Draco had started to pace. He hadn't even realized he was doing it, which was an indication of exactly how troubled he was. Slytherins always knew their own cues, their own tells. And Draco Malfoy's pacing would tell anyone within eyeshot that he was aggravated. That he was thinking, and that his thoughts weren't sitting well with him.
It was a feeling, an awkward, half shadowy feeling, which felt a lot like deja vu. It was a feeling of familiarity, that would catch him at the oddest of times. And... longing. Which was really, really frustrating, as the only person he longed for was leagues away from here.
Moments of recognition, like a kaleidoscope aligning, for just a brief, distracting second. Too brief to even know what it was about, even.
And yet, somehow, he was getting those feelings. Distracting feelings. They weren't strong, they were soft and light, a little like frost on windows - delicate and shimmering.
He wanted to sit down and have a conversation with his mind, treat this unformed, inchoate feeling like a wild animal at the edge of the firelight of his consciousness. He wanted to lure it into the light, to see with his eyes exactly what it was.
And then, he would strangle it, let it squirm under his fingers until it took it's last breath.
[a/n: Draco's not terribly happy with himself. And it's really aggravating when you don't quite know what you're thinking.
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