Alina Nightshade doesn't think much about James Potter. Only that he seems rather keen on being annoying.
James Potter thinks Alina Nightshade is a mystery all wrapped up in a very pretty girl. And he is keen on trying to be her friend.
James Potte...
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Time Skip, fifth year.
Alina stares at her reflection in the mirror. The girl looking back at her seems like a stranger—just a blank, emotionless face.
She feels an exhaustion deep in her bones, one that has been there for years.
Last night, her mother locked her in the basement after she woke up screaming from another vision of death.
Alina no longer pleads to avoid the basement. She knows better. Resistance only leads to more bruises.
Her room is lit by many candles. Paintings and mirrors adorn the walls, with her bed against the left wall and a vanity on the right. Everything is meticulously clean and orderly.
Her hair is short, barely grazing her shoulders, held back by a black headband.
It is early. Her mother let her out an hour ago to get ready. She wears her Hogwarts skirt and shirt, planning to put on her robes once she is on the train.
"Alina," her mother's sharp voice calls from outside the door. "We must leave now."
"Coming, Mother," Alina replies, rising from her chair and grabbing her trunk. She taps the spot under the lock three times before opening the door.
Her mother stands a few feet away. They share the same shade of hair, which her mother insists she keep short.
Alina follows her down the hall. Large mirrors line the walls at regular intervals, each with identical decor in front of them. Everything is repetitive and sterile.
Her mother doesn't offer her any food, but Alina managed to sneak something the night before. Still, she feels light-headed.
Her father won't be joining them, too consumed with his work.
Her mother grabs her own bag before gripping Alina's wrist tightly. The sensation of Apparition feels like her head is exploding.
The lively atmosphere of the platform feels cruel. So many children enjoying their lives, loving their parents. She hates seeing them hug their parents, run to them. It fills her with envy and resentment.
Her mother doesn't release her wrist. Lillian Nightshade stares at her daughter as if she were a monster, not her own child.
"No visions," Lillian commands, the same words she utters every year, as if they would make a difference.
"Yes, Mother," Alina nods obediently.
Her mother finally lets go, leaving a red mark on Alina's pale skin, a result of her frequent undernourishment.
Without another word, her mother apparates away, leaving Alina alone on the platform.
Alina forces herself to take a deep breath and adopt a mask of indifference.
