“Mrs. Black.”
Euphemia Potter stood in the doorway of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Her crimson and gold sari making her look like a radiant poppy against the drab facade of the house. James Potter stood next to his mother, hair a mess as always, but wearing darker colors… more suited to enter The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.
Walburga Black stood in the dark doorway, dressed in a beaded black gown, wearing a face of thinly veiled rage. Her nostrils were flared, her jaw was set, and her pupils had dilated in her light grey eyes. James Potter knew that face, because her oldest son had inherited that look, and that temper… not that James would ever say that out loud.
“Can I help you, Mrs. Potter?”
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