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 stands in Grimmauld Place. A vision. Rarely does her foresight pull her here; she's hardly spent any time in the Black family home.
The Blacks value their privacy, especially after Sirius ran away, shaming the family name.
She stands in the dimly lit hall, her sharp gaze taking in the oppressive darkness that seems to seep from the walls. Flickering candles barely illuminate the corridor, and portraits of stern, disapproving ancestors line the walls.
Black is everywhere—the color, the mood, the essence of the place.
Alina tilts her head as she moves down the narrow hallway, her eyes scanning every detail. Her thoughts churn, wondering what the vision is trying to show her—
A faint, muffled cry breaks the silence, echoing from upstairs.
Her head snaps up, gaze locking on the wooden staircase that fades into shadow. The sound is faint, like someone struggling, their cries muted as if a silencing charm is in place but faltering.
Alina ascends, her steps soundless—not that they would make noise, considering she isn't truly there. Her surroundings blur in her peripheral vision; all her focus hones in on that gasping, broken noise.
It fades intermittently, replaced by the faint, static-like buzz of the faltering silencing charm, then resumes—a soft, desperate sound.
She stops in front of a door.
Her eyes lift to the plaque mounted on it: Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black.
Her brow arches. Of course, it's his room.
The cries continue. Alina reaches for the door, compelled to step through and uncover the source of the sound—
A sharp gasp escapes her lips as she jolts upright in bed, her heart hammering in her chest. Her hands grip the sheets as she struggles to steady her breathing, forcing the panic to subside.
It feels like she's only just closed her eyes.
She isn't sleeping much these days. The thought of seeing Tom Riddle again—or worse, being drawn into another vision—keeps her on edge, too restless to let her guard down.
Alina's gaze flicks to the clock. One hour. She's managed to sleep for only an hour.
It's still more than she got the night before.
With a sigh, she swings her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet meeting the icy chill of the floor. Reaching over, she silences her alarm before it has the chance to go off. It's nearly time for breakfast anyway.
Not that she has much of an appetite these days.
Alina quickly steps into the bathroom, letting the scalding water of the shower wash over her. The sting pulls her from the remnants of the vision, grounding her firmly in reality. The heat clears the fog in her mind, replacing it with a sharp clarity.
