Accidentally in Love / drarry

April, 2000

So she said what's the problem baby
What's the problem I don't know
Well maybe I'm in love (love)

***

In April they suddenly got snow again. Just when the landscape had gotten a bit greener and the sun a little warmer, the hopeful students of Hogwarts woke up to a white scenery once more. The whole day people were groaning and complaining about it: at breakfast under the grey sky of the Great Hall, as they had to make their way to the greenhouses or to Hagrid's hut in the freezing cold slosh, even at dinner even though most of it had already melted in the steady drizzle of the afternoon.

Classes were slowly winding down to make way for full-time N.E.W.T.s revision for the seventh- and eight-years. They had already handed in their final works for their classes, and all that was left for the professors was to lecture about different answering techniques and approaches they could use in the exams.

All this caused Harry, along with most of seventh- and eighth-years, to tail Hermione to the library and back every day. In fact, the library was so packed this final exam season, that Madam Pince had strictly ordered her kingdom out of bounds to any non-N.E.W.T. taker, and even then she had to perform some expansion spells to make room for more seating area, even involving Flitwick to conjure up some chairs and tables. So, they were lucky if they got a calm spot from some nook of the library to retreat to for four or five hours of intensive studying.

To tell the truth, Harry didn't mind studying these days. It distracted him from the reality that he'd just been broken up with. It was then convenient that between nine in the morning and ten in the evening he didn't have to think about anything other than Transfiguration, Charms, Defence, Herbology... and Potions. The last one posed some troubles for Harry since most pieces of theory he'd retained also catered him unwanted memories of the git-he-didn't-want-to-think-about. But he pushed through, with Hermione's whole-hearted help (in fact, she'd even made a point about how well Harry had progressed, and he didn't know whether to be offended or proud).

All in all, Harry thought the incessant cramming and the general esprit de corps of the times truly did wonders to his motivation to study.

Despite the wildly unsettling fact that Harry and Malfoy were still sharing a dorm room together, Harry didn't see much of the prat these days, and was all the more grateful for it, although he couldn't help wondering where the man was. They only had a few classes together anymore, where they both expertly avoided each other, and every night that Harry spent in the library, Malfoy was off Merlin knows where, and only got back after everyone had already gone to sleep. Well, almost everyone anyway.

Despite his days filled with schoolwork, Harry found himself unable to fall asleep in the evenings, his head feeling like it was going to explode from all of the theory he'd read that day, and with the overwhelming flood of thoughts of Malfoy that ambushed him after dark. Memories of their moments together, questions about his mysterious whereabouts these days, and on top of it all: why did it all have to happen? Surely Harry could've picked anyone else, he only feared that it wasn't his brain that was doing the selection. Was Malfoy really planning on getting married or did he just say that to repel Harry? Or was this just Harry making it all about himself again? It all just sounded so mismatched for anyone their age, and yet completely in character for Malfoy to choose a completely wrong time to be heroic.

With these questions harassing him, Harry often found himself tossing and turning in his bed until the small hours of the night. This caused him to be dead tired in the mornings, and he was sure that every time he dragged himself to breakfast he looked a little more like a living dead. This was also clearly reflected in his friends' faces, and he'd adopted the – so far ineffective – approach of claiming studying to be his undoing. Although, Ron had half-convincedly nodded the first time this excuse was used, and muttered something to the effect of Bloody botanical theory.