For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.
*****
Awake
They hadn’t said a word when he stopped sleeping, not that he expected it, selfish prats. He supposed they’d grown tired of his restless turning, and were happy to be rid of him. They left the common room empty for him now, no schoolbooks left out for him to throw into the fire when the rage inevitably hit. He spent his nights in a tall chair facing the flames, eyes filled with visions of his father being carried off to Azkaban. His mind raced over plots of rescue and glorious revenge, knuckles white as he gripped the chair’s velvet arms.
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