Very Drarry, Snarry One Shots

Drarry

Stress Relief 

The large clock that hung suspended above Madam Pince's desk in the middle of the library ticked softly as pages turned and quills scratched in a symphony of calm study.

Harry couldn't really enjoy it, though. He sat in a secluded part of the great library, staring down at his Transfiguration text, fingers gripping his messy hair and leg bobbing up and down with frustration. There were rolls of parchments scattered around him, some marked with ideas, some with silly doodles featuring hippogriffs that looked more like winged Dachshunds with beaks and chicken feet. He had about one paragraph of his two-foot essay done, and it was due tomorrow, and he had more work waiting for him up in Gryffindor Tower and he wanted to cry.

He wasn't actually going to cry, mind, but it was really tempting.

"Merlin," he muttered and ran his hands over his face, hair now standing on end, little canals mapping through his jet-black locks where his fingers had carded.

Half an hour went by where his thoughts about essays gradually morphed into thoughts about Muggle streetlights and a dull throb settled behind his eyes. Harry had just about had it when he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He sighed, resigning himself to be distracted a little bit more by his ex-girlfriend, but still friend, Ginny, who was walking toward him with a smile on her face.

"Hey, Harry."

"Gin," he said, sighing. "What's up?"

She sat atop the table, sitting her bum on a couple of his more important parchments—which he was a tad annoyed about—and ruffled his hair a bit, mussing it even more. "Just checking up on you." She glanced down at the paragraph. "How's it going?"

Harry looked down at his parchment. "Not really at all, actually."

"Sorry, luv," she said. "I was going to come see if you wanted to take a break and head out to the lake with the gang."

"I don't think I can. It's just… you know, if I go out in the sun and start having fun, I won't be able to make myself come back here and write this fucking—gah. This Transfiguration paper."

"We understand. Just don't kill yourself over it, all right?"

"Yeah, we'll see how I feel about that in an hour or so."

Ginny smirked. "See you at dinner, then?"

"Yeah. See you."

And then she was gone. Harry stood and reorganized his papers, flattening them and Evanesco'ing those doodles (well, he might've saved one or two) and muttering about certain bums that really had no business sitting on his notes. He let out an indistinct growl when he realized his quill was bent, and accidentally knocked over his inkbottle.

"Shite!"

"On top of our game, today, aren't we, Potter?"

Harry snapped to attention at the sneering voice a few paces away. Malfoy leant against a bookcase, eyes glittering with malice and white-blond hair infuriatingly impeccable. He was wearing black slacks and a white oxford, even though it was the weekend. What the fuck was that about—why did he always look so ridiculously pretty? "Go away, Malfoy," Harry muttered and sat down at his desk, quickly siphoning the ink from the dark wood and putting it back in the little ceramic pot. He saw the other boy shift in his peripheral vision, and leaned back in his seat resigning himself to more distraction.

"Make me, Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes and dipped his quill in, determined to start his first body paragraph. Was it his anger that was helping? It certainly hadn't been helping before.