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 Nightshade POV.
Alina stares out her window from the edge of her bed, watching as the sun slips below the horizon, casting a fading golden glow across her room.
From here, she sees figures moving through the courtyard below, bustling as they prepare for the evening's event. Another party. Another gathering. Another charade.
She has no idea what the occasion is this time, nor does it matter. Pureblood families love hosting lavish affairs to flaunt their wealth, though, lately, these gatherings seem more than that—a front, perhaps, for hushed conversations about the Dark Lord. Alina overheard her parents speaking in clipped tones earlier, their words veiled and tense.
With a slight shake of her head, Alina pulls her gaze away from the window, trying to push thoughts of dark wizards and scheming adults out of her mind. Instead, her mind wanders to James.
The thought of him sparks an ache in her chest, one she wishes she could ignore. She hates the feeling—this stubborn, unyielding care for someone she wants so badly not to care about. But denying it only makes the ache sharper.
Her nails press hard into her palms, grounding her in the chill of the room. She feels the smooth, cold hardwood beneath her bare feet, the cool silk of her sheets behind her. She's only been back in this house for a few days, yet already it feels suffocating. An eternity spent eating forced meals with her parents, under their scrutinizing eyes.
With a resigned sigh, she rises from the bed and crosses to her wardrobe, pulling open the doors. Her dress for the evening awaits—a black gown that falls to her ankles, with gathered fabric at the shoulders. Her mother chose it, and though she'd never admit it aloud, it is a beautiful dress. She runs her fingers over the delicate fabric before turning to the window, drawing the curtains closed, and begins to prepare.
She slips into the gown, brushes and pins her hair, and applies just enough makeup to bring some life to her pale features. An hour passes, and by the time she's ready, the sounds of fake laughter and voices echo faintly up the grand staircase, filtering into her room.
Alina glances at herself in the mirror, noting the unfamiliar length of her hair, wondering if her mother will insist on cutting it soon. With a final, indifferent sweep of her gaze, she crosses to the door, listening to the murmurs that grow louder as she opens it.
The thought of Regulus's presence below is the only small relief she clings to. She takes a deep breath, setting her face into a mask of practiced indifference, and steps out into the hallway.
A fleeting thought crosses her mind—how easy it would be to trip and tumble down the staircase, to have an excuse to skip this wretched event. But instead, she descends gracefully, her fingers gripping the railing just a bit too tightly as she enters the ballroom.
The room is already filled, music swelling above the hum of mingling voices. Couples dance, families chat in clusters, and Alina spots both familiar faces and strangers among them. A piano plays in the corner, though the notes are slightly off, their performance mechanical.
