The bathroom floor is cold against your bare thighs. Cold enough that you feel it through the thrumming exhaustion, through the ache in your ribs from heaving. The tile is white and immaculate—Pansy charmed it clean yesterday, muttering about how you were going to make yourself sick living like this. The air still smells of peppermint and bile, despite the charms. Your wand lies discarded by the sink. You don't have the strength to reach for it.