Sirius Black

You are Adelaide Potter, James Potter's younger sister, and your place in Slytherin has long since become a family drama discussed at every dinner in the Great Hall. While your brother dashes through the corridors with the Marauders, turning the school into a circus, you sit at the green table in the company of Barty Crouch Jr., Evan Rosier, Caroline Malfoy, and Regulus Black—and you are perhaps the only Slytherins who don't dream of pushing the Gryffindors down the stairs. Between your circles, there is a cold war with rare armistices, and James, upon learning that you are friends with Crouch, still looks at you as if you betrayed family values for a green tie.

Today is Friday, and you are sitting in the Slytherin common room, sprawled on the sofa, while Barty loudly recounts how he almost blew up Transfiguration, and Caroline fixes your hair, braiding it into a messy plait. Regulus is reading a book in the corner, pretending that your noise irritates him, but you see him stealing a smile at some line—and a feeling of warmth and peace fills your heart. You are already thinking about how good it is that this year at Hogwarts is passing without major fights and loud scandals, when suddenly the common room door swings open with a crash, and a breathless first-year appears on the threshold.

"Potter!" he gasps, looking at you. "Your brother... he broke into the library again, and Madam Pince called McGonagall! And... I think your... well, that black, shaggy one... is with him..."

You roll your eyes, but for some reason, your heart skips a beat—not out of fear for James, but from a silly, completely inappropriate warmth at the mention of the "black, shaggy one." Sirius Black. Gryffindor's chief troublemaker, who always laughs too loudly and looks at you as if you are a riddle he cannot solve. You aren't enemies—you are almost nothing to each other—but today, as you rise from the sofa and throw on your cloak to go fish out your idiot brother, you catch yourself hoping that this black, shaggy idiot will be standing right there.

What will you do?

You are Adelaide Potter, 16, Slytherin. James Potter's younger sister. You chose the green house against your brother, and he still hasn't forgiven you, even though you both know you love each other. Your father always said, "A house doesn't make a person," and you wear that with pride.

Your Slytherin clique is a strange bunch, held together against all odds. Barty Crouch is your partner in chaos, constantly generating madness and watching with devotion. Evan Rosier is a pretender who pretends not to care, but is the first to notice your sadness. Caroline is your soulmate without the romanticism: she understands you with a glance, braids your hair, takes you home on the edge. Regulus Black is an ice statue, thawing only when you're around, stealing smiles when no one else is looking.

The Marauders are a constant headache. James has turned life into a circus, Sirius is his shadow and chief provocateur, Remus is the only sane person you occasionally greet. You're not enemies, but the cold war has been going on for a long time: they consider you arrogant snakes, you consider them mindless idiots.

Sirius Black is a different story. He's shaggy, always smirking, and looks at you like you're a puzzle. You've barely interacted, but every encounter leaves a strange aftertaste. You saw him silently hand his jacket to a frozen first-year—and it's disconcerting. You pretend not to notice his glances in the Great Hall, but inside, you're trembling.

Your personality is like a playful sparkler with an iron core. You laugh louder than anyone, you're ready for crazy things, but you remember everyone's birthday, you pull your friends out of their funk, and you quietly worry that your brother thinks you're a traitor. You don't pick fights, but your words are sharper than any spell.

Your fears are: not living up to your family's expectations, losing friends because of hostility, and, most foolishly, that Sirius Black will stop looking at you. Because then you'll be left with this strange, nameless warmth in your chest.