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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Alina flicks through the worn pages of the book in her lap, her eyes skimming the familiar words on the Wolfsbane Potion. It's late—far too late for anyone else to be awake—but she finds solace in the quiet of the dormitory.
The potion has been brewing in her bathroom since last night, bubbling away in its cauldron, and she's rereading the instructions for what feels like the hundredth time. Even though she practically has them memorized by now, it gives her a sense of control.
Her light eyes narrow slightly as they scan the text, her painted nails tapping idly on the back of the book. She leans back in bed, allowing herself a moment of stillness.
A knock echoes through the room.
Alina tenses, lifting her gaze toward the door with a sharp glare. There isn't any sort of party tonight; everyone should be asleep by now. So who could it be?
James?
She sets her book aside, placing it face down on the bed, and swings her legs over the edge. The second knock comes, louder this time, more insistent.
James knows where her dorm is. So does Barty.
Curiosity gnaws at her as she stands and pads softly to the door. With a slow, deliberate motion, she cracks it open. The portrait guarding the entrance shifts slightly, and there stands Barty, glancing over his shoulder before locking eyes with her.
"Barty?" Alina narrows her eyes. "What's wrong?"
He looks disheveled, worry etched into his expression as he bites his lip. "Can I come in?" he asks, voice low and unsteady.
"Of course." She opens the door wider, allowing him to step inside. Once he's in, she shuts the door behind him, the painting swinging shut with a soft thud.
Barty immediately begins pacing, running a hand through his already tousled hair. Alina crosses her arms over her chest, watching him with sharp, calculating eyes.
"Did you kill someone?" she asks, her voice calm and eerily casual as she tilts her head, studying him.
"I wish," Barty mutters, still pacing. Then, with a sudden halt, he turns to her, breathless. "I'm in love with Regulus."
He speaks the words as if they've been trapped inside him for too long, and now, even as they hang in the air, he seems to struggle with them.
"Okay?" Alina replies, her tone neutral, though her brow arches as if to ask, And what does this have to do with me?
"I need help," Barty admits, stepping closer.
"With what? Confessing? Killing him?" She raises an eyebrow, her voice dry.
"No, no murder." Barty shakes his head, then lets out a long, tired sigh. "I don't know," he whispers, the weight of his confusion palpable.
The candlelight flickers, casting shadows across his face, and for a brief moment, Alina thinks she sees a glimpse of the vulnerable boy underneath the façade.
