Nine-forty five? Draco cursed himself as he slung his feet over the bed. So much for Crabbe and Goyle being his alarm clock. Then, regretfully, he remembered that neither could tell time. He pulled on his cloak and grabbed his bag, then dashed up the stairs and headed to Defense Against the Dark Arts. For some reason he'd been sleepier than usual since they'd all returned to Hogwarts.
At this point, he was back to the ideal of thinking being a prefect sucked because you had to be a good example. Draco (although secretly) followed this rule to his best of ability hoping to impress Dumbledore. (Again, secretly)
Inside, he knew that he stood no chance against Potter, but there was still some hope lingering deep down. He had grown up a lot in many ways over the summer. Yet...then again he'd undergone more in the summer than he'd expected, and as the Second War began, he came to realize where loyalties should lie, and what made you a man.
He had grown fond of some rather unexpected people, and that was to come inevitably, but somehow, it was hard to come to par with his decision. He just needed a little success. Any boost of confidence and he was in. Permanently.