Cold Hate

Cold.

He could feel the cold warmth of the hard floor as he was roughly tossed to the ground of the cell, like he was only an old bag of trash. And perhaps, to them, that's all he was. It was an almost comforting feeling. Like one familiar from a place he couldn't remember. His mind was a jumble of feelings and ideas and memories.

"You'll be here a long while, Mr. Malfoy," the guard's voice was laughing. "A Dementor will be here shortly. Remember your 'happy thoughts' while you can." A snort of mad laughter and then Draco was returned to his cold silence.

And all he could think of was the green eyes that had haunted his dreams since his fifth year at Hogwarts.

The cold was sweeping through his body now. Like chills in late summer nights, just before the green leaves turned to brilliant brown and red and orange. Like when you felt your body warm up to freezing water in a lake under the bright sunlight. He could also feel the cool feeling of the first fallen snowflake of the winter, the freezing of a blast of wind during a rainstorm.

Desperately, he tried to cling to the feeling of a warm towel wrapped around his body after a luke warm shower, like the feeling of a fresh dried robe draped around shivering shoulders.

"This is his cell," a brisk voice said. Draco could faintly recognize the squeak of Minister Fudge's raspy vocal cords; ones that he vaguely wished had been crushed instead.

The feeling of being drowned overflowed his senses and Draco gasped for breath. When he was five he had fallen into the Malfoy Manor's pool and instead of being fished out, his father had pushed him underneath.

'This shall teach you not to disobey my rules. Next time don't run outside, Draco. Do you understand?'

'Yes, daddy,' he had whimpered, 'I'm sorry for being bad...'

A kind smile that he had been given was now a mockery. The evil glint that wasn't present now was.

'What did I *tell* you, Draco?' Lucius Malfoy spat, 'I said no Muggle toys. And you bring home this *bike*? Maybe it was a good thing you twisted your ankle in the pedal.'

The searing pain was worse than the feeling of no breath. It was present everywhere, rushing at him with no mercy. He could only whimper, tears threatening to spill.

The soft words that he had been given afterwards were gone. All he could now hear was the harsh laughter when he received the Cruciatus Curse for the first time when he was eight.

After days of whining for a pet kitten he'd received a black cat. He'd named her Spooky and they'd become fast friends. But one day they'd been playing near the pool and Spooky had fallen into the water. He'd tried to get her but he couldn't swim and no one was around. He'd screamed for hours until finally his father had come to see what had happened. But by then, it was too late...

'You drowned your cat?' Lucius had spat. 'After all that caring on about how you'd love it forever and making sure it was alive and healthy? Don't think you'll go unpunished.'

It had been several days before he'd been brought into his father's office and been told he'd begin training early in the Dark Arts.

The pain was unspeakable and even now at twenty-five Draco couldn't describe the feeling of every inch of skin being on fire, ablaze with pain so unbearable that death could be the only relief. But even death was too much to ask for when you were eight and didn't know better.

'Don't think I won't do this again, if you misbehave,' Lucius lectured, frowning. 'I will not allow my son be no better off than a mudblood.'

'Okay, daddy,' he had whispered back. 'I'm sorry.'

The cold reassurance was gone and in its place he could hear the ranting of his father's voice the day before his first day at Hogwarts. Following threats and promises of treasures, Lucius had warned him if he didn't gain Harry Potter's friendship he'd have the right to choose the fitting punishment.

'This is just a sample,' and then spoken the calm word of 'Crucio.'

This time the feeling wasn't as frightening as it had been three years ago. He knew how to avoid most of the pain by thinking of the freedom his new school allowed.

But now, surrounded by Dementors, those memories wouldn't come and he could feel the full burning rising from head to toe. Had it really been that bad?

'--worse. You are no better than a filthy mudblood. Third highest score? And you call yourself a Malfoy?'

'I tried, father, I did,' he had claimed. 'Its not MY fault that whore Granger sleeps with the professors!'

'If it works, perhaps you should try,' Lucius sneered. 'Does it matter how the Malfoy reaches the top as long as he does?'

'No, father.'

'Alright, then. Crucio.'

Hot, burning fireworks. Pain searing his left shoulder, where it had just been slammed to the wall.

'I won't shag you again until you break it off with Weasley,' Draco sneered. 'I won't share you, Harry. Not with a Weasley.'

'But you have my heart,' the green eyed boy claimed. 'She's just... entertainment when I can't be wrapped tightly in your arms.'

Draco snorted, 'And I'm a Hufflepuff. I know you love her, Harry. You can't love us both. Its me or her.'

'You want me to choose?' Draco nodded. 'Okay. Then her. I know she loves me. It's always second-guessing with you, Malfoy. So goodbye.'

He'd refused to dwell over the breakup then. Instead he'd found solace with Potter's best friend, Hermione Granger--no, Weasley. But now that he didn't have the memories of sex to chase the haunting nightmares away, all he could remember was the green glint in Harry's eyes as he'd turned away. The anger and hurt came rolling back and he gasped for air as he felt his heart shatter.

'You stole him from me,' Draco's voice was hard, steel. He held the pillow over the girl tied to the bed, staring at him with wide brown eyes. They were full of hurt and anger and fright. 'So I'll steal him back.' He could remember the bliss of smothering her with the pillow, but now it was being replaced with the strangled shouts from Harry as he came in, throwing Draco to the side. It was too late, Harry had sobbed to the girl on the bed. The face was unmoving and white and all he could hear were Harry's sobs of why, how could you, do you hate me that much.

'But I love you.'

'Damn you do. I *hate* you, Draco Malfoy. Hate, hate, *hate* you.'

The word hate echoed in his ears as his eyes focused on the drab cell wall. Harry hated him. And it was all *his* fault.

Then he realized hate was cold. It surrounded his memories and burned and drowned and were cried. And the Dementor was greedily licking this up. His only happiest memory was his saddest.

Cold hate.