Thank You so much to the lovely people taking time to review - I'm really glad you enjoyed the last chapter!

So - here's one answer you've been waiting for. And, maybe, some new questions, because I am that evil. Have fun, reading!

Chapter 8

"Remember what I said about wrinkles?"

Pansy had half-turned in her seat and Draco somehow got the impression she'd been studying him for a while already before deciding to speak up. He felt a little like the time his mother had caught him snatching chocolate off the Christmas Tree two days early.

"Don't you have homework to do?", he said, crooking an eyebrow at her.

Pansy actually dared to raise both of her brows at him, though it was more of a disbelieving look than a sneer. "I finished like half an hour ago."

"Oh."

Only now he noticed the rolled up parchment, the neatly stacked library-books and corked up inkwell in front of her, as if she'd just conjured all of it. Of course, she couldn't have, since Pansy's Conjuring was as bad as Longbottom's and the items all looked normal enough.

"Why didn't you go, then?", he asked.

"I wonder", Pansy said and Draco was almost impressed by the amount of sarcasm she'd managed to put into the two words. "Maybe because I asked you, if I should wait for you and you said yes."

"Oh", he said again. Now that she mentioned it, he did vaguely remember agreeing to something she had said. "Well, you can go now."

She didn't, of course. Because it was one of those days. "What's wrong, Draco? I'm already done with the Muggle shite and you haven't even started."

Opening his mouth, he quickly clamped it shut, before he congratulated her on her evidently prospering career in Muggle Studies. Turning back to his assignment, he just murmured, "Good for you."

Pansy huffed. "Don't you give me that, Draco. Blaise might or might not deserve your attitude, but I sure as hell don't."

Draco looked at her, chin upraised. "It's his fault for having as little common sense as a Gryffindor. Maybe even less."

She blinked at him. "That's why you did nothing but glare at him before and switched out Pomfrey's Dreamless Potion? Draco, he's already burned his broom to cinders in a coughing-fit. Isn't that enough?"

"It's his fault", Draco persisted, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

It was. Apart from the idiots who'd masterminded the concoction. Because if Blaise hadn't ingested that horrid Drought he wouldn't have gotten himself confined in the Infirmary. He would have been in class instead and Potter would never have sat down next to him.

There. It was definitely Blaise' fault. Maybe he should go back and replace his next Potion with Dragon Dung Fertilizer too, since the idiot hadn't even looked sorry.

Well, of course, he didn't know what he had done, but that was no excuse.

Pansy just shook her head at him, regarding him with a look that was frighteningly similar to the one she normally reserved for the Lovegood girl. Which was a bit unfair, since his textbook wasn't upside down.

"I worry about you, Draco", she said then. "Last time you've been this distracted –"

"Save it, Pansy. I can't be made into a Death Eater twice now, can I?" He let out a quiet, humourless laugh.

Her frown just grew more pronounced. "No, I guess not. Still … "

"Why don't you leave me to Arithmancy and go find some 1st years to hex?" He turned around once more, facing the desk.

"Potions."

"What?" Reluctantly his eyes found Pansy's face yet again.

"You're working on Potions. Professor Vector didn't assign homework."

Like that he was back to his 8 year old self, clutching the two Sprinkled Chocolate Unicorns, cringing under his Mother's disdainful frown.

"That's what I said."

But Pansy wasn't gullible like, say, Potter. She only arched an eyebrow and pursed her lips. "Sure, you did."

"Quite right. So, if you don't mind, I've got work to do and I'd appreciate some silence. This is a library after all."

They stared each other down for a moment, until Pansy sighed. "Fine. Be like that", she said and stood. She threw her belongings into her bag and grabbed the books she'd taken from the shelves. Pushing the chair back in, she paused.

"By the way", she said, leaning over his back, "your book is upside-down." And then she stomped off, before Draco could make up an excuse why this section of Advanced Potion-Making was meant to be read like that. Rubbing one hand over his forehead and eyes, he spun it around with the other one.

As if he needed yet another sign for what he'd already figured out.

He was slowly, gradually loosing his mind.

That had to be it. Brooding over it all day, he'd ruled out enchantment, poisoning and illusion-charms. And that left him with two possibilities which could provide explanations for the disturbing quirks of his mind he'd developed. One of them was too scary to think about and as such better left untouched by any Slytherin taking pride in life-prolonging cowardice. So insanity it was.

He'd heard about wizards being treated in St Mungo's, who'd gone barmy after experiencing some sort of traumatic event. And he didn't live through only one of those, but multiple horrid moments that could very well mess with anyone's mind. So that made sense. Then there was the matter of his nightmares which supported the theory, since that was proof he hadn't yet processed all of it. And it even explained why this insanity seemed to be tied to Potter, of all people. Because it had been Potter who'd pulled him out of the fire that day. It had to be some sort of visual trigger that made something go wrong in his brain.

Very wrong, indeed. Because it was not right for him to think of Potter like that. The git wasn't even that attractive. Well, since he was Gryffindor's Seeker, Draco supposed, he had to be quite fit, but it was impossible to tell with the ugly rags he wore beneath his robes. He also might have nice looking eyes, but he chose to put a scruffy piece of scrap metal, befitting a Weasley, in front of them.

And then there was the ever-tousled mob of hair on his head, looking like he'd just been shagged.

Wait. No. Like an owl nested in there. Or two. Maybe the owls in the Owlery took turns. He didn't care.

Potter was nothing but a stupid, conceited git, who fucking hated Draco Malfoy, not someone to be considered attractive. Not that he'd even want to kiss the prat. He snorted.

As if.

Pansy's nonsense about him crushing on Potter must have gotten to his unstable mind. That was all. He'd thanked Merlin's beard and Salazar's pants and whatever else magical wizard's garments one might pray to, that Potter hadn't noticed his slip-up. The thought of Potter misunderstanding, like Pansy, was nothing short of mortifying.

Rubbing his eyes once more, he forced himself to finally focus on his homework. It was already late and the sooner he finished his brilliant Essay, the sooner he could go to bed, pour the Dreamless Potion down his throat and maybe regain his wit through a good night's sleep.

He left the library about an hour later, ducking around Madame Pince's desk and found the hallways already empty, except for a few students hurrying to the Common Rooms and the Prefects on patrol. Those were always exceedingly happy to catch him one minute after curfew, so he decided to take the Secret Passage leading from the Grand Staircase directly to the dungeons, where rarely anybody ventured.

He made a swift exit from the Portrait of Professor Basil Fronsac, spinning on his heels and, in all unlikeliness, almost crashed into something, or rather someone, moving into his path.

"Watch where you're going", he snapped in his best menacing sneer. It always sent them running.

"Where I am going?" The reply wasn't close to sufficiently scared and Draco stopped dead.

"Potter", he said, with less of a sneer than he'd wanted to put in. Of course, it had to be him. Apparently it wasn't enough for Potter to follow him around only in his thoughts any more. Real Potter had to join in on the fun. Though he didn't look very amused, but rather uncomfortable. Preferably-taking-a-nap-beneath-the-Whomping-Willow – uncomfortable.

"Talking a stroll around the lovely dungeons? You should visit the corridor left to Slughorn's office, I hear the plain walls are most beautiful there."

Draco hadn't expected there'd ever come a time when he'd like to transfigure the few torches of the dungeons into something more brightly lit. Right now he wouldn't have minded a few hundred candles floating above them to be sure if Potter had actually smirked at his comment.

"Err," he coughed, clearing his throat, looking somehow embarrassed. "I was just hungry, because I, uh, missed dinner."

For a moment Draco didn't know what to say and that almost never happened. Still, Potter not angrily telling him to shut up was new. And it was bloody weird.

"The House-elves always give me too much", he went on rambling, like he'd forgotten who he was talking to. "Since they know they are my favourite ... ", Potter finally grew silent, biting his lip, as if he'd noticed he'd already said more than he'd intended to share. And Draco shifted his gaze from his mouth to the tray filled with food he was clutching. Five slices of Treacle Tart were stacked on two plates much too small for holding such a huge amount of dessert.

"Is that so?", he drawled. Since recently he found, he fucking hated stupid Treacle Tarts. "Want to tell me your favourite colour too?"

The brows above Potter's green eyes furrowed. "Why, I didn't think you'd care, Malfoy."

He didn't. He was fairly certain it was Red, anyway. "I don't", he said. "I was merely hinting you return to the proper way of interaction with me."

Potter looked puzzled. "Err...and that would be what excactly?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Insults, glares, Curses slicing me open. Take your pick."

The plates clanked as Potter flinched, his guilt painfully obvious. "You're saying you don't want us to talk like normal people?", he then asked carefully.

"Did Weasley hit you on the head in practice? We aren't like normal people, Potter!" He fought the urge to grab him and shake him. "We hate each other, always have and always will."

A strange look passed over Potter's face and Draco found himself wishing for the Great Hall's brightly lit candles once more. "I don't –", he started, then apparently reconsidered, shaking his head.

He didn't what?

"Well, I have to go", he said, seeming somehow crestfallen. "I think Filch is headed this way. You should hurry too, he's not in a good mood. He got called to the Infirmary because of an incident with Dragon Dung or something." Already turning, he hesitated and nodded his head to him in a silent goodbye. "Malfoy", he said and disappeared around the corner.

He didn't fucking what?