Carina Gray is a sharp-witted, fiercely loyal Slytherin with a knack for mischief and a heart of gold she tries hard to keep hidden. Known for her bold sense of humor and unwavering courage, she isn't afraid to stand up for her friends, even if it m...
Birthdays weren't special in the orphanage. For most kids, it was just another day, and for Carina Gray, it was worse than that—it was a reminder of what she didn't have.
The morning of her eleventh birthday started like any other. Mrs. Trumble's shrill voice echoed down the narrow halls at the crack of dawn, barking orders for the kids to get up. Carina rolled over in her rickety bed, the mattress springs digging into her side as she blinked at the grey, dreary sky outside the window.
"Happy birthday to me," she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with sarcasm. Not that anyone cared. Not that anyone ever remembered.
Carina dragged herself out of bed, her feet hitting the cold wooden floor. She shared her room with four other girls, but none of them so much as glanced her way. Fine by her. She didn't need their pity or their snide comments today. It was bad enough that everything around her seemed to be falling apart—literally. The handle on the wardrobe had snapped off when she tried to open it this morning, and the faucet in the bathroom splashed water all over the place when she turned it on, even though she hadn't touched it that hard.
"Things always break around you, Carina," one of the girls sneered from the doorway, her arms crossed. "Maybe you're cursed."
Carina shot her a glare, a biting retort sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it down. Not today. She wasn't going to waste energy on these idiots today. Instead, she yanked on her faded clothes, brushed her hair into some semblance of order, and left the room without another word.
The orphanage was a gloomy, creaky place, with dull, peeling wallpaper and floors that always seemed to creak no matter how lightly you walked. Mrs. Trumble, the owner, was as cold and joyless as the building itself. She had a talent for making everyone feel like they were a nuisance, but she saved her worst scowl for Carina. If something went wrong, it was usually Carina's fault. If something got broken, Carina was blamed. Not that Mrs. Trumble needed a reason—she seemed to just dislike Carina on principle.
Breakfast was the usual miserable affair. Porridge that looked more like glue, eaten in silence. The other kids sat in cliques, casting sideways glances at Carina as they whispered amongst themselves. They didn't need to say anything. She knew what they thought of her: the weirdo. The troublemaker. The girl who made lights flicker and doors slam when she got angry, who always seemed to attract chaos like a magnet.
