Accidentally in Love / drarry

January, 2000

Makes me want to turn around and face me but I don't know nothing 'bout love

***

Friday, December 31, 1999

Dear bloody diary,

I have fucked up on a grand fucking scale. It's all Potter's fault of course for making me act an idiot. Why does he have to have such an effect on me? Seeing him tonight all dressed up, in that shirt and with that bloody mess of a hair tidied up for once. Really, who even allowed him to leave the common room in a shirt that tight?? Seeing his biceps through the fabric did something primal to me. I fear my bar for men has descended into hell, but when I saw Potter tonight my knees almost gave out from under me. I already knew I was doomed, but then the fucker had to be there in the right place at the right time and save my arse again from bloody Corner, the Neanderthal. Is this really what has become of me? Have I really become the damsel in distress? And why do I not detest the feeling???

Of course I had to go home – there was simply no way I could've seen him again – and as much as I hate to admit it, I am currently holed up in my room, wishing to never return. There is no way I can face Potter after what I've just done. I've now revealed to him my own sexual orientations in a manner far more humiliating than his confession, and what's worse, he now knows how I feel about him. Sod it all to hell and back.

I shall be doomed to replay the moment in my head forever, but Merlin, everything about him just drives me mad – his hair, his eyes, his scent, his mouth, my god... I nearly came in my pants when he tugged my hair. But the most humiliating fact remains, and that is that he didn't snog me back. Of course I had to flee. My only hope now is that he was too drunk to remember any of it, but I doubt I should be that lucky. I can't bear it if he remembers it happening, but I don't think I can bear it if he doesn't. What in the world is the matter with me? I can't remember being this wrecked over anyone, not even Potter himself. I shall now throw myself into the pits of self-pity and bang my head against the wall tomorrow. To mother I will claim a headache, or something of the sort. I wonder if we still have some pudding left, I can't wallow properly without pudding.

***

Harry woke up feeling like he'd been kicked in the head by a Hippogriff. Was he normally able to feel his heartbeat in his brain? Every second brought a new aching wave, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut in his bed. His mouth was dry and tasted like something had died in it. He didn't feel nauseous yet, but knew that moving might change that. He lied there for a few more minutes, listening to the intermittent snores emanating from what he presumed through his closed eyes was Goyle's bunk.

Harry's bed curtains were open – he apparently hadn't bothered closing them last night – and he was finally stirred from his half-slumber when Neville opened the door and padded to his bed with two glasses of water. "Morning, Harry," he whispered, lowering the other glass onto Harry's nightstand, "how are you feeling? Figured you'd want some water as well."

"Brilliant, thanks Neville," Harry grunted from the bottom of his bed, rubbing his face and realizing he was still wearing his glasses. Come to think of it, he didn't remember changing into pyjamas either, and sure enough, when he looked down he saw that he was only wearing his pants and his tee. A glance to the floor informed him that his jeans and his shirt were laying in a pile next to his bed. Harry sat up carefully, expecting at any moment a strong urge to vomit to overcome him, but was only affected by light nausea and dizziness. "How was your night?" he asked Neville while reaching for the water glass like it was the last one in the world.

"Good, good," Neville murmured while scratching his head, "I think. Can't really remember much. Luna introduced me to Daisyroot Draught and everything seems to cut off there."