The hospital room was devoid of color as was she. Its walls were eggshell, not peeling or smeared, just eggshell. There were no decorations save for listless curtains barely shielding the room from the street lamp’s assault. A box of Honeydukes’ sweetest chocolates had been left untouched at her bedside. She had a feverish recollection of Albus dropping them in the middle of the night but caught in a misty slumber since her admission, the professor had yet to reach out to the box and look for clues from its giver.
Her body felt heavy and limp, while her articulations seemed recalcitrant and vindictive; sending sharp pains whenever she dared moved. She had been attacked on Hogwarts grounds, attacked at her home by Ministry employees, old students nonetheless. The notion of what had happened was taunting her as if trying to pull her out of her haze by way of anger.
Fingers twitching, seemingly using the strength residing in her entire body, she finally opened her eyes. Realizing the resistance in her fingers came from a palm covering them, the witch frowned. “Make it harder for me to move, why don’t you?” She quipped, feeling as though speaking through a mouth full of wool.
Of course, Amelia was at her bedside. It was foolish to risk such open loyalty, but Minerva did not have the strength to argue her perspective.