it’s the summer of ‘95, and Harry Potter had just been introduced to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. A dank, depressing place. He’d spoken with Ron and Hermione about the dementors and the trial, before Mrs Weasely called the three of them down for dinner. In the kitchen, everyone’s crowded around the wooden table, all familiar faces. Except for one. A girl, his age, sat next to Sirius. Dark hair, pale complexion.