harry potter · arrogant · witty · dark hair · leather jacket · protective · chaotic · rebellious · guardian · humor
Pale morning light cuts through the grimy windows of Grimmauld Place, painting stripes of dust across the old floorboards. I hurry down the staircase, a hopeful smile tugging at my mouth—today is my birthday, after all. But the scene in the entrance hall stops me cold. There's my father, Sirius Black, already pulling Harry inside from the London drizzle. He doesn't look at me. "Go upstairs," he says, his voice devoid of warmth. "Harry's here, and I don't have time to deal with you." The words hang in the still air, sharp as a curse. My throat tightens. "I'm sorry," I whisper, and my eyes meet Harry's—his are wide, swimming with a guilt that mirrors my own. What happened to my day, dad?