On Friday night, the eighth floor of the High Tower was quiet.
It was nothing like the last two nights, when Ron, Neville, Seamus, George, and Fred had thrown a small party to celebrate the success of their prank.
By now, at least everyone in the High Tower knew who had done it. But no one would give them away. Umbridge was far too irritating.
There was hardly anyone on the eighth floor tonight.
Neville was on a date with Hannah, while Cedric and Cho Chang were at the Training Ground on the third floor. George and Fred were probably in their workshop working on new products. Who knew what everyone else was doing?
Draco lay on a sofa by the window, listlessly running a hand through his hair as he gazed at the Black Lake in the moonlight.
"What's wrong, Draco?" An unfamiliar voice came from behind him. Draco turned and saw Astoria Greengrass, who had just stepped out of the Vanishing Cabinet.
"Nothing." Draco shook his head. "Just tired. Mentally tired."
And no wonder. One day of lessons had given Draco a taste of what Harry went through in Potions Class—though Madam Pomfrey was nothing like Snape.
Draco had always thought Madam Pomfrey was lovely: kind and easy to talk to.
"Your Wand is made of Hawthorn? Excellent. That wood is particularly well suited to Healing Magic."
"Your Potions Class marks are good, but you need to improve in Herbology. Otherwise, getting into St. Mungo's will be difficult."
"Professor Sprout is very good, you know. You should ask her for advice more often."
That impression had lasted right up until his lessons began.
Once Madam Pomfrey started treating patients, she became someone else entirely. Malfoy even thought she could give a certain Slytherin head of house and Potions