Disclaimer: I am not even a fly speck on JK Rowling's pen, not to mention the coffee stain on her breakfast napkin probably has more money that I have. I claim no rights, no suey!
Two: Morningside
"Guu morny Heriney," Harry says, ever the cheerful, friendly, protector of Hogwarts (and any district unmentioned in the Universe). Hermione deciphers his 'can't-be-bothered-to-swallow' breakfast speech easily, and smiles at him. Beside him, Ron shovels spoonfuls of eggs and runty fried piglets into his wide-open (and, being a Weasley, overlarge) mouth, glancing guiltily upward at Hermione. She quickly tilts her head away and pretends she doesn't notice him, but inwardly whoops at signs of his quick repentance regarding his rude treatment of her the night before. She quickly extrapolates his contrite behavior and calculates that she has, at the very least, a full thirty-six hours before Madame Pomfrey's evil twin shoves a brand new testosterone syringe up his royally freckled arse. At that time, he will fully revert to his normal—and therefore very unpleasant—self, but, up until then, she will milk his reparations for all they are worth. She might even manage a full bag of fizzing whizbees this time!
She sits across from Harry, carefully crosses her legs and begins to butter her toast with the utmost primness. This morning, she is not just 'one of the guys,' she is the supreme example of worshipful femininity, an icon of affection and adoration. She holds her head up high behind a jug of milk, glancing to and fro about the Great Hall, as though inviting any man who dared to sit beside her (though, with the exorbitant number of books piled up on the bench on either side of her, I'm not sure where'd that'd be).
Ron has forgotten about Hermione again for now (that pompous ass), and is now consuming a plate and a half of strawberry waffles slathered in a gallon of syrup (hope he drowns). Harry too, is yet to be unoccupied by his breakfast, and, glancing down the table, it's easy to see that most of the other Gryffindors share his hearty appetite. Sally-Anne Perks, of Hufflepuff, is tossing her hair and gossiping loudly at the table to the right about her night in the Prefect's bathroom with God-knows-who. A glance past the empty Ravenclaw table (being the studious, omnipotent brains of the school, their attention is required elsewhere in more sagacious chambers) would bring mighty Slytherin into view, every student accompanied by their own personal house-elf to wipe their mouth and cut their breakfast cutlets into itty bitty bite-size pieces.
Most of the students dressed in silver and green are far too occupied with Voldemort's slimy hand shoved up their grandiose arses, but one pair of grey eyes is turned away, shimmering with banners of red and gold. You see none other than Draco Malfoy himself, son of the fearsome Death Eater Lucius Malfoy (otherwise known as the Pansy Whore of Voldemort). In his hand is clutched a small piece of paper, wrinkled and worn from long, loving use. If he were to unclench his perfectly manicured fingers, we would quickly see that it is a photograph ripped from the very bowels of Colin Creevey's own ever-flashing wizard camera, its occupant looking wan and worried as it poked at the torn side of the picture which had once contained the cheerful, smiling faces of the ubiquitous Two—that is, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. That's right, boys and girls, it appears the snake of Slytherin has a crush, and that oh-so-lucky girl is Hermione Granger herself.
The first bell is ringing now, and while Draco takes a last, long look in the direction of his unrequited love, Pansy Parkinson of Slytherin trips on an invisible flagstone and falls directly on our Mr. Malfoy, pawing desperately to regain her footing.
"Oh Draco, sorry there," she says huskily, taking as much opportunity to feel Draco up as possible, letting her hands wander while she pushes her ample buttocks back into Draco-free air space. Draco masks his sigh of contempt into a snarl, but doesn't press the issue. With only a troll, a couple of dragon bogeys, and some ambiguously androgynous character as competition, Draco has become used to the wanton affections of the sexually frustrated Slytherin girls, though he far from fancies them. While it may have made for an interesting assortment of advantageous situations before, now that he had grown attached to Hermione, it had become simply bothersome. Inwardly, he wished the Slytherin girls would just turn lesbian already.
