Winter's Flame

The rain pelted against the window pane with such force that the boy was sure it would shatter. He lay down the heavy book he had been reading and rolled gracefully off his bed, crossing to the window and laying his palm against the cold glass. His stormy grey eyes were the exact colour of the skies outside, and the silver-blonde wisps of his fringe stabbed into his face as he pressed his forehead against the glass.
"What are you doing, Draco?"
Draco didn't move, nor did he answer his mother. He simply breathed in deeply, then expelled the air in a silent sigh, fogging up the window.
"Draco." Her voice became hard. "I asked you a question."
Draco raised his head and turned around slowly, looking at his mother without the trace of an expression on his face. She was equally impassive, standing tall in her flowing purple robes with her frosty blue eyes and long golden blonde hair. "Nothing," he said.
Her eyes flicked to the book on his bed. "Why aren't you studying?"
"I decided to take a break."
"The weak take breaks, Draco," she said coldly. "The strong do not need them."
"Of course they don't," he murmured, turning back to his bed and sitting down on it, lifting the book and settling back with it in his lap. He began to read page 365, the same page he had been reading for the last half hour. His mother looked at him for a long moment with mute approval in her beautiful face, then left with a swish of her skirts.
Draco looked up as soon as he heard the door close and snapped the book shut, tossing it to the end of his bed. His eyes once again looked to the window. It was the summer holidays. The end of June. There was no way that it should be raining yet. He should be boiling hot, swimming in the lake. Or enchanting enormous iceblocks to become the shapes of magical creatures with his father so that they could chase them through the maze until they melted.
This was weather more like to the weeks before the snow came. On rainy days like this he would usually be down in the Grand Hall, duelling with his father, sometimes with wands and wizardry and often with swords and wits. Lucius had always said how important it was to know how to fight when your wand had been taken or broken, and to be able to keep your head in any situation. To prove the importance of this, he had once kidnapped a Centaur and brought it to Draco, who was armed with only a long sword. The Centaur was huge and livid. All rational thoughts had left him at the sight of the fuming monster and he would have been trampled if Lucius hadn't stunned it and put it in a cage. Every year, on the day after Draco's birthday, Lucius would bring the Centaur out to face his son, and every year the beast grew angrier.
But Lucius hadn't been there this year. But still, his mother brought the Centaur to meet her son on his sixteenth birthday. And this year, Draco had slain it. It had been hard. God, it had been hard. But he knew that this year there was nobody there to help him if anything went wrong. He had to be strong, and he had to be smart.
Against what was probably his better judgement, Draco got up and opened the window, flinging it open wide and welcoming the icy rain upon his face. The droplets were like hundreds of tiny daggers against his skin, but he didn't care. He wanted to get up and leave this God awful castle. He wanted to pack up his wand and his sword and his favourite black shirt and get the hell out. To break into Azkaban and set his father free so that they could go after Dumbledore and Potter together. Because Draco was going to get Potter. He was going to make him pay for what he had done to Draco's family. To his friend's families. He was stronger this year. He was smarter. No more childish pranks, no more telling the teachers when Potter was doing something naughty. No, this year would be better. Draco ran a hand over his wet face and shook the water from his hair as he closed the window, noticing that everything within two meters of the window was soaked. The carpet especially. He shrugged absently and flicked the latch closed. He began to turn when he thought he saw the flash of a human figure in the garden below, but when he looked again, it was gone. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head slightly, hoping that he wasn't going mad like dear Uncle Murphy and left the room, grabbing his towel off the back of the chair as he did.

The room was silent, but for the occasional chink of china hitting china and the rolling of thunder. Draco and his mother sat at opposite sides of a great oaken table, attended only by a single servant, a tall man with a proud disposition named Geoffrey.
Draco missed his father, though he'd swallow those Blast Ended thingies that oaf Hagrid had been so fond of before he'd come out and admit it. His father had never allowed the table to fall into this state of silence. He was always speaking, asking Draco about school and magic and sport, asking Narcissa about her last trip to London and where she wanted to go for Easter. And if he didn't have anything specific to talk about, he'd say it anyway. Loved the sound of his own voice, Lucius did. Narcissa, however, loved quiet. She didn't like to talk much - something Draco had inherited. He did, however, like to listen. And the only thing he had to listen to now was the rain.
"Mother," he said, causing her to jump slightly. "Were you planning on visiting Father before I go back to school?"
She looked at him for a moment, then daintily skewered a small square of meat onto her fork and chewed slowly, as if thinking. "Yes," she said after she swallowed. "He will be expecting you. And I have to give Bella something."
Draco knew better than to ask what it was, but, feeling insolent, he did anyway.
"Never you mind," she said coolly. "You've had enough. Go."
Draco looked down at his half finished meal, forced himself to suppress a sigh, and left the dining room.

Draco was in the games room, playing a game of pool when the doorbell rang quite late that evening. It was pitch black outside and still the storm raged on, and the noise caused Draco to jump slightly. The white ball went in the complete opposite direction than what it should have, and he cursed under his breath.
He set the butt of the cue on the cold stone floor and chalked the tip absently as he assessed the table, looking for a way to make the most of the white's crappy position. He barely looked up as a small white paper crane flew into the room and butted him in the head. He held out his left hand and the bird settled itself down, unfolding itself so that it's message could be read. Tearing his eyes away from the game, he glanced at his mothers flowing hand and sighed.
The Zabinis are here. Blaise. Blaise bloody 'bury me in a Y shaped coffin' Zabini was in his house. Again. With a soft growl of irritation he set his pool cue in the rack on the wall and padded out of the games room towards the sitting room.

Blaise was as utterly gorgeous as before. Her wild brown curls were loose and her golden eyes were fixed on Draco as he entered the room and bowed politely to her mother as his father had always taught him. He acknowledged her with a slight nod and sat down in his fathers chair, resting his chin on his knuckles as he so often did.
Mrs Zabini looked exactly like her daughter, only older, though it was obvious that age was kind to this family, much like Draco's own. In Blaise's mind, he knew this was only one more reason for them to mate and have lots of immortally beautiful children with pale-blonde curly hair and a complete lack of morals and emotion.
He ignored the chatter of their mothers and stared moodily into the fire, until he realised that Narcissa was speaking to him.
"Draco!"
He looked at her.
"Why don't you show Blaise our new conservatory?" she asked pointedly. He knew that their mothers were also in favour of the union. So was his father, unfortunately. It was either Blaise, Pansy 'I've been his repeatedly in the face with a brick' Parkinson or Ginny Weasley. The latter two of which he wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. Ginny for obvious reasons, and Pansy because she was hideous and looked like a squat pug dog. Draco stood, extended his arm to Blaise as he knew was proper, and escorted her from the room and down the hall, towards the conservatory on the upper level.
"Conservatory," she cooed in his ear. "I have absolutely zero interest in plants."
"Odd," he said absently. "I adore them."
"I can't say you strike me as a flower boy, Draco," she teased.
"It's a new development."
Blaise spun and pulled him towards her until her back was against the wall. Her hands had a death grip on his collar and she was pulling him awfully close. "I'm not interested in plants," she repeated again in his ear, looking at him with bedroom eyes.
"Well that's truly a pity, Blaise," he said, trying to pull backwards but not really achieving much. "Because we just had some gorgeous new hyacinth's in yesterday. Spent all day putting them in their little pots."
Blaise arched a perfect eyebrow. "You're kidding, aren't you?"
"No, I'm perfectly serious. They're purple."
"I don't care what colour they are," she nuzzled his neck, steamy again. "All I care about it what's in here," she added suggestively, caressing his thigh.
"Boxers, actually," he tried to worm away. "Also purple."
"What's wrong, Draco?" she asked, not letting go of him. "Dozen's of men would die to be in your position right now."
He wanted to tell her not to flatter herself, but he knew that was complete horseshit. He had never in his life seen anyone more beautiful than Blaise, bar her mother. The only problem with her was that he couldn't stand her. She was stupid, she was greedy, and all she cared about was getting a guy between the sheets and then stealing his wallet. "My problem," he said. "It that I think that purple is a very pretty colour."
"So do I."
He sighed. "You really don't get what I mean, do you?"
She smiled wickedly. "No."
Draco rolled his eyes, not seeing any clear way out of his situation. He could evade a Centaur, but he didn't have a hope in hell of evading Blaise Zabini when her arms were tight around his neck. Resigning himself to a short while of what most men would consider their greatest fantasy, Draco settled his hands on her small waist and brought his lips down to meet hers, his mind already wandering somewhere far away. <>

He awoke with a bad taste in his mouth and a roaring in his ears. He quickly surmised that the bad taste was Blaise and the roaring was thunder. Happy with his brain power at such an early hour of the morning, he rewarded himself by rolling over and going back to sleep.
Narcissa, however, had other ideas, and sent Geoffrey in to wake up her son shortly after he'd slipped back into a memory-filled dream. He groaned softly and blinked hard, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he yawned widely. As he did so, Geoffrey observed inwardly that the new man of the house was still only a boy, no matter what his parents may believe. Geoffrey was fond of Draco. He rarely sulked these days, and he never complained. If he ever needed to do such things he simply locked himself in his room where nobody could see him, or he would go outside and fly for hours until he had calmed down. He had matured greatly over the last few months, and Geoffrey was proud of him, though he would never admit as much. He was Geoffrey the butler. Butlers did not speak unless it was necessary.
"Your mother asked you to be ready," he said briskly. "You are to visit your father."
Draco's eyes immediately brightened and he sat up straight. "Really?"
Geoffrey nodded and glided out of the room, leaving Draco to change out of his black satin pyjama pants and into a pair of dark blue jeans and a grey knitted jumper. Getting to Azkaban meant going through London, and that meant dressing like a Muggle. He slipped on a pair of boots and observed the effect, surmising that while Muggles themselves were a filthy race, they had quite cool clothes.
He pulled a brush through his silky hair and brushed his teeth furiously. He was tempted to dash out of his room and slide down the banisters so that he could reach his father sooner, but he walked down calmly like he knew his mother would want him to do. Just like his father hated emotional scenes, his mother hated excitement or rushing around.
Narcissa was waiting for him inside the family carriage. She was dressed in a blue turtleneck and cream pants, her hair bound in a chignon at the back. She looked beautiful, full of class and culture. She looked him over with mute approval as he climbed easily inside and sat across from her. She tapped the side of the carriage, signalling that they were ready to leave. Jacques the carriage driver nudged the four black stallions leading the carriage and the thundered off through the rain towards the city of London.

***

"Stop here," Narcissa said to Jacques who was now driving the Porsche Boxter that they had changed into several miles out of London. "I need to buy something." They were stopped right outside of a busy Muggle shopping centre. Draco eyed it with an eyebrow raised, and he looked over at his mother. "I shouldn't be too long," she said. "But you can go inside, If you like."
He stared at her. Go inside a building full of Muggles? Was she serious?
Narcissa didn't say anything further, however. She climbed out of the car, shook out her umbrella, and hurried around the side of the building and disappearing into an alleyway. Draco sat still for a moment, staring out at the water washed car park, the brightness of the inside of the centre and the people rushing about at their daily business. He had never been alone inside one of these before. He opened the door and jogged though the heavy rain to the electric doors, flinching slightly as they opened. He flicked the wet hair from his eyes and realised that he should have taken his jumper off before he'd come. It was drenched and itchy. With a muttered curse he pulled it over his head and dropped it in a trash can, shivering slightly in the thin black singlet he was wearing underneath it.
Unaware of the female attention he was now attracting, he flexed his well-toned arms and scratched his neck, wondering where to go to find a decent jumper.
"You lost, then?" a girl spoke up at his elbow. He turned to find a small blonde girl with a cheeky smile. He stared at her, trying to mask the disgust he felt burning behind his eyes and forcing his upper lip not to curl, but to smile instead.
"Yeah," he said. "I need to find somewhere that sells men's clothes. Preferably jumpers and other warm types."
"'Tis chilly," she agreed. "You're daft for wearing so little. But you could try Harry William's," she nodded to a shop a little way down the corridor. "Bit expensive, though."
"Thanks," he said smiled again, dropping it as soon as he turned away and headed for the shop. His hands were buried inside his pockets, wrapped around several Muggle notes that he always kept on him in case of emergencies. He walked into the shop and bought the first thing he saw, a fleecy black jumper with some strange Italian brand on the chest. He decided to keep it inside its plastic bag until he was back inside the car and headed back out, but was suddenly distracted on his way by a second hand book shop. It was filled wall to wall, floor to ceiling with books. Paperbacks, hard covers, leather bound books. He felt himself being drawn inside. He barely nodded to the woman at the counter and wandered through the crammed shelves.
"Magical Journey," he snorted softly as his eyes fell upon a large square book with a woman dressed in a medieval gown on the cover. He lifted it and flicked through it, raising his eyebrows at some of the insane 'spells' inside. "The only thing that would make," he muttered as he found a true love spell involving parsley, thyme and a carrot, "is a mediocre soup."
"Don't believe in magic then?" a low voice asked from beside him. It had a strange quality about it that could only be described as earthy.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, not bothering to turn his head. "Not this kind."
"Then what do you believe in?" the girl asked archly. "Wizards and wands?"
"More likely than this rubbish."
"Why's that?"
He clenched his jaw and turned to her, prepared to make a cutting argument about why magic wands were a perfectly plausible and in fact superior way of making magic than meditating under a tree with a bunch of carrots, but his breath caught in his chest when he saw her properly. Her hair was long and black, like a waterfall of pure shadow and her skin was a perfect porcelain white. Her lips were full and of the palest pink, but her eyes were what caught him. They were a deep, enchanting green , so full of life and shadow that it was as if an entire forest resided inside them. "Because…" he floundered, trying to pull his gaze away from those eyes. He took a second to remember who he was and that she was simply a Muggle, albeit a stunningly beautiful one, and was confident and strong once more. "That's what magic is. This," he held up the book, "is self delusion. It says here, 'imagine the sylph's floating towards you.' If it were real magic, you see the sylphs, you wouldn't have to pretend to. More to the point, sylphs don't do anything for anybody anyway."
"I'll agree that magic like that is false," she conceded. "But real magic, the magic that comes from inside. That's not false. It comes from the soul, and everybody can access it if they try. That's the beauty of it."
He raised an eyebrow. "Right. Sounds very romantic."
"It can be," she smiled faintly. "If you want it to be."
He cocked his eyebrows slightly and looked out of the shop, where he could see the electrical door that led outside. Lightning crashed in the sky. "Well, I have to dash…"
"Here," she removed the Magical Journey from his hand and replaced it with a small worn book bound with brown leather. "A gift."
"Why?" he asked puzzled.
"Why not?" she asked with a mischievous grin playing about the corners of her mouth. She backed up a few steps and spun around, walking out of the shop and around the corner, her long leather jacket flapping about her legs.
Draco stared after her for a few seconds, then looked down at the book. The cover was bare, but for a single golden leaf embossed in the corner. He flipped open the cover to the title page. Earth Magic. He frowned, then shoved it in his pocket, unsure whether the book belonged to the girl or to the shop and jogged out, looking both directions to find her. But the girl was gone.