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 is exhausted. And irritated. In other words, her usual state of mind. She strides briskly through the halls, trying to make it to her next class on time.
Lunch ended moments ago, but she got caught up in conversation with Peter, leaving her scrambling now. The crush of students crowding the corridors isn't helping.
Every accidental bump or brush against her skin sends a jolt of frustration through her. She clenches her fists, resisting the urge to rip her own hair out. Merlin, this school is a bloody nightmare.
Rounding a corner, she finally finds herself in a nearly empty hallway. Relief washes over her—if she has to endure one more unwanted interaction today—
"Nightshade."
The voice grates on her nerves immediately. It has become far too familiar for her liking, and she despises it.
Alina turns sharply, her glare already in place. Snape stands a few feet away, smugness practically radiating from his pale face. Her eyes zero in on the small piece of parchment dangling from his hand.
Another meeting.
She'd rather hex herself than sit through another of those gatherings. She doesn't care, doesn't want to go. She'll find some other way to keep Regulus and Barty uninvolved. But listening to yet another diatribe about the inferiority of half-bloods and Muggles? No. Not again.
"There's a meeting tonight," Snape announces, taking a step forward as he holds out the folded parchment.
"No."
The single word cuts through the air, slicing away his smug expression in an instant.
"Oh?" He sounds surprised, his tone shifting slightly. "Do you have something else planned—"
"No," she interrupts, her voice colder now, devoid of emotion. She steps closer, tilting her head slightly as if appraising him, a predator sizing up its prey. He might have the advantage in height, but in this moment, it doesn't matter. "I find your ideals childish. All of you."
The shock on his face deepens, his eyes narrowing in confusion, though a flicker of something else—discomfort, perhaps—betrays him.
Of course, they expect her to agree with the purebloods. She's one of them, isn't she? She should want what they preach.
"I think it's pathetic," Alina says, her voice cutting through the empty hall like a blade. "How you have to invent excuses for your own incompetence instead of admitting you lack the talent for real magic."
Her words hang in the air, cold and sharp. Snape's expression darkens, his hand dipping into his robes. Alina moves just as discreetly, her fingers brushing against her wand.
