Irrevocably

1. Awake

The unfamiliarly familiar room I inhabit mocks me and my restlessness.

Hours upon hours of glaring at the ceiling and willing sleep that refuses to come finally makes me give in. Conceding that insomnia wins this time, I throw the blanket off with an exasperated huff.

The ink-coloured sky suggests sunrise is still hours away. And though I've become well-acquainted with solitude lately, sitting with my own jumbled thoughts until the others wake sounds miserable.

Flicking the lamp beside me on, I push myself up to sitting with shaking arms and sigh. I had tried staying in the room they told me was mine, but I never found comfort in it. The bed was too large, lonely and cold with only me taking up space. And the decorations I'd once put in it were torn down in a fit of rage weeks ago, leaving it barren and void of any proof I had once called it my own.

Instead, I temporarily moved into Sirius' childhood bedroom and found a bit more comfort. Not much, but some. The house itself is dark, muted. Sirius apparently took the overwhelming gloom as a challenge when decorating his room, it seems. The overabundance of red and gold littering the walls from floor-to-ceiling would be too much in different circumstances. But compared to the rest of the house, it's one of the more welcoming areas.

I'm not sure why I feel better here, with posters of lions and banners reading Gryffindor, but I do. In my constant state of unknowing, the consistency of the room is a relief.

It takes a great effort to get out of bed, so I move slowly to save some strength. The perpetual ache I feel has yet to subside, and the tremors that I've grown accustomed to make me even more fragile.

My own restlessness motivates me, though, and I carefully force myself out of the bed and onto feeble legs.

Cursing my own shaking limbs, I prop myself with one arm and remake the bed. I was assured this is my house, that I can do what I please and shouldn't be bothered with mundane courtesies like tidying my room. But I still feel like a guest, and I'll be damned if I'm not a proper one.

Slowly but surely, I move towards the small bag of my belongings resting below a floor-length mirror that I covered with a sheet. And after stripping down completely, I pull it down to do my daily assessment. Instantly, I regret it. Just like every other morning.

Staring at my own reflection is pitiful.

In any other circumstance, I suppose some of my features would be attractive in a conventional way. But the thing staring back at me is anything but.

My skin is awfully pale, only further discoloured by the sickly green of healing bruises muddling my body. Dark circles under my eyes dull the otherwise pretty colour, making me look lifeless, and my body is far-too-skinny. The remnants of curves are still there, and the food and potions I've been practically force-fed have started to fill me out a bit. There's still a long way to go, though.

Putting the sheet back over the mirror so that I don't have to see myself more than I want to, I rummage through my bag, opting for comfort. I tug on a small pair of black shorts that hang loosely, thinking to myself that they'd probably look better with fuller thighs and hips but not finding it in me to care. I keep searching for a shirt, the right shirt, and finally find it balled at the bottom. The only thing in this godforsaken place that actually feels like mine.

I pull it down over me and tuck my fingers into the collar, bringing it over my nose and inhaling the familiar scent. It isn't much, but it's mine. The huge shirt was clearly not made for someone of my stature, but I'm awfully fond of it and how it doesn't suffocate me. Gryffindor Quidditch is scrawled in bold, gold lettering that compliments the deep red, similar to all the decoration in the room around me.