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Track Four: Motion Sickness, Phoebe Bridgers
The sun poured in through the window, cracking in shards of gold across the floor of the four pale yellow walls of Circe Black's room. Her window had two glass panes, which were currently covered by two white curtains — an almost sheer color which Circe complained about endlessly, only for Andromeda to insist that sunlight was good for her. The curtains glowed gold, pouring the molten sun over Circe every morning, awakening her at an ungodly hour. It was a shame that just as she left for school, the world got darker in the mornings, allowing her more sleep, a rarity at Hogwarts.
That September first she laid half awake, one eye open as she groggily rubbed her other and dragged her hands across her forehead in pure exasperation. The bed she was laying in, almost swallowed her whole, her body nestled in the crooks of her sunken mattress. She liked to think her bed could eat her all if it ever grew a brain, as she swam in the thousands of comforters, throw pillows and quilts she insisted upon layering on top of one another.
"It's Boho, Don't you think Stevie Nicks would approve?"
Dora had no doubt she would, that is, if she took the time to know who Stevie Nicks actually was.
Music was the cause of many eye-rolls and playful arguments between the two. No matter how much the two excitedly obsessed over muggle fashion — music was simply not a topic they found any common ground on. Nymphadora proudly adored wizard bands in all their glory — bands like Hawthorn & Holly, Weird Sisters, Oliver Boyd and the Remembralls, and other outlandish names that Circe turned her nose up at.
She on the other hand listened to practically every kind of muggle music you could think of, forty different albums arranged in a colorful array of vinyls on her shelf that Uncle Ted had built for her. Circe was just a little obsessed with music.
Her nightstand was usually covered with candles and books ( which were probably a fire hazard, but so was being a bird who burst into flames, making it logical in her head ). Her closet was beside her night stand — and since she flat out refused to have normal doors, a purple, orange and gold beaded covering rattled with the wind drifting in from the open window. The carpet, formerly a clean white, was littered with various knick knacks like a broken muggle CD player she had undertaken as a project to fix — the muggle way, with no magic. It proved difficult and Circe had put it on her carpet as a reminder to ask her cousin if she could fix it while she was away.
Circe dragged herself out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor, crisp air clasping onto her and creeping up her spine like ivy coiling up a greek pillar. Her room was often cold in the mornings despite the heat that brewed in the later hours of the day. She padded to the slightly open window, her sock covered feet creaking upon the ancient wooden floors as she stood up on tiptoe to draw the window closed. She turned to face her room, rubbing sleep from her eyes whilst doing so; vision dotting itself with stardust specks as she rubbed her eyes.
