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 rolls her eyes as Barty animatedly speaks to Regulus, his hands gesturing wildly as if trying to paint a picture with his words. It's early morning, and breakfast in the Great Hall is still relatively quiet. Alina sits across from Peter, who has scattered pieces of parchment spread before him.
Peter is bent over his Transfiguration homework, a furrow of deep confusion etched across his face.
She narrows her eyes, her gaze dropping to the parchment. It's hardly complete. The temptation to give him one of the answers flickers through her mind, but before she can speak, something—or rather someone—draws her attention beyond Peter.
James Potter.
He's staring at her from across the room, his usual animated charm replaced with an unnervingly blank expression. Sirius sits beside him, clearly trying—and failing—to capture James's focus.
James's uniform is surprisingly neat for once, though his hair is as tousled as ever. At least his glasses are properly perched on his nose for a change.
Alina forces herself to glare at him, a faint curl of contempt pulling at her lips. James's face falters, his expression slipping into something unreadable before he looks away, his gaze falling to the table in front of him.
It hits her harder than she wants to admit.
The ache in her chest is sharp and unwelcome, and she loathes it. Loathes that she still cares. Loathes that she doesn't want to hurt him, despite everything.
Merlin, it's insufferable.
Maybe it would be better to feel nothing at all. Numbness, at least, is simpler—cleaner than the tangled mess clawing at her now.
"Lia."
Barty's voice snaps her out of her thoughts. He leans in, lowering his voice to a whisper, his sharp eyes flicking past Peter with a glare. "You've been ignoring Potter since term started, and he's been staring at you like you kicked his bloody puppy. What happened?"
Alina's jaw tightens. She hasn't told Barty anything. Nothing about what happened. Nothing about the bet. Nothing.
Not because she doesn't trust him—she does—but because she knows exactly how he would react. Barty isn't one for measured responses; his "accidents" would likely leave someone dead.
She turns to him with narrowed eyes. "If I tell you, you're not allowed to kill any of them. Yet."
Barty's expression darkens, confusion flickering across his face before he gives her a reluctant nod.
Alina exhales slowly. Her voice is steady, but there's an edge of bitterness to it. "James made a bet with his friends that he could be my friend. That's why he was always hanging around."
