Sarah Lily

Sirius Black had never seen a head of hair quite as unique as James Potter’s. It vaguely reminded him of the time when he’d accidentally run his mother’s cat, Sooty, through the tumble-dryer when he was seven. Black on blue-black, refusing to lie flat, as if clumps were attached to the strings of invisible balloons floating above the other boy’s head. Sirius wondered if he’d purposely styled it like that, or if James Potter had been in a freak potions explosion earlier that day. Either way, it was intriguing.