.” A pregnant pause filled the air. Harry could hear the wind whistling outside.

“Uh, Harry, let’s go get you settled in, shall we?” Harry nodded his head and noticed how Ophelia shot her husband a glare. Strange.

Together, aunt and nephew climbed up the stairs, as Ophelia led Harry to the room he’d be staying in until September 1st. Together, they passed paintings–both muggle and magical as they walked down a long corridor.

“This floor is where the girls’ rooms are, and where your room is as well.” Harry watched as Ophelia pointed to a few of the closed doors in the corridor. They stopped at the last closed door of the corridor and Ophelia smiled at him.

“Harry,” her voice dropped an octave. It was no longer the high and bubbly tone she carried. “I know that you aren’t exactly used to…” she waved her hands around. “--all this. I know that being raised in my sister’s home, you’ll have a different taste of comfort.” Harry watched her, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he looked at his aunt through his lashes.

“So, dear, I’ve done something.” She smiled and opened the door.

Unlike everything in this house, this room—his room—was black. There was no colour, nor flower tainted the dark oak furniture. It was plain, but reminded him of home. If only he could close his eyes and try to think of the smell of dust coating the home.

He walked in, taking in everything. The walls were bare, but there was room for decoration. The window was covered with heavy curtains, blocking out the light. Perfect for protecting his pale skin. The bed was simple and had striped black and white sheets and a black comforter. It reminded him of his own bedspread back at home. Pushed in the far corner of the room was a bookshelf with a desk next to it. Across from his bed sat a dresser, and behind a door was a small closet.

“I know it’s not much, but…”

“No. It’s … not horrid.” Ophelia cracked a smile.

“I’m glad. I’ll have our house-elf place your belongings in here.” Harry watched as she left the room, calling a name, before he was left alone to his own devices.

~~~

After dinner—which was strange and unusual (Harry asked where the brain was from the cow–they had roast beef–and his uncle and cousins stared at him as if he was an alien and Harry sighed and explained that his grandmama always saved the brain for him when they ate animals, which caused little Olivia to turn green.)--Harry saw that his empty room was no longer empty. His books were on the bookshelf, his clothes were hanging and in the dresser, and his desk now had quills in a pot, ink-wells and parchment sat neatly, and the picture of his family sat on the wood next to a simple lamp.

Harry thought this was what his aunt called a house-elf doing and he couldn’t really complain. He was exhausted. The day was eventful, and Harry just wanted to sleep and dream of the night. However, as he got settled in bed, he couldn’t force his brain to turn off.

All he could think about was the wizarding public. How they all reacted to him. He didn’t like it–to be worshipped as if he was a god. All he wanted was to hone his skills and learn how to control his magic and see his parents' roots. Maybe learn something else about them besides their demise.

As Harry slowly started to close his eyes and slip under the effects of sleep, a pair of orbs stared at him. Silver orbs.

A/n:

Short chapter, but I hope you enjoyed.