A/N: I'd love feedback . . . keep me going! This is just a short little story, not going anywhere - yet. Any ideas about what you want to see will be greatly taken and used. Oh, yeah, not mine, all of you who review me with something constructive (or a really smashing compliment - flattery gets you anywhere with me), will be reviewed by me. And they'll receive a surprise. There, that enough bribing for you? Go on, read, review, and pretend you love it.

***

He had lost it. Simple really, once you got down to the source of it all. Insanity.

He let the usual, mind-less drone of the Great Hall wash over him, as he carelessly twirled his fork around his plate. As usual, no one was watching him, paying attention to him. No one of any worth at least. Sighing, he let his eyes wander freely from the wooden table, and soon found that they had drifted to the usual spot. That brilliant patch of red frizz, across the room, that was difficult to make out over the hundreds of heads between them.

Draco absentmindedly rubbed his temple, closing his eyes, willing them to return to a safe item to gape at. No such luck. It was almost as if that mass of hair, the worst shockingly red frizz possible, had the ability to hypnotize him. To pull his gaze to it, and never let go. To snap his self-control, as if it were merely a twig.

Tearing his eyes away, Draco turned back to his nearly filled plate. Damn that red mess, demolishing his appetite, obtaining control of his thoughts. Draco looked back up, fork now in hand, and glimpsed at the rest of the table. Fortunately, none near-by could point out what he was staring at.

"Draco?" The voice to his left, the same voice that managed to strike him with an instant migraine, whenever heard, was filled with soft concern. Looking over, Draco glanced at that infamous red chaos in the process.

"Yes Pansy?"

"You haven't touched your dinner;" Pansy answered, pointing to his plate.

"I'm not hungry,"

"Are you sick?" Instantly, the maternal instincts struck Pansy, and she reached out a hand, lightly pressing it to Draco's forehead.

"What are you, my mother?" Draco roughly shoved the hand away, glaring at Pansy.

Pansy paused before starting her defense. "No, I just thought-"

"Forget it." Draco rapidly stood up from the table, and spun around towards the direction of the Slytherin House. He set off at a brisk pace, crossing the Great Hall in a matter of moments. As he passed the Gryffindor table, he could feel the eyes of those goody-two-shoes boring into him. Draco cast his eyes towards the floor, willing himself to not glance up at that red ball of frizz. Fortunately, he made it to past with out any traveling of the eyes.

When had he been reduced to the cowering hunk of garbage he had become? It shamed him to say he was a Slytherin. The way Draco had been acting lately was almost like that of a Hufflepuff. Never before had he adverted his eyes from a Gryffindor, so why was he suddenly starting to?

It was that hair . . . that damn red frizzy hair. Perhaps he was sick. It sure would explain a lot. Such as why Draco unexpectedly found himself gawking at that red hair, why his heart abruptly jumped at the slightest flash of red. Why, suddenly, he was often going out of his way, just for a glimpse at that hair.

Or perhaps she had done something to him. Her or another one of her fellow Gryffindor slugs. She was smart enough to pull it off; Draco had to give her that much. And if not, Granger sure was, and would help her in a second. She must have thought it to be some cruel prank, that would be worth a laugh or two. It was revolting, the level her and the rest of that slime would stoop to, just for entertainment.

Whatever had happened must have fully hit Draco, for he found himself searching around for that tangled red jumble.

As he muttered the password, and entered the Slytherin common room, Draco's heart gave a minor shudder. He would certainly be hearing about his actions from Pansy for days, and would have to spend the next week giving into her silly demands. The rational part of his mind reasoned that out of his choices, she was the best, and he would just have to learn to cope. But the illogical part, the part Draco usually ignored, claimed that he shouldn't have to settle. He was a Malfoy, and he deserved whomever he wanted.

Draco discreetly shook his head, and gave a fleeting look to the rest of the room. Except for a few first years, it was empty. After some quick consideration, he decided to head up to his dorm, and maybe aim for a good night's sleep.

Within twenty minutes he was sitting on the bed, hanging drawn tightly around him, lost in his own thoughts. That damn red ball of frizz, plaguing his every brain wave. Within moments Vince and Greg would come thundering into the dorm room, demanding answers as to why he so abruptly left dinner. And what would Draco say? That he couldn't stand to watch that red hair from such a distance any longer? That if he couldn't be right next to it, he'd rather be out of sight from it? Draco gave a bitter laugh. Say that and in seconds the whole house would be voicing it's opinion of his insanity, not to mention his father would come swooping down into the castle, ready to drag him home for tainting the Malfoy name in such a revolting way.

What on earth had come over him?

She was a Weasley dammit! A Muggle-loving fool of a Weasley. She was filth, beneath Draco, lower than the dirt on his robes, providing there was dirt on his robes, which there was not. She was a Weasley, hated by generations of Malfoys, born into the middle of a family feud between the Weasleys and the Malfoys. She was nothing but scum under his shoes.

So, if that was all true, which it was, without a doubt, then why was Draco spending his night in his dorm, hidden away, trying for the life of him to divert his thoughts to something other than that damn red frizz? Why was he, a rich pureblood of a Malfoy, finding himself lowered to the level of a Hufflepuff, just because those red curls where within his sight?

Perhaps Draco was sick, and was suffering from delusions. Maybe he should take Pansy's advice, and go see the Pomfrey woman. She could probably recommend something to cure this aliment, and by tomorrow, Draco would be found back in his regular sadistic, sarcastic state.

But did he want that, really, if it meant he had to give up that red mass, albeit not his to give up? To not have the tight curls, even in just his thoughts?

What was Draco thinking, of course he wanted that!

Draco stood up and made his way to the door, ready to stumble his way down to the Hospital Wing, to find some treatment for the retched disorder. Just as he reached the door it flew open, giving him time to just jump out of the way as it banged off the wall.

"Draco," Vince stated, staring blankly, "you left dinner early." Greg nodded next to him.

Draco rolled his eyes at the thought that these two could find it such a crime to leave a table when there was still food on it, and replied, "I'm not feeling well. I'm going down to the Hospital Wing. Don't wait up." With that Draco brushed past the two lumps in the doorway, gaping down at Draco foolishly.

***

"Mr. Malfoy?" Draco looked up at the face before him, trying to work it out through the fog in his mind. A few seconds later he recognized it to be that of Snape, and spent the next few minutes trying to put together a response. That damn haze that the hair had left in his brain . . . oh, he couldn't wait to get his revenge on that Weasley girl, and all her twitty little Gryffindor friends.

"Yes, sir?" Added with the sugary voice Draco reserved specially for Snape, and a mental pat on the back was in order. Really, he was never given enough credit. It must take some sort of cleverness combined with determination, to be able to carry on, even in his state. The state those red locks had left him in.

"You do realize Quidditch practice was cancelled."

"Yes sir."

"Then there is no other reason to be wandering the halls, is there?"

"No sir. I was just on my way to the Hospital Wing."

At the mere suggestion of his prize pupil being hurt, Snape's ears suddenly perked up, and his face filled with as much concern as the man could manage. Meaning, none at all, but it was the thought that counted. "Are you ill, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Not as far as I can tell sir. I am under the assumption that I've been hexed. Possibly cursed." Draco made a mental note to buy himself anything he wanted next time he was in Hogsmeade. A whole conversation with Snape, and not a single slip-up. Yes, working around this blasted smog, and the thoughts that plagued, was slowly getting easier and easier.

"I assume you have a story and explanation behind this."

"Of course sir. I believe I am under the Entrancement Enchantment."

"That's quite a theory of yours."

"It's not a theory sir."

"May I ask who brought this retched ailment upon you?" All right, so Snape didn't believe him. All he had to do was say so, not string Draco along, baiting and mocking him. Really, only a few years and Snape would find himself at the business end of Draco's wand, he was sure of it.

"Weasley sir. The female one. I believe a few of her fellow Gryffindor slugs are in on it too."

"I see." Snape raised an eyebrow, and looked down at Draco, a look seeming to pierce his soul. "Come with me Mr. Malfoy, and I'll help you sort this out."

Draco gave a huge sigh of relief. Finally, some form of escape, within his view! Those thoughts, and ideas, that red mess, no longer would they have a hold on him. He was free.

But then, was that what he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts again, not even those red curls to distract him from the horrors of his life?

Of course it was!

Right?

Shaking his head, Draco agreed, and found himself soon following the billowing robes of Snape. He was nutters, cracking up, and it was best if he got some help, soon.

Right?