Pillow Thoughts
There are many things Draco Malfoy is proud of and it's safe to say that his sleeping arrangements, supervised by his mother ("I do know what I'm doing." Narcissus Malfoy had said to her slightly exasperated son), are not excluded.
His downy pillow, bulging with only the softest feathers of the Phoenix and crafted by a Bulgarian master artisan, feels like a literal cloud and provides just the right amount of support to the neck. The pillow, envied by all students in the house of Slytherin, is a stuff of legend. Of course, it is; the Malfoy wealth demands no less than perfection. His blanket is made from the spun fibers of the Mangalora silkworms, giving the bottle-green dye of the fabric a faint sheen and such intricate, faint designs that shift into something new each night. So soft and so warm is the make of his blanket that Draco must lock it in his chest in the morning lest someone steals it away. In a total of four times has Draco returned to the dorm to find his chest tampered with unsuccessful attempts to break in. Even the standard mattress that Hogwarts provides (still exceptionally made in its own rights) is switched out for a custom, Malfoy-approved one.
With such an exemplary and excellent quality anyone could ever expect out of bedding, you would think Draco's sleep came as soon as his body touched the bed. You would bloody well think.
But Draco's eyes are wide awake and dry because he hasn't been allowed to blink at the very least. Even without the aid of a mirror, Draco knows there are a plethora of red veins decorating the otherwise pristine white canvas of his sclera. And there is definitely purplish, grey bags sagging his under-eye and that slight ringing in his tired mind. And the watch on his bedtable tells him that he's been up for so long that it will reflect on the rest of the functioning day.
And his cheek and part of his nose are throbbing with a phantom pain that he can thank Granger's vicious swing for. The mark of the injury had not been too serious, nothing a quick trip to the healing ward couldn't fix.
Oh, for the shame of it. He'd better owl home with a missive explaining the criminality. His father and mother would have an aneurysm at the thought of a filthy Mudblood touching their pure son. His father, especially, would storm Hogwarts and straight to the headmaster's quarters just to expel the chit who dared. Draco's lips twitch at the thought of Granger going back to whatever dirt she came from on the Hogwarts train with her wild head hanging in shame and regret of soiling the Malfoy heir.
Perhaps they'll snap her wand too, Draco gleefully thinks. Or, better yet, they'll put a spell on her that will shear off that horrid mess of what she calls hair.
The image of Granger pelting down the slope to meet him comes to Draco's mind. Even then, her curls had a mind of its own, snarling and bouncing with the rage of its owner.
She had been flushed an alarming color- a shade of red Draco has never seen on a person before- and her eyes had been flashing dangerously. The hue of toffee and whiskey.
Of mud and owl droppings, Draco corrects himself.
Her pink lips were trembling. Again, Draco thinks absently, he's never seen a shade of that color before on a person. The small hand holding her wand was trembling as well. When she drops her wand and swings her hand towards his cheek, it had been trembling also. Not with fear, but anger. It's a lot of anger for someone as petite as Granger, especially alongside two dim-wits that grow like reeds. Draco himself has to look down to meet her eyes. He reckons she'd have to stand on her toes to tuck her chin above his shoulder, like Pansy Parkinson has been doing quite a lot lately.
For her size, the chit has gall, he'll give her that.
Draco stiffens when he realizes Granger is taking a lot more of his thoughts than she has any rights to.
Blindly reaching out to his bed stand, he finds a vial of sleeping draught. It's his last option, when all else fails because Draco hates the way it gives him headaches and churns his stomach the morning after. With a grimace and a silent oath, Draco tips down the contents into his throat.
As he lays under his excellent covers and drifts off to a dreamless sleep, the last thing Draco remembers is lips with an interesting shade of pink and trembling, small hands.
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