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 sits at her vanity, her gaze drifting past her reflection to the window, where the grounds of Nightshade Manor lie serene and deceptively beautiful, all flowers and lush greenery. Once, she might have felt some fondness for the view, but now it feels hollow, tainted by memories she'd rather forget.
Her eyes fall to the letter resting on the vanity's surface. An owl had rapped against her window moments ago, and she took the letter from its beak before reading it. It's from Barty—a quiet, thoughtful note, checking up on her. Not that she can reply; her mother has forbidden her from using her owl while at home.
The late afternoon sun has already begun its descent, casting long shadows across her room. Another day, slipping by in confinement.
With a soft sigh, Alina folds the letter and opens a drawer, reaching for a small wooden box inside. It's packed with letters from Barty over the years. She adds the latest one to the pile, closing the lid with a bittersweet ache in her chest. She wants to be anywhere but here.
And yet, each time she considers escape, her mind drifts unbidden to James Potter, stoking a familiar frustration. A bitter, unbreakable cycle.
But she can't afford anger now. She can't afford any feeling at all, not in these next two months. Still, every thought of James leaves her wrestling with a fierce, consuming mixture of longing and resentment. Terrible.
Forcing the thoughts into a locked compartment in her mind, Alina pulls out a stack of summer assignments, designed to prepare them for the upcoming school year. Future lessons, small tests of their knowledge—easy enough for her to breeze through.
The hours pass unnoticed as she works, the sky outside darkening as stars begin to emerge one by one.
She's nearly finished the last of her assignments when a knock echoes through the room.
Alina tenses, her hand stilling, but she manages a steady voice. "Come in."
The door creaks open a moment later, revealing her mother, elegant and poised in a gown of midnight blue—witching fashion at its finest, expensive and exacting.
"Get ready for dinner. We have a guest," her mother says, hands clasped delicately before her.
Alina suppresses the urge to ask who, knowing better. "Yes, Mother."
"There's clothes for you in your wardrobe. Choose something appropriate—and white." With that, her mother turns, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
White?
Her mother rarely asks her to wear white. Usually, it's dark colors—greens, blacks, rich hues of elegance.
White.
Alina has little in her wardrobe in that shade; it clashes with her hair more than she likes. She rises from her chair and crosses the room, opening the wardrobe doors with a quick tug. After a few moments of searching, she pulls out a white blouse with an intricate collar and long, slightly puffed sleeves. She pairs it with a sleek black skirt, the closest she can get to her usual attire.
