Why was it that whenever some inconceivable mischief occurred in the Slytherin Common Room, Narcissa Black was immediately questioned about the nature of the problem? How was she to know? She wasn’t a troublemaker. That job had been left to her older sister, Bellatrix. Still, the responsibility had fallen on her Prefect shoulders. The blond heaved a sigh as she stood before wall in the common room, hands on her slender hips.

“Well, this is a nice piece of work!” she remarked loudly, button nose up in the air. Out of the corner of her long eyes, she watched a group of Slytherin boys chuckling. Her blue eyes turned back to what had caught the Head of House’s attention to begin with. In the air hung a fiery message: TO THE BLACK SISTER DEAREST TO MY HEART, YOU WILL HAVE TO GIVE A LITTLE MORE THAN WHAT YOU’VE BEEN GIVING. Next to the message was a burning heart.

Rather than feeling the impending blush assault her cheeks, all Narcissa could conjure was a feeling of annoyance. She turned her head in search for the author. Aside from the curious looks and unavoidable giggling, Narcissa couldn’t tell who the culprit was.