|
Two o'clock in the morning. Hell, Albus had been aiming for eleven, a good three hours ago. The Gryffindor disliked being forced into the early hours of morning, and voiced it in a groan that resonated from his lean chest. Stacks of parchment covered the table he had been working over while books lay open and piled along one another. A few potion ingrediants were crammed into viles that were assembled just above the essay he had been writing, his quill dropped to its side near the inkpot. Though the energy that had been put into this workload was admirable, there was something else the Potter prince seemed to have been working on. It was a charms essay; one that was tucked haphazard into its textbook and chucked to the opposide end of the common room. Indeed, it seemed as though Albus was at something of a stand still in his all nighter, the pressure of much needed sleep and unfinished work building upon his sixteen-year-old brain. It was enough to drive him into a foul enough frustration that all seemed hopless. O the conflicts of dreary academia.
The young man was seated in his chair, leaning an exhausted body against its frame with head leaned backwards along his shoulders. His arms drooped along each side and his eyes were closed as though savoring the memory of what sleep used to be like. He opened them, however, when realization struck him yet again that night. He couldn't afford to stop and rest. He had his Potions extra credit and this bloody Charms paper due the next day. While he could have taken up some of free time to work over it, his classes were back to back tomorrow. Besides, he wouldn't have much time to use spare moments of freetime for work. A Quidditch game was around the corner and Gryffindor was determined to win, thus leading them to use their free time for quick practice runs. Quidditch had never been the center of the lad's attention as it could often be Lily's, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. He had enough skill, however, to end up Keeper and a damn decent one at that. A pity he was too wrapped up in his workload to be too excited for further practice. Besides, his body ached gently from today's own Quidditch wear and tear. Right now, he despised the sport.
Running his fingers through his hair and his hand down his face, Potter picked up his quill and began scribbling a few remembered details that had popped into his mind. If he hadn't been so good at Potions, he wouldn't have landed himself into the professor's high expectations. He blamed his paternal grandmother, the one whose eyes dwelt in his own, aching skull. Usually, he was proud of his potion prowess. But right now, he was tired, grumpy, and hurting. A soft matress and cotton sheets sounded all too heavenly to the conflicted Gryffindor. He was easily the lone occupant of the dim-lit common room where the fire had faded into a crumbling pile of embers peeking from charred wood. The student worked by candlelight, a lone illumination that filled one end of the crimson room. Really, this was a bunch of bloody nonsense. Why was the damn Charms professor out to get him? And at the start of term, too? While he was preforming excallent in Potions and handling a decent grasp of Transfiguration, his charmwork was still so lackluster. So plain. And now he had an essay due the very next day on illusion charms; an essay he hadn't begun until that morning.
Groaning again, Albus Severus Potter fished a Bertie Botts box out from beneath some of the spare parchment. He didn't even glance at the bean he produced, dangerously plopping it in his mouth as he chewed in thought. Coughing a gag, he reluctantly swallowed the foul-tasting bean, easily deciding that it was something disgusting and would rather not have known what it was that he could still taste. So he took another bean, glanced at it for a moment before deeming it acceptable, and chewed in the hopes of ridding his tongue of the prior bean's gross flavor. This one was watermelon. And the next? Chocolate fudge. Once he had eaten enough safe beans to placate his tastebuds, his mind began to wander as it so naturally did when he should have been hard at work. His mind often worked like his father's, thinking of other things when academics should have been his utmost priority. He did wonder vaguely if he should go and collect his charmbook from the other side of the room. If he didn't finish, the professor was going to have him suspended from the upcoming Quidditch game. And if he didn't finish his Potion's extra credit project on the characteristics of amorentia? Then he'd be frowned upon as a disappointment. Bloooooody hell. Albus just wanted to go to bed.
ooc; yeah, so it's beginning of term and al's already swamped. a bit unrealistic but oh well. i'd say it's realistic enough for a sixth year. so just, errr, roll with it? yeah. sure. xD
|
the bruises of academia
