What Happens After Dark - Drarry

𝟙𝟞

New word count: 1.9k
Date (re)published: November 16th, 2020
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— Sunday - The Library - 7:49pm —

Harry was doing his homework last minute again. He'd been doing it like that for the last two months.

He hadn't been back to the room in two months, hadn't talked to Draco in two months.

It'd been two months since their episode. Two months since Draco had stormed out and not come back. Harry wasn't sure what he felt. He missed Draco, but he was pissed at him as well. Draco was the stupidest, most ignorant, most overdramatic person Harry's ever met. One slip up and he'd been isolated for two bloody months. What the fuck was wrong with him?

In the beginning, he'd reckoned that it would be good for him, getting away from Draco. He could get his act together. He could invest more time in his studies. Harry'd even devised a study schedule. It was a foolproof plan for success.

Except he spent more time stressing, and his study schedule had gone to shite. It was apparently fool proof, but it wasn't idiot proof as well.

He was distracted without any distractions, and found it more difficult to focus on everyday things.

It had effected his marks too. Professor McGonagall had even commented on it. She'd made him stay after class a handful of times, and forced him to do extra assignments in hopes of lifted his grade up a bit. It didn't help at all, in fact, it made things worse, if anything.

Harry scribbled down something random on his potions homework. He was losing his patience with every problem, and he was only on number four. Of fifty. He hated bookwork. Read the text, read the question, write a paragraph for the answer and pray to Merlin that it was correct. Snape assigned too much bookwork.

He'd been fortunate enough to get a lighter load from the rest of his classes this weekend, with only ten inches to write for Sprout, three chapters to read for Flitwick, and a baker's dozen spells to practice for McGonagall. Oh, and of course, Snape's fifty paragraphs of bullshit, but that was to be expected with how much the greasy professor hated Harry's guts.

He slouched in his chair, and dropped the quill on the table in frustration. He had way too much to do, and practically no time to do it.

He blamed Malfoy. The git was always flouncing around looking so perfect, acting so perfect being so... perfect. It wasn't Harry's fault he was so easily distracted. Malfoy was a prat. A gorgeous one, but a prat nonetheless.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. The boy was exhausted. Just a little nap, he told himself.

It was stupid of him to do so.

•••

His "little nap" had turned into a full-fledged nap. He's slept until Madam Pince had shaken him away, to tell him that the library was closing. He's been rushed out the door, and he could've sworn he'd dropped his quill somewhere. He kept walking though, because he could feel Madam Pince's sharp stare boring into his skull. His mind was still foggy as he walked slowly back toward the common room. He was tired, and had decided that he should just go to bed, whether his homework was done or not.

The portrait hole swung open as soon as he'd muttered the password. He stumbled into the common room and was greeted by a Hermione, who'd been standing nearby.

"Oh, Harry! I was just coming to find you! Did you finish your work?"

"No. Fell asleep." Harry answered shortly and handed his pile of books to Hermione. She looked confused as to why she had them. "I'm going to bed now." He dragged his feet all the way to the staircase and started to ascend.