Chance and the Alphabet
Will Lowby, Hufflepuff fifth year, wanted nothing more than to sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep. He couldn't do that, though, as he had Quidditch practice directly after this lesson, and there was a miniscule chance that he'd be more alert if he stayed awake, rather than give in to the battle his eyelids were fighting. He needed to be alert, if he ever wanted to move beyond Reserve Keeper.
Professor Binn's dirge-like diction, in concert with the rhythmic snores of Juliana Magelby on the desk behind him, was not helping matters. Not at all. The autumn sun seemed in on the conspiracy as well. Its warmth filtered through the ancient windows of the History of Magic classroom and crept across Will's face, issuing a persistent invitation to nap, and nap well. It was almost succeeding, too - his head felt heavy, heavy, and heavier, but it gave a jolting bob as he finally succumbed, leaving him with a crick in his neck and the unpleasant reminder that thirty minutes still remained to the lesson.
Increasingly desperate, Will propped his head on both hands and decided to catalogue the worn surface of his desk yet another time. Sigh. A cartoon vampire, there in the corner, next to a few sets of initials. He ran his fingers into his brown hair, trying to rub out an emergent headache as he continued. Some carved confessions of love, and the logo of the Caerphilly Catapults, here in the middle. Someone knew his or her Quidditch- Caerphilly was having their best season in six years. He kept on... A broomstick joke that had long stopped being funny, a few words that would earn a detention if this desk was in Professor McGonagall's classroom, and a decent attempt at the Slytherin...