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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James Potter POV.
James hates himself. It's a thought that simmers constantly in the back of his mind—a quiet, gnawing certainty that he can't shake. He doesn't like himself, doesn't like who he is. But right now, the feeling is stronger, sharper, twisting into pure self-loathing.
It's strange, really, to admit to himself just how deeply he despises himself. Yet that's all he can think about as he lies in his childhood bedroom, staring blankly up at the ceiling. They just returned home yesterday, and his parents welcomed him with open arms, all warmth and love.
But Alina's mother? Her glare was as icy as ever. James can't shake the memory of her clutching Alina's arm, her expression so fierce it seems like she's looking at a stranger, not her own daughter. In an instant, she apparated Alina away, leaving James feeling hollow.
He groans, rubbing his face with both hands, glasses askew. The stupid bet doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't care about it at all. All he wants is her.
His gaze drifts from the ceiling to his desk. Papers litter its dark wood surface, aged and well-worn after years of use. His bed, tucked into the corner, is made up with crimson silk sheets and a plaid comforter. Sunlight filters through the window beside the desk, casting warm, dappled light across the room. He's barely left all day.
On the desk sits a small box—a box of pomegranate candies Alina loves. He bought them during their last Hogsmeade trip. She told him not to send too many letters, and he remembers how it was with Sirius, not being able to write and using the mirror instead.
James rises from the bed, pulls out the old wooden chair draped with his Gryffindor scarf, and sits down, retrieving a piece of parchment, a quill, and ink. He pauses, wondering what he can even say.
Dear Alina,
I'm sorry.
That's all he can manage at first. What else could he say? He doubts she wants to hear from him at all, but the only thing he wants is to tell her how sorry he is, how he's messed up, how he'd do anything for her to look at him or forgive him.
Maybe he shouldn't send a letter at all. Maybe he should just send the candy, let that be his apology in words he can't find—
A soft knock at the door breaks his thoughts.
"Come in," he says quickly, turning to see who it is.
His father steps in, leaning against the doorframe with a gentle smile.
"Hi, Da'," James mutters, managing a forced smile as his father enters. He still holds the quill in his hand, the half-written apology before him. Fleamont Potter's eyes gleam behind his round glasses, his head tilted with a familiar expression of curiosity. His dark, curly hair is just as messy as his son's.
"Hello, James," his father replies, voice rich and warm. He glances over James's shoulder, catching sight of the half-finished letter. "I'm sorry," he reads aloud, grinning slightly as he looks back at his son. "So, what have you done now?"
