Seers Secret ✧ James Potter

~Chapter 110~

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It's early morning, far too early for breakfast, yet Alina is already up and ready for the day.

Sleep evades her again.

She finds it maddening how many people still cling to the idea of blood purity. The entire concept is... insane. How can they not see it for what it is? A fantasy cloaked in prejudice, built to control and divide.

Her thoughts wander, as they often do in moments like these. How many of her classmates have already joined the Death Eaters? The sixth years, perhaps. Definitely the seventh years.

And for what? To bow down to Tom Riddle—a half-blood, no less—while branding their children with his Dark Mark like cattle. It's pathetic.

Alina's gaze fixes on the flickering flame of the candle on her desk. The tiny light dances for a moment before she leans forward and blows it out. Darkness pools in its absence, but her mind remains busy.

How many children truly believe the nonsense Mulciber preaches?

She stands slowly, the wood of her chair creaking as she pushes it back, and makes her way to her bed. Her bag sits there, waiting. Perhaps she can go outside for a while. It's too early to face the Great Hall or anyone else.

The Slytherin common room is eerily quiet as she steps into it, the dark green sofas and dim lighting offering little comfort. She bypasses them without a glance, her footsteps echoing faintly in the cold dungeon hall. The air is damp, biting at her skin as she ascends the stone stairs, her shoes tapping lightly against the floor.

Would Regulus join the Death Eaters?

He will die. That much she knows from her visions. Whether in the cave or shortly after from his injuries.

The visions always end the same way. He's being dragged under, water closing over his head as he screams something she can barely hear.

Alina shakes her head, trying to push the image away. She doesn't know why he's in the cave—searching for something, perhaps—but the details never make sense. Only his face stands out, sharper than it is now, older by maybe a year or two.

Will she even be alive to see it?

She barely notices as her feet carry her to the castle doors. Pushing them open, she steps into the crisp morning air. Sunlight bathes the grounds, warming her skin and reflecting off the dew-drenched grass. A slight breeze ruffles her hair as she tightens her grip on her bag.

The quiet is almost soothing. The early light softens the world around her, making everything feel far away—her visions, her fears, her doubts.

The grass crunches softly underfoot as she wanders near the castle walls, their towering stone casting long shadows across the lawn. She turns a corner, her thoughts still tangled, but stops abruptly.

Something—or someone—moves just ahead.

A flash of a figure disappearing around the next bend.

Alina's eyes narrow. Has someone else been up this early? Her mind flicks to Tom Riddle, unbidden but persistent.

Without thinking, she quickens her pace, the sound of her shoes crunching against the grass breaking the stillness of the morning. She turns the corner, expecting to see someone—anyone—but there's no one.

No one.

The space is utterly empty. Not even a sound reaches her ears beyond the distant chirping of birds and the faint rustling of the wind through the grass.

She must be losing her mind. That has to be it. Why else would she be seeing things—people who aren't there?

Are her visions starting to bleed into reality? Or is her mind unraveling under the weight of years spent seeing death? The images haunt her like ghosts, constant and unyielding.

She's heard stories of the Seers in her family, generations ago. Many of them succumbed to madness.

Most of the Nightshade Seers are women, though Alina has never understood why. The men, it's said, fare worse—they are never made to handle the burden of the visions. They can't endure them, can't survive the toll they exact.

One ancestor in particular stands out in the grim tapestry of her family's history. Despite the Nightshades' efforts to erase her, Amara Nightshade has become a cautionary tale whispered among the family.

It's said Amara foresaw the deaths of her own children. That's what drove her mad.

Her children died young, officially from an illness—or so the family claimed. But Alina knows better. It wasn't a sickness.

One child was pushed from a window by their father, a shadowy figure whose name has been buried alongside the truth. As for the other... Alina doesn't know. Perhaps something equally horrifying.

The Nightshade name is steeped in madness and blood, a legacy that feels like a curse.

Does anyone ever escape it? The weight of their name, their fate?

Her thoughts fracture when she hears it—a voice, familiar and unwelcome, calling her name.

"Alina?"

She spins around, too fast, her heart lurching in her chest.

James Potter stands a few feet away, his white T-shirt altered with cut-off sleeves, loose pants hanging casually from his hips. Sweat glistens on his brow, clinging to his face. His injury, at least, seems to have healed.

Her eyes betray her, flickering to his tanned arms. Every subtle movement flexes the muscle beneath his skin, a constant, irritating reminder of his presence.

She wants to fling herself off the Astronomy Tower just to escape the moment.

"James." She snaps her gaze back to his face, forcing herself to focus. His brows are drawn together in concern, his brown eyes glossy under the sunlight reflecting off his round glasses.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice careful, the tone soft as he takes a small step closer.

"Fine," Alina bites out, her voice clipped and icy, a glare hardening her expression.

"Did... did you have a vision?" he asks, his voice dipping lower, softer still.

She hates him for it.

For that tenderness, that concern. That infuriatingly gentle tone that she dreams of, even when she told herself she didn't care.

It's unbearable. She hates that he cares, that he affects her, that despite all her best efforts, she can't stop herself from caring about him in return.

"No," she replies, her voice cold, uncaring. Her nails bite into her palms as she forces her glare to stay fixed on him.

But her resolve falters, her eyes flickering away from his before she abruptly moves past him. She walks toward the castle entrance, her pace brisk and unrelenting.

She doesn't spare him another glance.