Prologue
Draco was known for his long fingers. Draco prided them, as his own father's fingers were also long, pale, and slender. Like...Voldemort's as well... Draco did not pride being compared to Lord Voldemort. While Lucius Malfoy droned on about how the state of your fingers was the state of your life, Draco feigned interest, while really feeling indifferent.
Draco often wished he could hold hands with someone who's hands were not compared to a Dark Lord... Maybe one day the warm hands of Harry Potter would do the job. Draco often remembered how warm Harry's hands had been when he was struck by them, and as they hit, it was warmth on Draco's cold cheeks. He was used to the chilling cold of the dungeons, but he often dreamed of waking up warm, maybe even wrapped around another's body, in a tower where the fire's were frequent and always alight.
Every once in a while, Draco cast Foriscorpus on himself and saw what he looked like to other people. Though Draco's reputation did its job of keeping him safe, it was also strong enough to scare away friendships and relationships that Draco saw between other people. Harry Potter had his friends, and he was famous, but his friends didn't love him because he was famous; they loved him because he was a hero, and had a golden heart. Even Professor Snape's provoking words couldn't lessen the love that Draco knew resided inside of Harry. Draco was often jealous of the Mudblood, and even the Weasel, though his notoriety prevented him from ever admitting it.
Long years passed, and Draco's hunger for Harry grew. Draco ate, drank, and dreamed Harry's heart. For six years, since that first day, Draco's glacier life had felt warmth, and once it got a taste, it would do anything to melt completely, even if the only way to be close to the other boy was to provoke his weaknesses. All Draco ever did was show Harry his cold feelings, hoping one day Harry would let go of his pride a little and see that Draco was just a lonely spark that needed encouragement.