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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MAKE SURE YOU ARE ON THE RIGHT CHAPTER!! I think wattpad glitched again... sigh
Alina Nightshade POV.
TW! Death, abuse.
Alina is trapped in yet another vision. Death looms close, as always—this time, Death Eaters are wreaking havoc on a Muggle village. She watches through a nearby window, frozen in place. She keeps her gaze fixed, avoiding the scenes unfolding around her. But no matter how hard she tries to shield herself, the horrors creep in.
There are children on the streets, lying still and lifeless.
Despite her distaste for children, Alina never wants to see them like this. The scene claws at her, cold and relentless.
She knows she is likely screaming or gasping back in her room, her body reacting to the vision even as her mind remains trapped in it. Her mother will be there soon, to drag her down to the basement. She doesn't have much time.
Alina forces her gaze upward, catching sight of movement down the road. Her heart quickens.
The Order.
They have finally arrived, fighting back.
Alina jolts awake, gasping and covered in sweat. Her heart pounds as she looks toward the door, hoping against all odds her mother hasn't heard.
But then the door handle turns, and her heart sinks. She clutches the sheets tightly as her mother enters, her expression sharp and unyielding.
"Get up," Lilian orders, her voice icy and cutting.
Releasing her grip on the sheets, Alina forces her shaky legs out of bed. The room is bathed in the dim glow of the nearly full moon, casting a pale light across her path. She takes a step forward, her mind still hazy, struggling to pull itself from the clutches of the vision.
She doesn't expect the slap. But the sting brings her back to reality.
Alina doesn't flinch. She's trained herself not to show any reaction, burying any flicker of pain as deeply as she can.
Her mother's nails dig into her arm, sharp against her damp skin. She mutters something under her breath, though Alina barely registers it as she's yanked out of the room and down the stairs.
"Your husband won't tolerate this when the time comes," Lilian spits, her eyes flashing with disdain.
Husband.
But he will never have to deal with it—not if Alina's plans succeed. She's already resolved to end her life before it ever comes to that.
Her mother's grip tightens, cold and bruising.
Alina forces her mind to drift elsewhere, detaching herself from her body and thoughts. She focuses on anything but the harsh grip on her arm as her mother pulls her along, leading her to the first floor before turning sharply toward the basement steps. She focuses on the small details: the creak of the wooden steps, the way the air grows colder with each one, and the unforgiving chill of the concrete floor below.
