Draco Malfoy stumbled out of bed and grimaced at his own reflection in the mirror. Scowling, he made his way to the bathroom, tearing off his clothes as he went, and got into the shower.
This was the third day in the week he had dreamed about Harry Potter in...well, unusual ways. He didn't understand why, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it meant something. It always made him feel uncomfortable when he woke in the morning, like he was listening in on a secret conversation that he wasn't suppose to know about.
Draco felt the blistering water creep down his bare skin, and hoped it would wash away the unwelcomed dreams. It didn't, of course. No matter how many times he scrubbed and scrubbed, Draco remembered them clear as day.
He sighed heavily and turned off the water.
He wanted to hit something. He wasn't pure angry; he was confused, which led to anger and frustration. It was perplexing; he didn't apprehend it. Draco didn't have feelings for Potter, or any other man for that matter. The dreams just sort of happened.
He ran his fingers through his hair and dried himself off as best he could with a towel.
He wasn't following. Draco hadn't seen Potter in months, let alone talked to him. Plus, he was ninety-nine percent sure they were still enemies. That didn't make any sense.
But Draco felt different. That feeling -that awful, hateful feeling he use to get when he though about Harry Potter had vanished, replaced by indifferentness.
Bloody hell, what is wrong with me? Draco thought nauseatingly as he dressed himself. He was most certain he was going mental, or maybe worse, though he didn't have any clue what worse could be.
Draco grumbled to himself as he made his way to the door inattentively, and almost tripped over his cat. Muttering even louder and already having a terrible start to the day, he clamored down the rigid steps of the flat and into the frozen bitterness of the morning. He blundered behind the building and, once clear of all Muggles, Disapparated.
As soon as the uncomfortable tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach lessened, the blond found himself exactly where he wanted to be: directly outside the entrance of the Three Broomsticks. He entered.
The small pub was noisy, as usual, with impatient customers waiting to be served, and the sweet aroma of butterbeer clung to the air. Draco reluctantly requested a bottle of firewhiskey.
"A little early in the morning to be drinking this stuff, eh?" the waitress joked.
Draco cracked a smile and seated himself at a bar stool. "Never too early."
The waitress neutrally smiled back and placed the bottle on the counter in front of him, then turned to assist more of her antsy customers. Draco sipped the firewhiskey slowly, thinking to himself as he did so, and glancing around the tavern.
A glimpse of red hair caught his attention suddenly. Draco craned his neck.
It couldn't be.
No - no, it was.
Dammit, Draco cursed in his mind, as an exhausted looking Potter came into view, accompanied by Weasley and Granger.
"Well, this is the last thing I need," he muttered to himself, watching the trio shrewdly, who did not appear to have noticed him yet.
Draco downed the rest of the firewhiskey. He adjusted the collar of his trench coat and started toward the exit, keen to keep himself hidden.
He felt the chill air snap at his face as he stepped outside, and he glanced over his shoulder once more.
Draco wasn't sure what he expected to see, so he didn't know why he was somewhat disappointed when he turned away, disregarded yet again.
Flushed, the blond Disapparated once more, back to his apartment room in Bristol.
A/N: I've been working on this for a while and finally feel comfortable enough to post it. There will be more Drarry interaction later. I've got three chapters done which are longer than this one but I'm not going to post them until I get some reviews (constructive criticism included).