Cold Hands Warm Heart

Draco Malfoy wrapped his cloak tighter and snorted with laughter as he imagined his father, Patriarch of the illustrious Malfoy clan, right-hand man of the Prince of Darkness himself, knocking about the beach in a pair of bright blue Speedos. Malfoy vacations ran more to the icy, the refined, the removed-from-the-common-world variety, just as their everyday life did.

He'd been on numerous ski holidays in northern climes where the wind painted delicate rose shades on perfectly sculptured cheekbones, white-blonde hair blowing like a silken banner, elegant art in motion skillfully maneuvering down the slopes. Aesthetics are inherent in everything a Malfoy does. He remembered watching his parents afterwards moving about the lodge, looking like frozen Norse deities, long, tapered fingers curling around drinks as icy as themselves.

He remembered trips to cold, deep caves where long ago dragons had slept, and bred, and hoarded their treasures, and trips to other caves where the first magic had been harnessed. He'd seen crude ochre pictures of animals and men painted on the walls illuminated by the soft light of his wand, and he had shivered as he felt the ancient magic in the silence and dim light. It rather reminded him of home and the long gallery where his ancestors stared down at him as he walked it alone.

Countless visits they'd made to castles and great estates belonging to ancient families who could trace their bloodlines to time out of mind. Dinners at tables that spanned the length of the room, laid with settings as old as the family name, silverware heavy, ornate and unmistakably priceless. Conversations following unspoken yet prescribed rules, ironclad etiquette for every movement and breath. Balls given to introduce, polish, and maneuver the next generation into acceptable liaisons. Cold hands intertwined, bodies sweeping in circles around the room, always graceful, always dispassionate.

Always the coldness to keep the blood chilled, the intellect drowsy, emotions buried under layers of perma-frost. Draco thought that his father believed the chill would preserve him, protect that smooth, fair skin, keep him tall and sculpted, give him God-hood for real. He tried to recall if they had ever gone any place where warm breezes blew and the sky wasn't always changing shades of gray, mirroring the color of his eyes.

Egypt. They'd gone down the Nile, imbibing the lore of long ago. His father admired those ancient rulers and their wizards. They had egos to match his own. He knew his father envisioned his own face on the giant statues of Abu Simbel, but Draco had seen another's face there, and he had shuddered. Spent days and nights in Giza, going places muggles never did, places most wizards never did. But, of course they went in the colder months, and while the daytime wasn't frigid, it certainly wasn't warm, and the nights... The desert is a cold place. Dry, hollow wind always blowing. He still felt bitter about that.

No. Malfoy holidays were not about fun. Amusement perhaps, if it was dry, and erudite, and elevated enough. Subtle and caustic wit was always appreciated. A cool roll of sardonic laughter was never taken amiss. Nothing easy, nothing obvious permitted, nothing to cause true laughter to contort faces into uncouth lines. A Malfoy is above such things, a living statue carved out of some substance that doesn't laugh or bleed or breathe or feel like that of lesser creatures.

Statues. Draco made a snowman once. He rolled the pieces meticulously into shape and aligned them carefully, one on top of the other. After it was assembled he'd gone inside his father's study and taken one of his capes and the watch chain he sometimes wore. From his own bedroom he took two polished agates and put them in his pocket.

Outside he placed the cape and chain on the snowman. He pulled the agates out of his pocket and placed them carefully in the face of the figure. He stared into the cold, unblinking stones for a long time. Finally, he took the stones and put them back in his pocket. He removed the cape and chain, and carried them back into his father's study. He went back outside and just as meticulously undid his work. When he was finished the snow was spread evenly, and no trace of the snowman was left. Before he returned to the house he threw the stones as hard as he could into a copse of trees. He never made another snowman.

Draco shivered unconsciously as winter thoughts held him in an old and clinging grip. Sometimes the ice cracks, he thought suddenly. Sometimes it melts. After a moment, he allowed himself a small, sardonic smirk in self-deprecation at the melodramatic thought. If my father could hear...

"Draco?" A voice...rough, layered, tropical.

Draco turned, looking at the boy who stood a few feet away. The boy was smiling at him with abandon, artlessness...as if it didn't matter if anyone could read his feelings.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked, walking nearer to Draco. In response, Draco raised his hands and put them against the other boy's cheeks.

"Aaahh!!" he yelled, but smiled again and pulled Draco's hands under his cloak, beneath his shirt to hold against the warm, bare skin there. "Let me warm you up," he said softly.

Draco wanted to explain that he was already warm from the moment he'd heard the first syllable of his name spoken a moment ago. He wanted to explain that he wasn't cold, not anymore, not really. He finally found his voice.

"I still can't believe you got me Speedos for Christmas, Potter."

Harry laughed warmly. "I told you. After graduation, we'll go somewhere...a beach, the ocean, a hammock between two palm trees. Just us. You'll look very cute in those Speedos, Draco." Harry pulled Draco's arms around his waist, and encircled him with his own, pulling him closer.

Draco murmured in agreement. "Of course, I will."

Harry laughed softly, warm breath on Draco's cheek. "It will be springtime soon."