Snow.
Summary: The first snow of the year is always the purest and the most white, unlike anything you've ever seen. One could almost call it magical. But inevitably, marks will be made, like scars, at first they're hidden, but they come out eventually. And then it's all ruined, and it's lost that special magical touch. Forever.
Disclaimer: I don't own most of these characters, they're J.K. Rowling's property.
A/N: My last fic didn't go so well. In fact, I just stopped it to prevent a very painful and humiliating procedure of a semi-good plot bleeding to death. I'm sorry for all those who still had hopes, I'll try to make this one work better.
Chapter one.
Somewhere, high up between the grey-white clouds, it all started. A cloud shivered and slowly sank down, to the very bottom of the endless stream it was part of, cooling down in the freezing air that was whisking and twirling all around. It couldn't hold on to its treasure, indeed its very essence, for too long; the cold air was too demanding, and gradually, very slowly, in a battle no living creature has ever witnessed, it surrendered. The cold took possession of the cloud, almost welcoming it into the winter, and began to form the purest of crystals deep within the essence of the cloud.
All the while, the cloud kept sinking, falling, too far now from its original position to be able to crawl back. And then, it happened. With one final shudder, the cloud gave up its most prized treasures, and the first snowflake was born. Perfect, without a single fault, it drifted down, to the earth, soon followed by more of its kind.
It whirled and danced through the air, light as a feather, lower and lower, destined to find a comfortable spot on the ground and rest. But suddenly, very near to the little first snowflake, a window is opened, and a rush of air blows the little snowflake and its brothers right through that very window. Because of the warmth, lots of its brothers melted as soon as they touched a surface, but not our little snowflake. It twirled on, as one of the lucky few, through most of the room, until it reached a bed where a beautiful woman was lying, panting, exhausted, tears drying on her face. She looked so tired, but she smiled, reaching out to the man who stood beside her.
"Let me see him." She whispered, and the doctor carefully placed a little new born baby in her arms. She looked down on him, saw how a flake of snow, indeed the very first of this year, landed on her child's nose. She saw how it slowly melted, while the child calmed down in her arms, he had been crying only seconds before.
Another man came closer to the bed, and gently wiped the drop off the baby's nose.
"Hello Draco," he murmured, "welcome to the world…"
Twenty years had passed, and the little Draco had grown out to be a smart, good looking young man. His light blonde hair tied neatly in a short tail, with the occasional rebellious strand that fell around his sharp handsome face, tickling his pale white skin at the high cheekbones. His clear grey eyes looked sharply at the man cowering before him, as he rose to his full length, towering over his poor victim.
"I told you several times, haven't I, Mr. Retching…" he spoke, acidly.
"It's Creighton, sir…" the man interrupted out of habit, but scared witless none the less.
"Whatever… I told you several times I wanted these robes in atlantic blue." The young man spat out at him.
"Yes, sir, you have."
"And what, pray tell, is the colour of these robes?" Draco held up the object of his frustration with a disgusted look and threw them down at the tailor's feet.
"Blue..?" the old man guessed.
"They're cobalt blue! Cobalt!"
"But sir, this fabric is too delicate to dye…" the tailor tried.
"Do I look like I care? Do I! I ordered a set of atlantic blue robes, knowing your shop only delivers the best of the best, my family has bought there for centuries. I'm a respected and trusting customer, and this" he kicked at the mess of fabric at his feet to emphasise his words, "this pile of rags is all you can deliver!"
Draco shook his head and turned away from the old tailor. "Take this elsewhere, you'd be lucky if I ever come near your shop again."
The tailor bowed to pick the robes up and left hurriedly, glancing over his shoulder just in case Draco Malfoy shot a hex in his direction. He wouldn't put it past the spoiled young man.
Draco sighed and looked at the pictures of his mother and father. "Yes, I know…" he said, irritated, "If you would have been alive this wouldn't have happened."
The picture of his father nodded and frowned sternly.
His parents had always cared about saving their reputation above anything else. Keeping up appearances. And in the end, remarkably, they had succeeded. They were killed in the war, by mistake no less, and the ministry had been forced to drop all charges against them or their family. The Malfoy name, as well as their son, had been saved from a terrible scandal.
"Now…" Draco whispered to himself as he turned and walked out to the hallway and up to his room. He had so many things left to be done, after all, he was leaving on a long journey tomorrow morning. That's why he'd really wished for those robes to be ready today, they'd have been perfect for… Oh, no need to keep lingering over them for too long. After all, they were just robes.
He checked his luggage and made sure everything was as arranged for his departure. Three months he would be gone, three little months, but it felt like forever. Severus Snape, a friend of the family, had asked him to go to France to collect some very delicate and very rare plant he needed for one of his potions. He couldn't go get it himself for he was stuck in his position of a teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and he couldn't order it via owl either because it was such a delicate plant. Besides, he would have to pay a whole lot for it anyways, and then find the flower broken and spoiled in its wrapping. So he asked the only person he knew who had an obscene amount of free time as well as too much money for his own good.
Plus, this way Draco could take his mind off things at home, what with the loss of his parents and most of his friends, and that Potter brat mapping out a successful career as an auror while he, Draco, could only sit and wait for a job vacancy that would never come.
Draco changed into his pyjama's swiftly, folding his clothes neatly and putting them over a chair, and crawled into his bed. He curled up and nuzzled his pillow, drawing the blankets up to his ear, and whispered the spell to dim the lights.
Everything would turn out fine.