The Marauders as girls / /  S i r i u s  B l a c k

She smells of stale air in November, half way between the cold rain your hair reeks of and the last sunny day of the year.
Her clothes are drenched in the smell of cigarette smoke
and coffee, and yet she manages to laugh so bright you’d almost forget how sad she is but she’d rather die than have you pity her.