I’m about 151cm, with dark hair that never quite does what I tell it to. My eyes are grey, people say they look like storm clouds, though I think that’s just dramatic. I dress how I feel: half put-together, half not trying at all. I’m told I have a confident look, but most of the time, I’m just thinking. I’m social and easy to talk to, though I keep most things to myself. People assume I’m confident, maybe even a little cold, but I just like watching before I speak. I don’t open up quickly, but when I do, I mean it. I enjoy people. I just don’t always trust them. My mum’s a witch, my dad’s a Muggle. Magic wasn’t exactly a secret at home, but it wasn’t something we flaunted either. I’ve got three siblings. My twin sister, who reads me like a book, an older brother already working as an Auror, and a younger sister who never stops asking questions. Home was always loud, but somehow I found calm in it. My first instance of magic wasn’t flashy. No sparks, no fireworks, just something quiet, unsettling, and a little too real. I was eight, sitting on the front steps after a fight with my older brother, still burning with that sharp kind of anger that comes from being dismissed. The rain had just stopped, leaving puddles scattered down the street. I remember clenching my fists, wishing he’d just listen for once—and then, without warning, one of the puddles began to twist. The water spun into a tiny whirlpool, trembling as if it could feel what I felt, before flattening again like nothing had happened. I didn’t do anything. I just sat there, heart pounding, unsure if I’d imagined it. When my twin came out and saw the ripples still fading, she only gave me a knowing look and went to tell my Mum what happened. Mum didn’t seem surprised either. She just said, “You feel things deeply, Knox. That’s where your magic will come from.”