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everyone go comment nice things on petitfruitmarocains board bc she helped me tons and has been helping me tons with the french in this chapter and some precious chapters and she's the cutest ever
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SEPTEMBER 12th, 1996
I gasp, eyes flying open.
My heart pounds wildly in my chest, my throat constricting, and instantly I start choking, air unable to get into my lungs or escape them. I'm scrambling for purchase, ripping the covers off my body and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
I pant heavily, clawing at my throat with one hand and twisting the bedsheets beside me with another, face screwed up tight while I will my breathing to slowly calm.
Walls, I remind myself, and through the struggle of getting a lungful of sweet air, of calming my racing heart down, of relaying my nightmare over and over again in my head, I manage to swell the size of my stone walls just enough to breathe normally. Sighing out in relief, I drop my hand from my throat and grip the edge of the bed tightly, waiting for my pulse to relax.
Behind me, a soundly sleeping Pansy makes a tired noise, still deep in her slumber.
A nightmare. This isn't the first time I've had a nightmare even after taking my Sleeping Draught before going to bed. It worked the same, making me almost instantly tired, dropping me off into the blank abyss of my mind within seconds, but here I am now, veins electrified and ready to fight or flee at any given second, at—I glance up at the clock over the bed—two in the morning, up and with my mind still reeling.
When three drops stopped being enough, I started taking four. That lasted about a week, so now I'm taking five. For some reason, my magic is building an immunity to the Draught. It's not strong enough anymore, not working the way it should against my nightmares—
Just like that odd woman in the apothecary on Knockturn Alley said.
I swallow thickly, pulling open the drawer of my nightstand. Pansy's room is mostly devoid of my belongings, as despite the fact I spend most nights here with her, I keep all my clothes and study materials back in my shared dorm. Some of the only things here include my Draught.
Both Draughts, actually. I carefully pick up that dark brown bottle, the one lacking a label, and then it over in my hands before deciding that unless I want to die some kind of torturous death, I should keep it aside. I pick my regular Draught up instead, sighing softly as I turn it over to read its description and warnings.
