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 stares blankly at the flickering candle in front of her. The day bleeds into evening, school long since finished, and the buzz of dinner approaching hangs faintly in the air.
Love.
The word lingers bitterly in her mind, as foreign and fragile as glass in her hands. The only semblance of love she knows is the bond she shares with Barty. But even that is murky, undefined. Can she even call it love if she doesn't truly understand what it is?
Her mother has taught her that love doesn't live in their home. The violence isn't wrapped in any pretense of care; her mother never claims it's for Alina's sake. No, it's hate—pure, unbridled hate.
So, no. Love isn't something Alina possesses or believes she's capable of. It's too soft, too gentle—traits that don't belong to someone like her.
Even now, anger bubbles beneath her skin at the thought of James. He infuriates her, but she can admit—if only to herself—that he deserves someone kinder. Someone better. Not a girl like her, sharp-edged and destructive.
With a sharp breath, she leans forward and blows out the candle, darkness reclaiming the room. She rises, slides on her shoes, and leaves the dorm, her movements swift and deliberate. The Slytherin common room is dim and subdued, a few scattered students murmuring in low voices. Alina ignores them, slipping out without a glance.
She has succeeded in turning the girls against James—or, at the very least, in making them distant from him and his friends. That, she supposes, is her next mission: to talk to the girls.
Unfortunately, Gryffindor Tower is infuriatingly far. Alina treks through the winding halls and ascending staircases, her muttered curses echoing softly in the empty corridors. By the time she reaches the portrait of the Knight, her patience is threadbare.
The knight in the painting gives her an inquisitive look, one brow raised. "Password?"
Alina scowls, glaring at the painting as if her annoyance alone can open the door. She hasn't come all this way to be stopped by a bloody password.
Behind her, a low chuckle breaks the silence. Alina turns sharply, her glare locking onto the boy approaching.
He's unfamiliar—definitely a Gryffindor, judging by the loose tie slung around his neck. His reddish-brown hair is a tousled mess, his light eyes glint with amusement, and his tan skin practically glows in the dim light of the corridor.
"Visiting a friend?" he asks, tilting his head, his voice laced with teasing curiosity.
"Yes. Do you know the password?" Alina's tone is flat, her expression unyielding.
The boy quirks a brow, his gaze drifting to her Slytherin tie before snapping back to her face. "And how do I know you're not just here to prank the dorms?"
"You don't," she snaps, turning back to the portrait. "Either say the password, or we'll both be stuck here all night."
He laughs softly, stepping closer to stand beside her. Alina immediately shifts away, her annoyance growing.
