WHO: Ophelia, Amaro, & Carmela Llewellyn
WHAT: Her parents break the news
WHEN: December 22
WHERE: Llewellyn Estate

It would be a sincere confession to say that the fact that her parents were brimming with excitement was a bit alarming to Ophelia. After all, their current moods were a long cry from the solemn, concerned manner that they usually held around their children; it looked almost, she observed, as if Amaro and Carmela Llewellyn were a couple of small children who had been asked to keep a particularly incriminating secret. But perhaps it was the unmistakable glimmer of pride that she detected in their way of looking at her that truly worried her as she smoothed her skirt out underneath her and took a seat in one of their sitting room’s armchairs.

They hadn’t looked genuinely proud of her since before that fateful summer of her sixth year, and the perplexity as to why it had changed so suddenly itched every last corner of her mind. It translated itself through the confused narrowing of her eyes at them, and as they chortled merrily at her expression, her own nervous responsive laughter.

“Okay, so is one of you going to tell me what’s up?” she asked, smiling uneasily. I guess whatever it is, they’re happy, so it can’t be that bad.

Her mother looked to her father, who nodded his head at her with a broad grin, apparently insinuating that she was allowed to reveal their obviously joyous news. Hardly able to contain herself and her attempt at finding composure failing miserably, Carmela gave up and finally let it all out in a verbal burst. “You’re getting married!”

Er… Okay, so definitely not what she had been expecting. ‘We bought you something!’, or ‘Your father got a raise!’ or even ‘Caitlin’s pregnant!’, for Merlin’s sake, but ‘You’re getting married’? What in the-- “Who told you that?” Ophelia countered, still very confused. “Cause whoever they are, I can tell you they’re really trying to--.”

Her mother rolled her eyes and continued to laugh, but this time in a decidedly condescending manner, to which Ophelia tried hard not to take offense. “Oh darling, don’t be silly. No one told us; we’re telling you!”

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no.

It became clear all at once, and with the clarity came a very distinct sinking feeling. Of course, how could she have not—but it was so—and that meant—she should have known. They had arranged a marriage for her, like they had been trying to do for more than a year now. She knew they had been trying, she had said in the past that she approved of them trying, but—

Oh no. No no no, this couldn’t happen now! Why now? The furthest that her father had ever gotten on the matchmaking endeavor was to have her introduced to a few men, but he had never spoken of having her actually marry any of them. How could he do this to her so out of the blue? That begged the question of who it was—Ophelia groped around in her long term memory for any and all of the men she had made contact with. There was… oh, Merlin, uh… Devon Yaxley, but they had dismissed him as too young… Antonin Dolohov, but she had downright refused on that one (he was far too creepy)… There had also been that Rosier man, Evan, who she remembered her father had taken a certain fancy to. Maybe it was him; that wouldn’t be so bad, but—

No, what was she thinking, none of this was good! She had a boyfriend now, a boyfriend for the first time in her life that was a nice, good guy, and—Suddenly, she felt very, very angry. Angry because for the first time in longer than she could remember, she had someone that she really liked and who liked her back and who she was happy being around. And now they came to her ripping that out of her hands easier than anything. It just wasn’t fair, how were people allowed to do things like this? It wasn’t fair at all.

Apparently, her prolonged silence and the contortion of her features was becoming worrisome for her parents, because Carmela leaned forward and placed a hand on her daughter’s knee. It was a more maternal gesture than she had gotten out of her in seventeen years. “Darling, is something the matter? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Her voice snapped Ophelia out of her thoughts and she looked up at them, brandy eyes wide and frightened. “Just… who—who is he?” she asked quietly, the tremor obvious in her voice.

Choosing to ignore the less than enthused reaction to the news, her mother smiled. “His name is Grayson Wilkes, the youngest child of their clan. You may know them—their parents have attended a few of our parties—but they’re relatively nouveau riche…” She trailed off, but the affection in her voice said that even if they were ‘nouveau riche’, she was in a great way fond of this Grayson. Noticing Ophelia’s lack of expression and taking that as misgivings, she frowned a little and tried to look sympathetic. She squeezed her knee a little. “I know you would have hoped to marry into a more well-established and historical family like the Blacks, dear, but with our indecision on… matters, your father and I thought that this was the best course of action. It was not a difficult—“

Her mind and mouth seemed numb until now, and really, the way she interjected was so quiet that it could have easily been missed. “I—-you’re saying… I don’t even know him…”

Carmela’s brow furrowed momentarily in confusion and she leaned back away from her daughter. “Well, no, you don’t. Ophelia, most women in our social circle do not know their fiancée beforehand—had we seen them fit, we would have promised you to a man you had met beforehand, but they just weren’t right for you… Oh, and Mister Wilkes was far too good to pass up. We could not afford to wait for you, I’m sorry.”

She could hardly believe this—-nay, she could not believe this. They would give her away so easily and without consulting her over something so—it was inexcusable! She had thought, or deluded herself to think, that they cared enough not to do that to her. What a fool she had been.

Suddenly, she felt a surge of rebellion like she never had before. Her mouth was open before she could stop it. “And what if I won’t have it?” She sounded much more bold than she felt.

“You had best learn to watch your tongue!” It was the first time her father had spoken, and it was in a furious yell. It took all of Ophelia’s self-control to keep from flinching and being intimidated as he stood up from his seat and towered feet above her place. His voice booming and bouncing off the stone walls, he continued to go on at her. “I hope you realize that your husband won’t stand for that kind of talk and stupid questioning, Ophelia. You had best learn some respect before either he or I have to put it into you!”

In a supposed attempt to calm himself down, Amaro cursed and turned away from her, making a few paces in front of her chair before continuing. His voice was back to normal level, but somehow there still was a edge to it. “You are seventeen and I fully intend upon having you married off upon your graduation like any other proper young lady. Merlin knows you can’t support yourself with that dismal score you got on your O.W.L.s—-you need a husband and you are lucky enough to be positioned to have one. So if you wish to continue to act with such selfishness, you can leave right now.” He turned to look at her, his forest green eyes staring into her brandy brown ones.

Even with tears glistening, Ophelia managed to stare defiantly back at her father. As if she was flipping back on a switch, his face turned red—it got worse with each second that she continued to stare at him. After a pregnant silence, punctuated only by his seething, he pointed behind him harshly. He had his answer.

“Go!” he hissed. “Get out of my sight, you insolent girl!”

And she went. But it wasn’t until she was safely upstairs in her room that she allowed herself to cry.