Regulus's head throbbed as he woke up in his bed, still dressed in the school robes he'd worn last night. He gently propped himself up on the pillow, just enough to gaze around his dormitory. Most of the beds were empty, but he caught sight of two heads, one blonde and the other dark, hair disheveled, laying on unmade beds. Nott and Blackburn. Jesus, what had he done last night? With Nott and Blackburn? It hurt to think, and the memory wasn't there anyway. He flopped back down, clutching his temples. Never again, said one part of his mind.
That's what you said last time, another bit reminded him. He hadn't even been to that many of these parties, and he wasn't quite sure why he went. They weren't fun to him exactly – not like watching Quidditch or pissing off a righteous Griffindor – but there were people there.
People like Nott and Blackburn. Good people to know. Good people to be friendly with, to have connections with.
He looked down at his wristwatch, and groggily made out the numbers. Damn. Too late for most of his morning classes, and he hadn't a snowflake's chance in hell of making it to Transfiguration.
Fresh air, that's what he needed. .