Muggles ✧ Drarry

𝓲𝓲

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.2ᴋ
ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ: ɴᴏᴠᴇᴍʙᴇʀ 4ᴛʜ, 2020
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The sunlight was soaking through the dense curtains of Draco's bedroom as if its only purpose was to wake him up. The faint shrills and chirps of early birds could be heard from where Draco had his head laid on his soft pillow. His soft sheets clung gently to his skin, and the heat of the room was somewhere between just right and too warm.

Draco's eyes peeked open slowly, taking in what his tired retinas could comprehend so early in the morning. The first shapes understandable were that of Draco's armoire and his lower side-table. On it were a few things that he knew but could not see for a few instances. Then, they became focused, and his room was alive once more.

There was, however, something odd. There was something off. Why had he woken so early, when the sunlight had barely reached its fingers above the branches of the trees? The birds were awake, but the night owls had not yet returned from their hunting the night before. The sun was rising, but the moon had not yet been outshined, and was still showing prominently. Shadows were still weak, and the sky was pink, contrasting with its usual blue colour greatly.

Something wasn't right. Something was different about this morning than all of the others.

Draco had gone to sleep at a reasonable time, but that time had been ideal for waking up at a reasonable time as well. From the sight of his analog clock, Draco could tell that it was far too early for this. It was barely pushing seven, and he wasn't scheduled to awaken until eight. That didn't seem to be so much of a discrepancy, but Draco's body was a temple of the utmost perfection; he needed to get ample sleep if he wanted it to remain in working order, and this was definitely not following that guideline.

What was different? What was forcing him awake before Blaise had time to send his apology owl for not showing up? What had his mind's gears turning faster than the wings of a snitch could beat? Draco stretched his shoulders up a bit, finally allowing for the acceptance of his liveliness to set in. He peered around his bed once he was sitting upright, and sighed with a small breath of early-morning relief.

After a few moments of considering his plans for the day, Draco stood, swinging his legs off of the mattress and onto the cold floor. His feet felt the immediate shock of the chilled wood, experiencing the traveling of the iciness up to his spine. It was warm outside now, and the heat could be felt through the window panes, yet somehow the floors remained uncomfortable. Was there something wrong with his heating charm? Draco made a mental note to check in on that when he got back from work.

Draco's eyes fell upon the potted plant he had gotten from Neville. Frederick—the plant, if you remember—seemed to be watching Draco without eyes. The plant had its mouth pointed towards him slightly, evidently awake, unlike it had been the day before. Draco crossed the room to tap its 'snout' and he awaited a judgement. There was hardly a few moments before the plant let out a grey cloud, strictly that and nothing more. Draco attempted to recall what the different colours meant, and then remembered that grey was longing. He shook his head, and wondered if his eyes were working properly. Perhaps there had been a blue tint, or maybe a green streak that had gotten lost in the other colour.

But alas, it was nothing but grey. It was fitting, he decided, since the blue skies felt forced now, and the world might as well have been grey.

Draco looked away from the obviously deranged plant, and his grey eyed fell on his obviously disorganized bed. One of his pillows had made it to the floor, where it sat with conviction, contrasting from the dark wood of his bedposts. Its light grey hue balanced nicely, and Draco had to take a moment to complement himself on his sense of appreciated modern furniture. He truly was a genius when it came to putting together room-design.