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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It's two days after the full moon, and the Gryffindor boys are finally back at breakfast.
Alina feels the tension in her shoulders loosen ever so slightly as they settle at their table, though she quickly averts her gaze before anyone catches her looking. Beside her, Barty appears unusually drained, his gaze fixed blankly on the table.
She shoots him a brief glance before returning her focus ahead, her blond hair brushing against her shoulders. She reaches for the yogurt, only to freeze when the flurry of owls sweeps into the Great Hall. Quickly, she retracts her hand, not eager to risk getting scratched by one of the birds.
Her breath catches when a letter drops onto her empty plate. The wax seal—a deep green—bears her family's crest.
Fuck.
With a sense of urgency, Alina snatches the letter, stuffing it into her bag. But Barty has already seen it. He's watching her, concern etched into his features.
She avoids his gaze, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she stands. Without a word, she leaves the Great Hall, her pace quickening as she hears Barty's footsteps follow closely behind.
"Lia, wait—" Barty hurries to cut her off, standing in front of her with a worried expression, his eyes flickering to her bag as if he can see the letter hidden inside.
"It's fine," Alina mutters, her nails digging into her palm with deliberate force, the sharp sting grounding her. "I'll read it later. I need to get to class."
Barty studies her for a moment, his concern lingering, but eventually, he steps aside to let her pass.
~~~
Dear Alina,
We heard rumors about you associating with blood traitors and non-purebloods.
Fix it, soon, or there will be consequences.
Send us a letter with your grades when you receive this.
Lillian.
Alina rereads the terse letter from her mother, her light eyes scanning the words over and over as if searching for something hidden beneath the cold message—some secret expression of love that isn't there.
The parchment crinkles under her grip, the sharp sound piercing the silence of her dormitory. It's late, far too late, yet she doubts she can sleep anymore. Not now.
She folds the letter with a certain cold precision, slipping off her bed to put on her shoes. The note remains clenched tightly in her hand, a tangible weight she can't seem to release.
There are many things Alina hates. She hates loud music, hates the bitterness of alcohol, hates her own abilities that mark her as different. She hates many, many things.
But she's not sure if she hates her parents.
It's complicated—too many emotions swirl between them and the house she grew up in. Resentment, bitterness, but also the faint remnants of love, of duty.
