A/N: I don't know what came over me as I wrote this. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I'm going to be home schooled from now on. (YAY!). Whatever. I'm happy though! So even though this sucks, I'm going to come back later and revise it, then get the next chapter up. And I know I should be working on that D/G fic, but I'm lacking inspiration for it. I'm trying to get an anime fic out under my other pen name, but everything that comes out is Harry Potter. ^^;

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters, phrases, and the like are property of JK Rowling and the lucky as hell people she's chosen to get some of the money from. :P

Dedication: To Jedi Tess of Gryffindor and VirtualFaerie, who are writing some kick ass fics that I think we should all be reading. They're light and happy, which is exactly what I need. :D

And now…the fic…

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He watched as she sauntered away. She had been visiting his trio ever since Draco had gone off for their holidays, seemingly taking over his taunting rituals until he got back. He tried to pretend that the way her hips swung as she walked wasn't hypnotizing, and it didn't leave him feeling helpless, but filling your head with candy dreams only goes so far. No one knew that better than Harry, who spent a great deal of his life pretending.

"God, she's bloody annoying," Ron spat out, oblivious to Harry's lost state, "Oh, hello Weasel, Potty, Grungy. How are you?" he mimicked, over exaggerating her high pitched voice into a shrill.

Hermione, too preoccupied with trying to scold Ron for his harsh words, or giggle at his actions, also missed the fleeting looks of want that skittered across Harry's eyes as he watched Pansy's long black hair swayed across the top of her bum. Her affection for Ron won out, as she demonstrated exactly how Pansy Parkinson's voice sounded, though Harry felt that they had missed by a mile.

He had no idea what was wrong with him.

Most people considered Pansy "Pug" Parkinson a human fluke. Granted, she had pretty blue eyes, full lips, great hips, and a rather endowed chest, but her upturned nose, horrible disposition, and hatred for everyone except her "Drakkie" was enough to cross her off of the Hogwarts Most Wanted lists.

As of late though, Harry had been looking at her with new eyes. He actually thought her pug nose was cute. Something had to be going wrong inside of him. The girl's rude words went over his head as he noted how cute and girlish her voice sounded. Whenever she'd narrow her eyes at them, Harry would only notice that they were a beautiful shade of blue, and with every smirk she'd throw at him, he'd observe how kissable her lips would be.

"Guys, I'm going to see the hospital wing." he muttered out, and took off for Madame Pomphrey.

He arrived soon after, out of breath and but completely satisfied with himself for avoiding anyone on his way. He searched out the healer, at found her attending to one of the poor students who had came down with the flu. He took a seat by the WAIT HERE sign, and sat as patiently as possible, until she got to him.

"Mr. Potter," she greeted, somewhat harshly, as she indicated for him to sit down on one of the cots, "What is it this time? Quidditch accident? Hallway row? Misfired curse?"

"Actually, I'm not quite sure," he remarked, obviously embarrassed, "I've been having…feelings…that I shouldn't have. It's…weird."

She gave him a critical eye, before placing a magical thermometer into his mouth. In 10 seconds it beeped and she pulled it up to her face to observe the results. What she found left her shocked.

"Mr. Potter!" she exclaimed, before rushing out of the wing.

Harry sat there, dumbfounded, before laying down on the cot and staring up at the ceiling. He wondered what had been making him think and act so out of character. Did someone actually curse him? Was he coming down with some magical disease? Maybe he was-

"Harry?"

The boy's thoughts were interrupted by his headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.

"Yes Professor?"

"Poppy tells me you came in here because of…feelings?"

He nodded, unsure of where this could be going.

"Well, according to this thermometer, which has a 99.999998 percent reliability…you're in love."

"What?! I don't even know her though!"

"Ah, yes, that sometimes happens. Love is a tricky thing. Especially…this kind of love."

"This kind of love? What kind of love is it?" he asked, confused even more now.

"It is the strongest kind of love. The soul mate kind you could say."

"Are you sure it's not a curse?"

Dumbledore chuckled, "Yes, I'm sure, unless of course someone has cursed the thermometer, but the results go hand in hand with what Poppy tells me you've told her. This unexpected love often leaves you confused by it, at the…feelings…it causes. Let me guess. You've suddenly been looking at this girl in a new way. You probably didn't like her much before, but now you can barely stop thinking about her, and all of the things that used to bug you about her now leave you speechless. Am I getting warmer?"

Harry nodded.

"You know…your father went through the same thing. He spent five years at odds with Lily, only to wake up one morning and realized he loved her."

Harry's eyes widened, surprised to know that this had been done before-by his father no less.

"But…if what you say is true…what if she doesn't love me."

"Oh, I don't see how she couldn't. Usually this type of thing is mutual," he paused, before adding, "Don't worry Harry. Pansy is really a sweet girl."

As his mouth opened and closed, much like a gold fish's, the old man grinned and made his leave. Finally, as he gained control of his muscles again, Harry began walking out of the infirmary when he hear a girl's distressed voice.

"They're just these…feelings! I don't know what to do!"

He stopped in his tracks, and craned his neck to see who was speaking. Pansy. With a sort of now or never sigh, he walked up to her and tapped her on the shoulder. As she spun around, he grabbed her into his arms and kissed her, his lips asking hers if they felt the same way. Hers of coursed answered yes, and they told each other the things they always wanted to know as they stood there, wrapped up in each other.

Pansy woke with a start. She hated those dreams. It seemed that even her subconscious was trying to tell her she was in love with the Boy Who Lived. They need not to. Pansy was more than aware. With a finalized sigh, the sixteen year old buried her head into her pillow and tried to go back to sleep, praying that she would get no more dreams like that, but secretly wishing otherwise.

She just wished she could get him to return those…feelings…in real life. Until then, she was content to surrender to him in her sleep, while putting on the façade-even if it was to herself-that she despised them. With a grin, she closed her eyes, and awaited sleep to overtake her, and for her midnight meetings with her secret prince charming to occur again.