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. Why does Wattpad hate me so much. Give me post notifications again PLEASE
Alina snaps the lid shut on her trunk, locking it swiftly before stacking it atop another near her bed. Her fingers tap rhythmically in sets of three against the worn leather—a subconscious habit. Her gaze drifts to her wrist, where faint bruises bloom. They're remnants of her mother's grip, left during her last vision.
It's time to return to Hogwarts, to leave this house. The thought fills her with an odd mix of relief and dread. Hogwarts has always been her sanctuary, a place to escape her parents and their suffocating control. But now, the idea of going back unsettles her.
Because James will be there.
At home, she can pretend. She can push the anger and betrayal he dealt her into a quiet corner of her mind. Feeling anything too deeply here is dangerous—it brings too much pain, too much vulnerability.
But at Hogwarts? She won't have that luxury. She'll have to face it all.
Unless she doesn't. Unless she gives in to the growing temptation to feel nothing at all. To just... shut it off.
She's done it before, hasn't she? Especially this summer. With Émeric.
The thought lingers, a bitter taste in her mouth. Alina wonders if she'll ever let herself feel again. As much as she pretends she doesn't have emotions, they're there. Boiling beneath the surface.
Not just anger or sadness. Rage, joy—everything.
Yet they feel foreign, detached. Like they aren't hers at all.
Alina sighs and turns to the window. The faint light of dawn spills into her room, pale and cold. She hasn't eaten breakfast, hasn't eaten much of anything lately. The idea of sitting across from her parents is unbearable. The sound of her mother's voice, sharp and insistent, prattling on about her wedding...
Her wedding.
Alina's throat tightens. Does James know? Surely he does—it's probably splashed across the papers. Barty might have seen it too. Not that it matters. She has no intention of going through with it.
Still, the weight of it presses on her, a dull ache of hopelessness.
What she's learned about Émeric Morvand is enough to fill her with dread. Cruelty defines him. His first wife died not long after giving birth to their daughter. What happened to the daughter, no one seems to know.
The expectations are clear: sons are everything. Sons carry legacies. Daughters are bargaining chips, pawns in games of power and wealth.
Her parents, Lilian and Sebastian, hoped for more children after Alina. They tried, and they failed. Miscarriages, stillbirths—each loss a reminder of what they couldn't control.
