Harry Potter and How to Avoid Anger Management Classes

Harry thought that he got around twenty hours of sleep a week. And that was if he was lucky. 

It was a feat in and of itself that Harry had not collapsed from pure exhaustion, or had yet to succumb to madness- though, if you asked Ron, he’d tell you that Harry has been mad since the day they met.

It’s not that Harry detested sleeping- no, it was far from it. Dreamless sleep was one of his only salvations from the ever-present drumming of his heart, and thumping in his veins. Unfortunately, he had been prohibited from taking the potion more than twice a week, courtesy of Madam Pomfrey. 

Harry had long since given up on attempting to sleep without potions. Long ago, when he was foolish enough to try his hand at falling asleep sober and unmedicated, he realized that he rarely could ignore the static in his brain urging him to expend his power, go flying, take a lap around the grounds, and run into the Forbidden Forest- because, oh how the trees beckon to him, their dryadic power speaking to something white and hot in his magical core, for long enough to be able to fall asleep.

On the rare occasion that Harry could miraculously manage to quiet his mind and fall asleep, he was plagued by nightmares. He saw his godfather being sucked into the veil, and he heard his mother’s dying words. 

It was as if his magic was punishing him, forcing those dreams to play out behind his eyelids as a protest against Harry having the audacity to allow himself to fall motionless. 

So, Harry will stick to the slivers of slumber he can wrap his hands around when he takes Dreamless Sleep, thank you oh so very much.

In the long hours that Harry would be stuck between the sunset and sunrise, he’d wander about the castle. He would sit on his balcony on the very highest floor of Hogwarts and probably kill about eight cigarettes. He would sneak into the library and skim massive tomes, growing bored quickly, because Harry was never really an avid reader. He conversated with ghouls, because being dead meant that they did not sleep either. 

When the compulsion to seek out the forest became too strong to ignore, Harry would sit amongst the trees. He whispered to all of the snakes who slithered along the rooted dirt, and he learned their secrets. He learned where the centaurs roam, and he urged the snakes to lead him to them. 

Harry, in many of his sleepless nights, implored the centaurs to teach him about the stars. They agreed to instruct him, but never in too much detail, because centaurs like to keep their secrets, you see. 

The only thing they ask of him in return is that one day, when he is chaired on the Wizengamot- yes, Potter, you will be seated, do you even know who you are- that he will do all he can to abolish half-breed laws. 

Harry would tell them that he will try his hardest, and he meant it, because they have grown to become his friends. He has learned so much from them, and his magic has thrived under their instruction, although he is not actively using magic at all. 

His magic seeks to consume and be consumed, and Harry assumes that knowledge is sufficient enough of a medium to be taken in. He can feel his magic’s pleasure in his pursuit to know more things, although he only does it because he has nothing else to do during his sleepless nights.

Harry was walking back to the castle after a long instruction from a centaur called Bane, feeling a juxtaposition between how exhausted he was and how impossible it was to keep himself from staying awake, when he heard a voice call out to him.

“Potter?” questioned Draco Malfoy from under a large oak tree. He was wearing muggle night clothes, and was cradling a large book between his knees. He was looking at Harry with his forehead pinched together in confusion.

Immediately, Harry’s blood ran hot. The archaic drumming in his bones started again. Oh, not again, Harry thought sullenly. Just as he was sure that he had distanced himself from Malfoy in all ways, shapes, and forms, he pops up right where he doesn't expect him. It felt like divine intervention, or something.

Harry stopped in his tracks. “What do you want, Malfoy,” Harry asked, exhaustion seeping into his voice. Malfoy raised a delicately shaped eyebrow at him. 

“Why were you in the Forbidden Forest at,” Malfoy paused and raised his wristwatch up to his face, “Five in the morning?” Harry groaned at his question, and Malfoy flashed him a condescending smile. “Is our savior keeping secrets?”

“Not everything in that forest is bad, you know,” said Harry defensively, even though Malfoy said nothing at all about the creatures in the forest being evil. Harry fought to keep his voice from shaking. Malfoy sighed. 

“Yes, Potter, save me the lecture- not every species is inherently bad, there lies beauty amongst all things- I’ve heard enough of that crap from all of the post-war propaganda that I simply cannot stand to hear it again from our Chosen One,” said Malfoy, gesturing his hands to emphasize his words. 

Harry noticed that the moon hit Malfoy’s face in just the right place to make his eyes shine silver, and immediately wanted to kill himself.

Malfoy was staring at him as if he expected him to say something snarky in return- it was almost as if Malfoy wanted to engage in lighthearted banter with Harry. 

That realization scared Harry enough that he decided that he must leave. Immediately.

“I’m not doing this,” said Harry, spinning on his heel and starting back towards the castle. Malfoy didn’t follow.

Harry spent the next few hours wondering why Malfoy wasn’t asleep either.

~

“Goodmorning!” proclaimed Professor Slughorn cheerfully as he stood in front of the dimly lit classroom. Harry heard several students groan quietly.

“It’s too damn early for Slughorn to be this happy,” somebody whispered toward the back of the room, and Harry was entirely inclined to agree with them. 

“As I’m sure many of you have heard already, with the gossip mill running its course around this school,” Slughorn chuckled a bit, “I’m going to be assigning a research project that will span from now until the end of the school year.”

Hermione straightened in her seat. More groans filtered their way across the classroom.

“I’m going to be assigning each of you into a pair, one Slytherin and one Gryffindor in each. Each pair will be instructed to create a potion- an antidote, poison, or aid- that is unlike any of your counterparts’,” Slughorn began to unroll a large piece of parchment and plaster it to the board. 

“Of course, I have already chosen the pairs as well as the type of potion that you will be constructing,” Slughorn said with a grin. Everybody stared back at him in various states of blankness. 

Slughorn went on to explain that they will be given one day a week to work on the project in class, while the rest of it was to be completed on their own time. He tattered on about how they will need to create not only the potion, but a detailed analysis of the theory and testing behind it.

At Harry’s side, Neville paled. “I don’t think that I’m cut out for this, Harry,” said Neville nervously as he anxiously scribbled patterns onto a piece of parchment. Harry turned to look at him pityingly.

“I don’t think that I am, either,” replied Harry, and he shot Neville an empathetic grin. Neville grinned back.

“Now!” said Slughorn, roping Harry and Neville’s attention back in, “You all can come up and look at what your assignments are,” he gestured towards the parchment that he had laid out on the board behind him.

Immediately, there was a mad rush as everybody sped to find their way towards the front of the room. Harry got caught near the back of the group, and he was craning his neck in an attempt to find his name. 

Hermione found him before he could reach the board, however. She stared at him anxiously.

“Harry,” she said nervously, “He’s stuck you with Malfoy.” 

Immediately, Harry’s blood started pulsing, his vision became blurry, and he felt the need to run very, very far away. Harry placed a hand on Slughorn’s mahogany desk to steady himself, his fingers digging into the hardwood. 

Imagine the forest , Harry thought to himself. Imagine the way the dirt feels as it slips between your fingers. See the way the stars shine brighter under the blanket of trees. Hear the language of the centaurs, before you do anything as ridiculous as making the classroom explode, or something.

Harry’s pulse calmed, and he took a deep breath. Hermione was staring at him, worry creasing her brow. Harry had never confided in her about his Malfoy related problems, but she was far too intelligent to have not have figured it out by now.

Harry decided that he needed to cool it on the melodrama.

“What does he have us creating, then?” Harry asked, and she gave him a wobbly grin.

“A drought for calming. Although, that’s pretty vague, so you and Malfoy can interpret it as a drought for anxiety, or meditation, or really anything along the sort! Me, on the other hand, I got stuck with Pansy, although she’s an alright brewsman, I suppose, so I’m not all that upset-” Hermione rambled, and Harry began to tune her out, only making small mhm sounds when she paused.

Harry absolutely did not know how he was going to make it to the end of the year without inadvertently destroying something. Being stuck in close proximity to Malfoy was surely some sort of divine punishment. Harry was going to need more cigarettes.

“You’ll never believe who I got stuck with,” panted Ron as he jogged up to Harry and Hermione, “Blaise fucking Zabini. Will you believe it!” Ron whisper-shouted, looking extremely red in the face. Harry smirked at him.

“Better than Goyle,” said Harry, and Ron nodded his head solemnly.

“True that. Although, you have it worse than all of us, mate,” said Ron with a wince, “I mean, Malfoy definitely won't be a walk in the park.”

“You’re telling me,” muttered Harry as he picked at his fingernails.

“I called it, though!” said Ron triumphantly. “I mean, I predicted you two would be stuck together just the other day, didn’t I?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You did. You probably manifested it for me, so thanks a lot,” said Harry, jabbing an arm into Ron’s side. Ron swatted his elbow away.

“Well,” Hermione clapped her hands together, “we should at least try to make the most out of this situation.” When Harry and Ron both shot her incredulous looks, she continued with an eye roll. “ I mean , that we should really try for some inter-house unity-”

Ron interrupted, “Oh Merlin, don’t start on this bullshit-”

“I mean it, Ron!” Hermione snapped, and Ron quieted with a flinch. “We’re too old to act this way”

“I don't think I’ll ever be too old to dislike Malfoy and his posse,” said Harry.

“Right!” Ron agreed.

“Perhaps that will all change,” Hermione said, “Well, I need to go find Parkinson. You and Ron should find your partners too,” and with that, Hermione bounded out of sight, presumably in the direction of wherever Pansy Parkinson was sitting.

Ron clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I guess I’ll go find Zabini,” said Ron, wincing at Harry, “Good luck with Malfoy.” 

“Thanks,” muttered Harry, and Ron turned on his heel and sulked his way over to where Zabini was already sketching out an outline of his project.

Harry wiped a hand across his face and sighed. He wanted to prolong seeking out Malfoy for as long as he possibly could. Perhaps if he just wandered around the front of the classroom for long enough, he could claim that he hadn’t gotten a glimpse of the partner list before the end of class-

“Potter.” drawled Draco Malfoy, and Harry whipped his head around to face the boy. He was carrying a large tote bag around his arm, books and quills neatly packed into its pockets.

Harry cleared his throat. “Yes?” said Harry. He was already getting a headache from the strain it took to control his staticky magic from lashing out. Malfoy scowled at him.

“You are aware that we are to be working on possibly the most difficult project we have been given in this entire class, correct?” said Malfoy, and Harry wanted to strangle him. Metaphorically.

“Yes,” Harry gritted out, turning away from him, “Lets just go sit somewhere, alright?”

“Lead the way,” Malfoy retorted, gesturing his hands in a gentlemanly manner in front of him. Harry glared at him, but stalked off to find a place to sit anyway.

Harry led them to his normal seat in the very back corner of the dungeon. They sat down in silence.

Wordlessly, Malfoy pulled out a leather bound notebook inscribed with Draco Malfoy in the bottom left corner. He flipped toward the middle of the book, and stopped on a page with a roughly drawn ingredient list on it. 

“You’ve already started working on the project?” inquired Harry, “It’s only been assigned for, like, ten minutes.”

Malfoy quirked a brow at him. “Some of us don't like to procrastinate.”

Harry regretted asking Malfoy anything at all.

“You do know what our subject is, correct, Potter?” asked Malfoy, and Harry muttered an exasperated yes to him, and Malfoy nodded, satisfied. “Good. Since the subject was left up to our interpretation of it, mostly, I was thinking that we focus on a potion that specifically targets anxiety-”

Harry tuned out his voice. He could quite frankly not possibly care any less about what they would be researching. How could Harry possibly care when all he could focus on was how close Malfoy’s pale arm was to his own, and how he could almost feel Malfoy’s magical imprint on the air that rested in between the two boys, taunting Harry’s own magic that angrily writhed within his chest.

Harry felt that he had a vengeful green monster in his chest, one that forbade him from falling asleep and was irrevocably, irresistibly obsessed with Draco Malfoy.

Harry had always been an angry person- angrier than most, that is. He marinated in jealousy and rage, that monster in his chest squealing with envy, when Ginny Weasley had the audacity to date other people after he had ignored her affections for years. He lashed out at his best friends when they’d seemingly forgotten him in fifth year, the monster in his chest chanting make them pay, make them pay, because Harry is pretty sure that he has some significant abandonment issues.

That being said, none of his prior rage fits came close to the ones induced by Draco fucking Malfoy. Harry could not put a finger on what exactly about the boy bothered him so severely- all he knows is that when he gets too close to Malfoy, his magic sings in masochistic glee. 

It took some pretty heavy internal contemplation on Harry’s part to realize, but he thinks that it could have something to do with the way his magic searches for somebody to satiate its innate curiosity, and Harry has always been weirdly curious about Draco Malfoy. 

“-and of course, creating a formula for an anxiety suppressant would require some level of legilimency on our part to match ingredients to feelings-” 

Harry interrupted Draco, feeling kind-of manic, “Legilimency? Why would we need to do that?” 

Draco shot him a glare, probably because he didn’t appreciate being interrupted. “ Because, Potter, for potions that involve anxiety, and please try to keep up here, we need to be able to identify what chemicals react in our brains to make us feel anxious in the first place, and we need to identify what chemicals react in a way to relieve anxiety.” Malfoy explained, taking it slow as if he was talking to a toddler. 

“Why can’t we just test each ingredient and then just tell each other if one makes us less anxious or not?” asked Harry.

“Because legilimency is a foolproof way to identify changes in magic and emotion- if we rely on self-reporting, there is a stronger margin for error,” said Malfoy. He was staring at Harry as if he was an idiot.

“Okay. I’m not doing that,” said Harry. Like hell he was going to let Malfoy anywhere near his brain.

“How else do you propose we do this?” retorted Malfoy.

“I’m not sure, but you could probably come up with something.”

“You are insufferable, and arrogant. I am not creating an entire new plan just because our Savior doesn't wish to participate.” Malfoy said, slightly angry, and pink in the face. 

“I just don't want you poking around my brain.”

“Well, nobody is going to be poking around anybody’s brain. It’ll be a controlled reading, we’d just be using legilimency to gauge each other's magical signature-”

“No,” interrupted Harry, because that was worse than Malfoy rummaging around in his memories.

“You-” Malfoy bit out, but Slughorn interrupted. 

“Good work today! Time to pack up, now, and do not forget to do work on your own time as well!” said Slughorn, looking gleeful. 

Harry packed up his things quickly and made to leave the room. Malfoy grabbed the sleeve of his robes, and Harry felt his magic perk up.

“We’re not done with this conversation,” said Malfoy- he looked angry. His robes were slightly ruffled, and one side of his collar stuck up. Harry must really have Malfoy pissed off if he didn’t think to smooth over his clothes after standing up- you see, Malfoy usually would rather die than look so disheveled.

Irritated, Harry grabbed his arm back. “We’ll see about that,” muttered Harry, and he left the room without waiting for Ron and Hermione.