BANALITY : Draco Malfoy

18

I wasn't sure when I fell asleep, but the room is bright from the light through the blinds. I wipe the sleep out of my eyes, turning my body to look at the spot where Draco ought to be. He isn't there, not that I expected anything different.

Instead, he's sitting at the desk, hunched over and reading a book. I shuffle to the edge of the bed and sit on it. He turns around to see me, putting the book on his desk and closing it.

"You're up late," he points out.

I massage my temple. There is a familiar ache in me. It does not bring me comfort.

"What time is it?" I ask, blinking and looking around the room for a clock.

I spot it just as he speaks, "half past nine."

"You consider that late?" I shake my head.

My shift starts in the early afternoon, so I'll have time to get home, shower, and probably deal with my flatmates' anger at ditching them. At least I'll be able to escape to the inn for a few hours of peace. I don't know if Graham is working. I don't know if I want him to be there.

I stand up, unsure what to do now. He must be more used to this than I am. At least, more used to the aftermath of a hook-up. I wonder if when he has a one-night stand, does he sleep in the same bed as the girl? Does he leave before she wakes? Does he kick her out before she begins to doze off?

No, he doesn't. At least, maybe he doesn't have casual sex. He panics. We couldn't even have sex last night either.

He gets up, moving to the closet for me. I walk over to the desk, looking at the book he was reading. The bright cover reveals what it is before I can make out the title.

"You far into that?" I ask.

"Rereading," he looks at the book just after I do. "Finished it yesterday."

"That good?" I ask with a smile on my face that could be mistaken for a smirk.

"Well, I rushed the ending," he says. "I figured you'd want to discuss it yesterday."

I'm hardly through the first third of The Great Gatsby. Maybe I'm a slow reader, but I can't imagine finishing a novel in eight days. Maybe it's because I didn't rush through parts as he did. Maybe it's because he has no job, doing God knows what rich people do with their time. Regardless, I had better finish the first book soon, so I have something to talk to him about.

He turns back to the closet, before pulling out a pair of grey sweatpants and tossing them at me.

"They'll be big, but put them on," he gestures for me to go into the bathroom once more. "I'll walk you home."

I do as he says. I have to pull their drawstring even tighter than I did his pajama bottoms. Once I have everything on, and I've combed my fingers through my hair to make it look somewhat presentable, I walk out. He has my dress in a bag, ready for me. I am forced to put on those strappy heels that I wore to the bar. With this mismatch of men's clothes and club shoes, I must look ridiculous. He doesn't say anything. It's kind of unfair. He's dressed in clothes that look like they match, though once again they are all black.

We begin the walk back to mine. It's closer than I had expected, only about 20 minutes away. We're far enough from the river that there are many people on the streets that we pass.

"When can we reschedule?" he asks.

"Last night?" I feel bad that we were supposed to do something and did something else, although he is the one that cancelled.