Isla Black
Isla wasn't a Quidditch star like her eldest brother, Sirius. She couldn't charm and converse the way Phineas Nigellus could. She couldn't create art or sing in a beautiful voice like Elladora. She wasn't beautiful, or charming, or athletic or musical or talented at magic. She rarely got Outstandings no matter how hard she worked to impress her parents, and they always scolded her and compared her to Elladora, or her cousins, or mother, or any female relative.
Her accidental magic hadn't shown until she was six years and nine months old. There was quiet relief not applause when she finally made the biscuit tin levitate off the top of the dresser. The calculated looks and whispers of 'squib' ended after that, but Isla was still never good enough, never special enough, always too ordinary. 'We Blacks, are not ordinary, Isla. The blood in our veins is pure and untainted. We are special,' her mother lectured.
The first time Isla felt special was the day she met Bob Hitchens. He looked at her like she she mattered more than anyone else in the world. And so four years later after an exhausting dinner full of poisonous barbs and unconcealed disgust that Isla packed her trunk with her most important belongings.
"You're leaving," Charis observed, leaning against the door frame. "Off to marry that filthy good-for-nothing muggle."
"You vowed to keep your mouth shut, Charis," snapped Isla. "And Bob is worth ten of this rotten family. He's special."