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 skipping Potions class. Not that it really matters—she's skipping to do exactly what she would have been doing there anyway: making a potion. Specifically, Wolfsbane. Advanced for her level, sure, but hardly a challenge.
As the bell signals the change of classes, Alina slips out of the room she's just been in, heading toward the dungeons once more. Merlin, the walk feels endless. The first floor teems with students moving in every direction, and unfortunately, she's on the far side of the castle.
Weaving through the crowded corridors, Alina's patience wears thin. Finally, she finds one of the quieter, less-traveled routes. Relieved, she adjusts her pace, her shoes tapping against the stone floor, the sound echoing faintly in the deserted passage.
It's only been a day since the full moon, and she needs to start brewing the potion today for it to have any chance of working. Not that it will work properly anyway—not with the subpar ingredients she has access to. Everything is too diluted, too compromised.
Maybe one day, she'll be able to get the proper ingredients.
She rolls her eyes at herself. Who is she kidding? There won't be a "one day." She doesn't plan on living that long.
The dim light filtering through the tall, rain-streaked windows adds a dreary haze to the corridor. The storm outside is relentless, clouds blotting out any hint of the sun. Alina's thoughts begin to wander—
She freezes mid-step, blinking at the empty hall ahead. That familiar tug grips her mind, wrenching her away from reality. A vision.
Her eyes dart around, searching for somewhere—anywhere—she can hide. Spotting a statue tucked into a corner, she darts behind it, squeezing into the cramped, narrow space just as the vision overtakes her.
When her eyes open, she's somewhere else entirely. A dark, damp room. A cell.
Her gaze instinctively sweeps the floor, searching for Barty. If this is a repeat vision—
But it isn't Barty lying there. It isn't anyone she recognizes.
A man sits bound to a chair in the center of the room. His dark hair is matted with dirt and blood, though she can tell it had once been lighter. His head hangs forward, obscuring his face. His clothes are torn and filthy, reduced to little more than rags.
Alina's sharp eyes narrow as she takes in the sight. She's near the edge of the room, frozen in place. This time, she can't move—her body refuses to obey her. Only her head, her gaze, shifts.
Her head tilts as she surveys the cell. She doesn't recognize it—bare walls, damp air, the faint flicker of a torch in the hallway outside. A staircase winds upward just beyond the cell door, but Alina can't shift her position enough to see it clearly.
