A/N: Greetings, dear readers! The piece you are about to read is the first chapter of my second-ever full-length story! Cue applause. And it's a Harry/Draco one, too! Oh, my excitement is reaching epic proportions!

So here's the deal: the setting is post-DH, but it's not epilogue-compliant. In my imaginary world, year 7 has to be repeated (we all want our young wizards properly educated, don't we?). Harry has started trying to talk to Draco. Draco thinks Harry's mental. But of course, they strike up a bizarre friendship anyway, and that friendship eventually leads to the realization of deeper, previously-ignored feelings. Draco gets to narrate the story.

The whole thing is four chapters long. As per my usual, I have already completed it and will be posting new chapters at an interval of every three or four days. Reviews make me more inclined to post a chapter sooner, naturally. :D Also as usual, I would be most appreciative if you were to notify me of any mistakes you might notice. This fic has been edited multiple times, both by me and by my favorite person ever (ie, my beta), but we're only human, and we can't catch every single mistake.

Right. I think that's it. Oh, and just another reminder: please review! Reviews make my day! But keep in mind, flames are not at all tolerated, and will be deleted immediately. If you don't like Harry/Draco, or don't like slash, please click the back button now. Thank you, and enjoy!

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, the whole epilogue would never have happened. Trust me - I don't own it.

CHAPTER ONE

The compulsion to grind my teeth together was almost impossible to resist. I sank lower into my armchair and stuck my nose inside the book I was reading until it almost brushed the pages. Unfortunately, this did nothing to block out the sound of Pansy's next ear-splitting shriek.

"Theodore Nott, you are absolutely wretched and I hope you die!"

I cringed. Ever since Nott had told Pansy that he "wasn't ready for a relationship," none of the Slytherins had had a moment's peace. Pansy could never do anything quietly. The break-up had taken place in the Slytherin common room, but we suspected it had been heard all the way up in Gryffindor tower. Afterwards, Pansy had been so upset that she had taken to following Nott everywhere he went, if only to keep up their almost-continual shouting matches.

Then, to no one's surprise except Pansy's, she caught Nott with a Ravenclaw girl under the Quidditch bleachers. That was the last straw for poor Pansy. The two could no longer be in the same room without attempting to strangle each other.

"At least if I die, you won't be able to stalk me!" Nott yelled. Another furious scream echoed around the room, followed immediately by an enormous crash.

Oh, lovely. Pansy was throwing things.

In the armchair next to mine, a fourth year girl curled up into a ball and covered her head with a pillow. I was seriously considering doing the same when I felt a tap on my right shoulder. A tall sixth year called Winston Hayes stood there, holding a small red box.

"Hey Malfoy, I'm selling earplugs," he said. "You interested?"

I glanced apprehensively at the box. "Anything funny about them?" Hayes was infamous for his self-made, and most often dangerous, experiments.

"Well, I only just finished this batch," he explained. "They're made specifically to block out all sound, no matter how loud or high-pitched." He lifted the lid to show me a collection of tiny, round plugs, each about the size of a Knut. "Not only that, but they also adjust to your ear size automatically as soon as you put them in. Rather handy, eh? And all yours, for only four Galleons a piece."

"Isn't that a bit much for earplugs, Hayes?"

He looked around to make sure that no one was watching, then leaned forward and whispered, "Look, I figured, what with the current events and all, I'd make a bit more of a profit if I charged more than my normal price. People are desperate, you know?"

He jerked a thumb in the direction of the fight. At that exact moment, Nott began to jump up and down, cursing at tremendous volume; Pansy had just hexed him. A group of first years made for the exit at a hasty run.

"So, you interested?" Hayes repeated, grinning widely.

"No, thanks." I marked my page in my book and stood up. "But if I were you, I'd try my neighbor." I pointed to the fourth year, whose long brown hair was just visible underneath her defensive pillow. Hayes beamed and strode off without another word. Shaking my head, I tucked my book under my arm and followed the example of the first years.

Aside from the odd passerby, I had the hallways entirely to myself. Most students were working on homework in the library or in their common rooms. It was the second week back at school, and teachers at Hogwarts were notoriously heavy on homework in the second week. I found myself feeling rather jealous; I had already finished all of my homework, my sudden studiousness stemming from my attempts to block out Pansy and Nott's constant bickering. It hadn't even worked, and now I had nothing to do.

I walked without paying much attention to where I was going. In all honesty, I was too happy to simply be at Hogwarts to need a destination. After Voldemort had been defeated (I had promised myself: now that he was gone, I would refer to him by his name), there had been some discussion over what should be done about the past school year. It had, obviously, been rather chaotic. Some children had been pulled out of school and some had remained, but those who had stayed had been under the control of the Death Eaters whom Voldemort had stationed there. Many people believed – quite logically, in my opinion – that no one could have learned in such an environment. There was a committee, and some sort of a vote was held, and eventually they came to the conclusion that the school year would simply have to be repeated.

Although I would never admit it, I was thrilled at the chance to have one more year at Hogwarts. The place felt more like a home to me than anywhere else I could imagine – even more so than my own home. Which was sad, really. Even when World War III was taking place in my common room, I would rather be there than at Malfoy Manor.

I wandered aimlessly until I found myself out on the grounds. The sun shone magnificently through the clouds, illuminating every corner and crevice, leaving not a speck of darkness behind. Under an old oak tree in the middle of a courtyard was a conveniently placed bench, and I sat down there. I had almost forgotten the sound of silence; it was more glorious than I remembered. I spent one minute just sitting there, soaking up the silence. Then I flipped open my book and immersed myself in it.

It was a compilation of essays on how to use colors to reproduce various painting techniques – something I had taken an interest in recently. I understood only about half of what I read, so I had to go read most of it twice in order to fully grasp the concepts. It was terribly fascinating, though, so I couldn't say I minded much.

I couldn't have been there for more than five minutes when I felt someone sit down beside me.

Looking up was pointless, so I didn't bother. My visitor was probably just another poor Slytherin, trying to escape the madness of the common room. Or maybe it was Pansy herself, having fought as much as she could with Nott and come in search of me. If it wasn't Pansy, then whoever it was probably wasn't worth my time; if it was Pansy, then I didn't want to talk to her anyway.

It was neither.

"Common Theories on the Use of Color. Interesting. Are you an artist then, Malfoy?"

The voice was male, and familiar too. If only I could place it...

Oh, Merlin. Potter was sitting next to me.

To my immense chagrin, I shrieked, jumped about a meter into the air, and flung my book halfway across the courtyard.

"What the hell, Potter?" I gasped. "Are you trying to frighten me to death? Because if so, you very nearly succeeded!"

He actually looked repentant, an emotion that I was sure I'd never seen on his face before. "Sorry," he mumbled, his eyes apologetic behind his glasses.

I made a show of straightening my shirt and smoothing my hair. There was nothing wrong with them, of course, but I wanted to make Potter feel even guiltier for startling me. I couldn't tell if it worked. He just stared pensively at his feet.

"Well?" I snapped. "What do you want?"

He shook himself out of his thoughts and looked back up at me. "Nothing," he said quickly. "Just thought I'd say hello."

I blinked. "You 'just thought you'd say hello,'" I repeated slowly, my voice deadpan.

"Um, yeah. I was just walking by, and I saw you, so I figured I say something." His tone was nonchalant, but there was a hint of nervousness behind it. I didn't blame him; he was trying to strike up a conversation with his mortal enemy, after all.

"Er." Apparently, I was incapable of forming an actual sentence. I kept expecting him to whip out his wand, hex me into oblivion, and run away laughing. That's what I would have done if I were him.

Okay, maybe not to that extreme; I had no desire to end up in Azkaban on Potter's account.

Since neither of us seemed to be able to say anything (willingly or otherwise), we simply stared at each other. I noted that Potter's hair still stuck up in odd directions, and wondered absently if he even bothered to comb it.

At length, Potter glanced over at my book, which was laying face down in the grass – probably on the wrong page, too.

"So, are you an artist?" he asked hesitantly.

That was too much for me.

"Who are you and what have you done with Harry Potter?" I cried incredulously, waving my arms in the air for punctuation, all traces of Malfoy dignity completely abandoned.

His green eyes flashed. He opened his mouth, presumably to spit out some horridly lame, Potter-like retort, and I braced myself.

But the words never came. Instead, he closed his mouth pointedly. His eyes squeezed tightly shut for just a split second, and when he opened them again, he looked almost completely calm.

"Well?" he asked lightly.

It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to his question regarding my artistic habits. In a valiant attempt to preserve any ounce of dignity that I still possessed, I used all of my energy to keep from gaping. This was absolutely unthinkable! I tried to recall even one occasion when Potter had successfully managed to control his temper. I couldn't.

So I gave up. Mostly because fighting with Potter when he so obviously wasn't going to react was a waste of my time, but also because I was somewhat curious: what was Potter up to? Wasn't he supposed to hate me? And if so, why was he trying so hard keep that temper of his in check?

I sighed heavily. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"I see." Potter nodded. "How long have you..."

I knew what he wanted to ask without him needing to finish his question. "Since I was a child."

"Oh. And, um, what sorts of art do you do?"

"Just sketches, mostly. Pencil and parchment. Charcoal, if I can get it."

"Are you any good?"

"Of course I am!" I said, somewhat affronted. "I have been working at this for years, Potter; I would have to be an utter troll not to have developed at least some talent."

He shook his head, chuckling softly. My eyes widened almost painfully; there was another action I was sure I had never seen from him.

"So, are you thinking of coloring your work now?" he went on.

This question baffled me. "What?" I asked, frowning.

Potter jerked his head in the direction of the book. "Common Theories on the Use of Color," he repeated. "I was just curious... how does that fit in?"

"Oh." I nodded in understanding. "No, I don't plan on coloring any of my sketches. I'm researching painting techniques, if you must know."

Potter sat forward, resting elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers. "Are you going to take up painting, then?"

"I'd like to. I've always been interested in it. I don't know much now, but I've been taking books out of the library, and if I can learn enough–"

Abruptly, I cut myself off. I had intended to keep as my answers as short and to the point as possible, hoping that if I did, maybe Potter would leave me alone. What was I doing, rambling on about myself to Harry Potter, of all people? I ought to just shut up and leave while I still could.

"Can you do that?" he asked, oblivious to my internal dilemma. "Teach yourself to paint, I mean? I always thought that artistic skill was something you were just born with."

"Why ever couldn't you?" I replied instantly, forgetting all about my resolve. "People teach themselves new things every day, Potter. Of course, I can't deny that there are naturally talented people in the world, but most of them have to study to improve that talent."

Potter considered me, a peculiar expression on his face. "You may be right, Malfoy."

"I'm always right, Potter," I retorted.

Again, we said nothing. I drummed my fingers against the seat of the bench. I wasn't at all sure that I liked these silences.

"Have I satisfied your curiosity yet, Potter?"

"What?" He looked up. "Oh. Sort of. But I have to go; I promised Ron and Hermione I'd meet them at the library about half an hour ago. Be seeing you, Malfoy."

And with that, he stood up and tromped off in the direction of the castle.

Now that he was gone, I gave myself full permission to gape. My jaw dropped, my eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets, and I stared harder than ever before. Potter had just spoken with me for a good ten minutes. And not only that, but I had spoken back. I couldn't wrap my mind around it. For some time, I didn't move from the spot where he had left me. I couldn't seem to convince my limbs that moving was a reasonable request.

"He's mad," I said at last, shaking my head as if the action could somehow strengthen the realization. "Absolutely bloody mad."

Then again, I probably didn't look all that sane myself, sitting alone on a bench, gaping – and talking – at nothing. Quickly, I retrieved my book and made my way back down to the Slytherin common room. Maybe Pansy and Nott had murdered each other while I'd been away. One could only hope.

"Draco! Draco, stop moving!"

I turned around slowly, as if the source of the voice might explode if I made any sudden movements. And really, she might. It was Pansy. She stood at the top of the girls' staircase, her small eyes narrowed and her hands planted on her hips.

Much to the disappointment of the Slytherin body, she and Nott had not managed to dispatch of each other during their last fight. In fact, he only results they achieved were a wrecked common room, some singed hair, and two even angrier exes. Neither of them left their dormitories for the rest of the weekend; they were too busy sulking.

During that time, I managed to convince myself that the whole conversation between Potter and me had been some sort of fluke. Those Gryffindors were strange creatures, I reminded myself. Maybe one of them had created a potion that could let them control someone's actions, and they had given it to Potter, just for a good laugh. I was sure I'd heard of potions like that before, and Gryffindors were occasionally smart. They could have pulled it off.

Then again, maybe it had been a dare. I could see one of them daring Potter to talk to me, and the rest crowding around the windows to watch like Roman spectators at a gladiatorial match. This idea had made me somewhat paranoid, and for the following two hours I sank into a couch and concealed myself amongst the pillows to keep from sight. Later, I told myself sternly that I shouldn't worry. If it was a dare, at least I knew Potter would have no reason to ever speak to me again.

I had to pace while I considered that option; for some reason, it didn't please me as much as I thought it should have.

"Draco, come here now!" Pansy hissed, interrupting my thoughts. Sighing, I strode forward to meet her at the bottom of the stairs.

"What?" I asked, my annoyance barely masked. I had been hoping to avoid her. She was bound to spend the entire morning regaling anyone close enough to listen with tales of her heroic victory against her hideous foe.

"Walk me to breakfast," she demanded.

I raised one eyebrow delicately. "Pansy, don't tell me you're afraid of Nott," I said. "You turned his shoes into venomous pythons that tried to swallow his feet whole, for Merlin's sake! You can't honestly be afraid of him."

Pansy glowered at me. "Oh, har, har. I'm not afraid of him, dolt. I'd love nothing more than to hex his stupid, ugly lights out. But my roommates won't let me leave until they see someone else is with me. For some reason, they seem to think I need keeping an eye on."

For the first time during our conversation, I noticed that Delia Withers was peering around the corner at the top of the stairs. As soon as she saw me, she gestured at Pansy and gave me a pointed glare. Clearly I was to accompany the girl. I nodded with resignation.

"Alright. Fine," I grumbled. "Just hurry up, would you? We don't have all morning."

"Oh, thank you!" Pansy enthused, snatching her bag up from the ground and bouncing after me.

As I had expected, she went over every centimeter of the fight in minute detail. I supposed I had been putting off the inevitable by trying to avoid her. As her best friend, she seemed to think my sole purpose was to hang off of every word she said.

I didn't see Potter, or his lackeys, at the Gryffindor table when we entered the Great Hall. This didn't worry me. There was always the possibility that he had come to breakfast before me.

We found Blaise in the middle of pouring ketchup on his eggs.

"At last, the victorious heroine has arrived!" he declared, eying Pansy mirthfully. "I was wondering when we would see your shining face. Quick, everyone put down your silverware! Pansy's here!"

"Oh shove off," Pansy snapped. "You're just jealous."

"Of what? Having pythons for shoes? I don't think so. I rather like my feet attached, if you don't mind."

I ignored them and sat down next to Blaise, staring intently at the door in case Potter suddenly walked in.

"So Pansy, after all the commotion this weekend, I certainly hope you were able to finish that essay for Potions?" Blaise said smoothly.

Pansy choked. "We had a Potions essay?"

"Blaise, I think you've exercised enough cruelty for one morning," I admonished. "I'm not sure about you, but I'd rather not have to explain to a professor why there's a dead Pansy sprawled across the walkway. It puts one off one's breakfast."

"I suppose you're right," said Blaise, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Should I have waited until we got to class, then?"

"Urgh, you two are absolutely horrid!" Pansy cried.

"But Blaise is the more horrid of us, I should think," I said. "After all, he's the one who neglected to tell you the essay isn't actually due until Thursday."

Pansy groaned and fell onto the table with a thud.

"Love you too, Pans." Blaise grinned.

As luck would have it, we walked almost directly into Theodore Nott as we were trying to leave the Hall.

He glared at Pansy as if she had murdered his first born. She glared back.

"Idiotic, filthy, lying, shite-for-brains git," she said heatedly before either of us could stop her. Nott opened his mouth to respond. Blaise and I briskly grabbed Pansy under each arm and bustled her out the door.

"What was that for?" she growled, struggling against our hold. "He was just about to give me a reason to curse him to kingdom come!"

"That's all very well, Pansy, but can't it wait until you aren't standing directly in front of the professors' table?" Blaise asked.

"Unless you'd like to have detention once a week for the rest of the month," I added. "Because if so, we'll be more than happy to set you down in the direction of the Great Hall and leave you to it."

Pansy huffed, but nevertheless allowed us to drag her into the Charms classroom.

We went directly to our table near the back of the room, and dropped Pansy unceremoniously into her seat. I took my seat next to her, my eyes once more glued on the door. Potter was bound to get here sooner or later, and when he did, I was going to get some answers. If he didn't speak to me, I would just assume that everything was back to normal. If he did... well, I wasn't sure what I would do. I was trying not to think about that possibility; it only distressed me more, and I wasn't all that fond of being distressed

To my surprise, Granger and Weasley showed up shortly after Pansy, Blaise, and me – but without Potter in tow. I frowned. Was he sick? Was he horridly embarrassed that he'd been forced to talk to me because of some potion or dare?

It was neither. Professor Flitwick stumbled into the room five minutes later, carrying several large trays balanced precariously on top of each other, and Potter slid in just behind him. He took the empty seat a few rows ahead of me, next to Longbottom and behind Weasley and Granger. As Flitwick began to explain the procedure for today's spell, Potter twisted around. His green eyes scanned the room and came to rest on me.

He smiled slightly and waved.

I wondered if he was on some sort of drug.

Panicking, I glanced around at my friends, but neither Pansy nor Blaise were paying attention to me. Relieved, I sat up straighter in my chair and stared at Flitwick as if I was attending to his every word. Since my eyes were on the professor, I didn't see how Potter reacted to this. I reminded myself forcefully that I didn't care.

For the rest of the class, I was a hopeless mess. We were supposed to be learning a spell to shrink inanimate objects into smaller, more manageable sizes – ideal for packing for a long trip. I was so distracted that it was a miracle I completed the spell without exploding anything. As soon as Flitwick released us, I leaped up and made a run for the door, not caring that Pansy and Blaise were staring after me in confusion.

Potter met me halfway.

"Hullo, Malfoy," he said. There was a slight smirk playing at his lips.

It was mind-boggling! I had no idea how to respond. Finally I mumbled a hardly distinguishable "hi" of my own and fled.

I got to Arithmancy ten minutes early as a result. Sitting down at my normal table, I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Malfoys weren't supposed to be speechless. Malfoys always had some witty, clever, sarcastic retort for everything. Now I knew why – it was awfully embarrassing not to.

I didn't have long to ponder. Blaise flew into the room not a moment later.

"You are so lucky Pansy was talking to Josephine Saunderson at the end of Charms, and you are so lucky that she dropped Arithmancy two years ago. Speak."

"About what, dear Blaise?" I glanced out the window and said serenely, "The weather's quite lovely today, isn't it?"

"Draco." Blaise crossed his arms and stared down at me, his nostrils flaring. The tapping of his foot on the floor echoed in the empty room around us. I didn't realize I was shrinking back against my seat until I started to fall out of it. "Harry Potter just said hello to you, and you are going to explain why."

I sighed. So much for clever evasion. "He did on Saturday, too."

"He did what? Said hello?"

"Well, yes, that. But then he kept on talking for another ten minutes after."

Blaise's foot froze in mid-tap. "Talking," he repeated blankly. "Like, a conversation. You had a conversation. With Potter."

I nodded. "He asked me about art."

Shaking his head slightly, Blaise sank into the chair next to mine. "Well," he said. "Well."

"Well what, Blaise?" I snapped impatiently.

"Are you sure this isn't a dream? If I pinch myself, will I wake up to find that I've fallen asleep in Divination again?"

"I wish," I snorted.

"Damn," said Blaise wistfully. "And this would have made a weird enough vision for Trelawney to let me off the hook, too. You and Potter. I never thought I'd see the day..." He trailed off, and sat up straighter, as if an idea had just hit him. "So why he's doing it?" he asked, his tone strangely casual.

"Not a clue," I replied.

Blaise's forehead wrinkled. "You mean, he didn't say anything?"

"Nothing about why he's taken a sudden interest in conversing with me."

Blaise's shoulder slumped again, and he sat back in his chair. "Hmm. I would have thought... But I suppose, if he hasn't even realized... Maybe he's working up to it..."

"Blaise, if you aren't going to say anything of consequence, would you mind shutting up?"

He ignored me. "Or maybe he isn't going to say anything. Maybe he's just gone daft or something."

"That's what I thought!" I cried, pointing a finger at him triumphantly. Suddenly Blaise remembered that I was sitting next to him. He made a soothing noise and forcibly lowered my arm.

"Calm down, Draco. I know this must be difficult for you. Just remember: you're a Malfoy. Don't let the rest of the school see that you're losing it too."

"Oh, Blaise, that was hysterical! I'm in stitches!" I drawled sarcastically. "Seriously, now."

"I am being serious," he retorted. "Either Potter's daft, or he isn't. Either way, you aren't the one whose sanity is being questioned at the moment, so you'd be best off not giving people a reason to question it." I opened my mouth, but he waved a hand at me, indicating that I should stay silent. "The only thing you can do right now, really, is to figure out what Potter's up to. So what's the most effective way for you to figure that out? Is there anyone you could ask, for example?"

I glowered. What did he mean, anyone I could ask? Who was I supposed to–?

Oh. Great.

"Granger," I said flatly. "She's the most sensible of the three, and she'll probably know what's wrong with him."

"It's worth a try," Blaise agreed. "She might not say anything to you, but at least then she'll know that Potter's acting balmy. Maybe she'll be able to reel him in a bit."

It took me two days to work up the nerve to talk to Granger. In those two days, Potter greeted me every time he saw me.

The speed with which the incidences added up was surprising to me. I hadn't realized that Potter and I saw each other so frequently, or that we shared so many classes. Suddenly it seemed that he was everywhere I went, jumping out of the shadows in a modest, Potter-like way to scare the crap out of me.

It was this that made me finally give in. Potter had just stepped out from behind the door to the Great Hall to say hello.

I held my chin up, nodded at him in an aloof, Malfoy fashion, and tried to run away without looking like I was running.

Blaise was sitting at the Slytherin table, trying to eat his lunch and examine the room at the same time. He took a small sip of pumpkin juice and set his goblet down on the edge of the table. I reached out and moved it just before it fell into his lap.

"Have you seen Pansy?" he asked without looking at me.

For the first time, I saw that she wasn't there. "No."

"Because I haven't seen her at all since lunch began, and I can't seem to find Nott either, and I'm starting to get a bit concerned..." He craned his neck around me to look towards the door.

He was right. Pansy's absence was worrisome. But I couldn't seem to focus on it for long; I was too preoccupied with my imminent chat with Potter's bushy-haired companion. While Blaise kept a lookout for either our best friend, I watched Granger like a hawk, waiting for the opportune moment.

It didn't come until the end of lunch. Finally, when I was beginning to think I would never get my chance, Granger stood up. She said something to Potter and Weasley, laughed, and walked away from the Gryffindor table.

In an instant, I was up and weaving cautiously through the crowd of students who were intent – as she most likely was – on heading to class.

I waited until we were near enough to the door, and far enough into the crowd of people, that Potter wouldn't see us.

"Oi, Granger!"

She swung around, her mouth open as if to respond. It snapped shut again when she saw me. Her eyes narrowed.

"Yes?" she said coolly. From her tone, I inferred that what I had to say had better be important, or I would probably be spending the next three days in the hospital wing with broken kneecaps.

I cut to the chase. "Is Potter entirely well?" I asked.

She studied me as if I had grown a second head. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, did he somehow acquire severe brain damage over the summer or something?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Granger replied slowly. She was still staring at me as if I were the one whose mental stability was in question. "Why do you ask?"

"He's started talking to me."

Suddenly Granger's eyes widened in understanding. "Ah. I see." She bit her lower lip and frowned at the floor. "Hmm. That's interesting."

I tapped my foot impatiently, waiting for an answer. To my indignation, she turned and began to walk away.

I squeaked in protest.

"Granger, wait! You know what's wrong with him, don't you? Care to enlighten me?"

"Actually, I really ought to head to Defense Against the Dark Arts," she said jauntily. "You probably should as well. We only have ten minutes until it starts, you know."

She left the Great Hall with an amused flounce in her step. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to rip my hair out from the roots. After all, I didn't imagine I would look very attractive without my hair.

Upon reaching the Defense classroom, I discovered where Pansy had been all through lunch. It was as Blaise had feared. When she got to class, she practically floated into the room and into her seat next to me and Blaise. Clearly she was very pleased with herself.

"His ears are covered in giant purple boils," she announced proudly. "I'm not sure how I did it, but hopefully that means it'll take Pomfrey twice as long to get rid of them."

"Pansy!" Blaise and I moaned simultaneously. "Why?"

"The git was walking around with that Ravenclaw bint again!" she protested. "And as soon as he knew I was nearby, he told her that she was ten times prettier than me! As loudly as he could! It's a complete lie, of course – but I couldn't just let him get away with it, could I?"

I wondered idly how on earth I'd put up with her for so long. Then my attention waned to the point of nonexistence: Potter had just entered the classroom, Weasley at his heels.

He didn't speak to me. In fact, he didn't even look at me.

For some unfathomable reason, I felt rather ruffled. Maybe he didn't want Weasley to know. I searched my memory, but I couldn't remember the Weasel ever being present to see Potter speak to me. He was probably afraid of how said Weasel would react, which wasn't at all surprising; Weasley wasn't exactly fond of me. But then, Potter wasn't supposed to be fond of me either, and yet for some reason he was trying to talk to me at every chance he got.

I was extremely inattentive throughout the day's lesson. Try as I might, I couldn't keep myself from watching Potter for any sort of recognition. What if Granger had actually confronted him, like Blaise had thought she might? What if he was going to start ignoring me again, just like normal? When the new Defense professor – a short, black-haired witch called Boyens – finally let us go, I could have jumped for joy.

At that moment, however, Pansy jumped out of her seat, waving her hands about her frantically. "Wait, wait, wait! I've just thought of something! Do you think the git will try to hunt me down when he gets out of the hospital wing? To get back at me for the boils?"

"Well, it is a possibility," admitted Blaise.

Pansy squeaked loudly. Before either of us could say another word, she sprinted out of the room.

Blaise shook his head and stretched. "So, where do you reckon she'll hide this time?" he asked.

"I'm not sure I want to know," I replied.

"Wotcher, Malfoy," said Potter from my left.

I started to answer out of instinct. When I realized who I was talking to, I started violently, wheeled around, and began to splutter incoherently. So much for the famed Malfoy dignity.

A slight grin on Potter's face was the only indication that he saw how flustered I was. "So how are you?" he asked.

"Um... uh... fine. I'm fine."

Blaise looked back and forth between the two of us and surreptitiously sneaked after Pansy. I made a mental note to corner him later and demand that he explain himself.

"Good." Potter sounded nervous. He ran a hand through his hair swiftly. I noticed that his friends were missing from his side – probably gone ahead to their next class. "So, um... how's the study of color coming along?"

I blinked. "Pardon?"

"Y'know..." Potter gestured with his hands, as if trying to come up with the right terms to describe what he meant. "That book you were reading. Th– you were researching for painting."

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Yeah. That. I finished it yesterday. Too much time on my hands, I guess."

"Oh. Was it any good?"

"Yeah." I nodded. "Educational. A good distraction from the chaos of my common room."

Potter's brow furrowed. "Chaos?"

Wonderful. I'd gone and said more than I wanted to again. I was sensing a theme in our conversations. "Yeah. Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott. They have a... an ongoing spat."

"And it's bad enough to bother your whole house?" Potter asked, his tone incredulous.

"Oh yes," I said vehemently.

That made him laugh. "So, have you actually started to paint yet?"

"No, not yet. I don't have that much time on my hands."

We stood there awkwardly. Somehow, when we weren't watching, Professor Boyens had left the room, along with the rest of the class. Now it was only us. Potter messed with his hair again. I fiddled with the hem of my shirt.

"Well, um, I guess I ought to leave," I said. "I have a free period next, so I should head back to my common room to get some homework done."

"Oh, me too," he said quickly. "I mean, I have a free period as well. Next."

"Oh."

Another awkward silence. Picking up my school bag, I slung the strap over my shoulder. "So, um... guess I'll see you 'round, then."

Potter nodded. "Yeah. See you 'round."

He left the room first, and I waited until he was gone to do the same. I felt distinctly mortified. It seemed that whenever Potter spoke, I was doomed to become a babbling idiot. What in the name of Merlin had possessed me to tell him that I had a free period next? What had I been thinking?

If I wasn't mistaken, I hadn't been thinking at all. And that was very, very strange.