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 lets her gaze wander over the path she has already taken, her footsteps leaving faint impressions in the snow. December arrives in full force, and it seems as though snow falls every day, blanketing the ground in white.
At least the paths are charmed to stay warm, allowing the snow to melt away underfoot.
It's early morning, and Alina is outside despite the biting cold. She can't sleep. That familiar gnawing tug in her chest—the sensation that something is wrong—pulled her from her bed and into the frigid air.
She wraps her robes tighter around herself, though the chill still seeps into her bones. Her fingers, stiff and pale, curl against the fabric. She's been out here for at least thirty minutes, pacing the stone pathways of the courtyard.
Her breath fogs in front of her as she turns a corner. She thinks, briefly, about heading back inside to warm herself by the fire. Her hands are starting to look a little blue.
And then she hears it.
"Nightshade."
Alina freezes. Her head snaps up, but no one is there.
That isn't a voice she recognizes—not Snape, not anyone she's spoken to recently.
Her eyes narrow at the path ahead, her pulse quickening. She takes a tentative step forward, her boots crunching softly against the stones.
"Nightshade."
The voice comes again, cold and sharp, sending a shiver down her spine. She catches a flicker of movement at the far end of the path, partially obscured by one of the stone pillars.
Alina tilts her head, her mind racing. That voice—it sounds so familiar. And then it hits her.
Tom Riddle.
Her breath hitches as she stares at the half-hidden figure. It can't be real, can it?
The rational part of her mind screams at her to turn back, but curiosity—or perhaps something darker—propels her forward. Her pace quickens, her footsteps echoing against the stones. The figure flickers, but the features are unmistakable. Tom Riddle.
And then he's gone.
Alina blinks, her heart pounding in her chest. She keeps moving, turning the corner where the figure had been, her breath shallow.
She collides with someone taller, the impact jolting her back to reality.
"Sunshine?"
Alina looks up, startled, and finds herself face-to-face with James Potter.
There's no figure, no voice—just her and James now.
His hands hover near her arms, concern etched into his features. "Alina, are you alright?"
