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...
Alina sits at her desk, staring out the window. The afternoon light casts a pale glow over the snow-covered ground, where winter has long since claimed everything in its grasp. The trees stand bare, their skeletal branches stretching toward the sky, and the gardens lie buried beneath thick frost.
Her gaze drops to the small piece of parchment in her hand. James's address. She has memorized it by now—can recite it with her eyes closed.
Slowly, she folds the parchment and slips it into the hidden compartment of her desk drawer. A soft click as it shuts, sealing away a secret she can barely admit to herself.
They have only been home for a day. Christmas isn't far off. Most likely, she'll spend it locked in her room, reading some hollow, warming story that will leave her feeling emptier than before.
A knock breaks through the quiet.
Alina straightens at once, her spine snapping rigid. "Come in," she calls, voice carefully controlled as she turns toward the door.
Her mother steps inside, her presence as sharp and cold as the air outside.
"There's a ball tonight," she announces, her tone devoid of warmth. "Your fiancé will be there. A dress is in your wardrobe."
"Alright," Alina replies, her voice even colder, honed to a sharp edge.
Her mother makes a soft noise—something between acknowledgment and disapproval. The familiar flicker of disgust crosses her face before she turns on her heel and leaves, the door slamming shut behind her.
A familiar heat stirs beneath Alina's skin, a slow, simmering anger curling through her veins. Disgust, too, but hers is aimed right back at the woman who has shaped so much of her life into something suffocating.
She is tired.
Tired of him.
Tired of the family's endless politics.
Tired of playing the part they have written for her.
And, more than anything, she is tired of pretending it doesn't make her furious.
Alina slowly turns back to the window, exhaling a steady breath as if it might ground her. She grips the edge of her desk, forcing herself to breathe—to think—before the temptation to climb out the window and jump becomes too strong to ignore.
~~~
Alina stares at her reflection in the mirror. The dress waiting in her wardrobe is black—deep, inky fabric that flares slightly at the skirt, elegant yet suffocating.
She has curled her hair a bit more than usual, letting it fall freely, leaving behind the headband she always wears.
Her shoes, sleek with a slight heel, match the dress perfectly.
