The Morning After || Draco & Pansy
The first thing Draco was aware of, even before he properly woke up, was noise. It was thunderous, reverberating, and incessant. As awareness gradually crawled in along the edges of Draco's consciousness, he eventually realized what it was: snoring. Specifically, the extraordinarily loud and obnoxious snoring of both Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe, intermingling in the most appalling way.
With a groan, Draco rolled over and dragged a pillow over his face, but that did very little to muffle the rumbling, choking sounds. I wish they would choke, Draco thought sharply, both of them. They never did, though. The snoring just went on, and on, and on. Giving up at last, Draco threw off the covers and yanked his curtains open.
Muted, lake-tinted sunlight poured through the thick windows of the fourth year boys' dormitory. Draco winced and squinted, wondering why it was so very bright this morning, even though he could tell it really wasn't. But it felt bright enough, and moreso. Flinching from the glare, he yanked on a dressing gown and stuffed his feet into slippers then padded across the icy stone floor to their shared bathroom. He spared a glance for the other four beds--all their curtains still closed in blissful slumber, thunderous noise emanating from two of them--then started grudgingly getting ready for the morning.
At first he made as much noise as he could, dropping things heavily and banging around, but then his sensible, self-preserving side woke up, and he quickly quieted. He might be cross with Crabbe and Goyle for interrupting his sleep, but the last thing he wanted to do actually wake them up. Then they would be awake, and no matter how annoying their snoring was, the two bullies were infinitely worse when they weren't sleeping--even if, being so dull they could hardly string three words together, they were usually quieter when they woke up, they were also more violent.
And with a stuffy headache already itching at his temples, and making his bleary eyes throb drily, the last thing he needed was to add bruises from Crabbe and Goyle.
Grumbling under his breath, Draco stomped back out of the dormitory. He carried the latest book on Potions that Uncle Sev had lent him tucked under one arm, figuring that if he had to be awake so early, he could at least be entertained.
After taking a moment to scan the common room, without noticing anyone else awake at this early hour (and why would they be, after such a late night? The only reason he was up was because of those two idiots and their inability to cast a proper silencing charm!), Draco chose one of the choicest spots by the tall windows -- not somewhere he would ordinarily dare sit, for the attention that such a prominent position would garner, but if he was alone (and he seemed to be) there was no one to object, or come and bother him.
He curled up in one of the plush, tall-backed chairs near the wall, the lake at his back. Draco cracked his book open and had just started the section on viscosity versus texture, and the subtleties that could be achieved through different balances of the two, when a sudden noise made him look up.
