Disclaimer: Not mine. (Not yet.)
the night of his birth:
White whispers filter slowly out of the blue-stroked canvas leaping up from the blurred horizon towards a distant heaven. They litter the landscape like a million broken promises that enshroud the senses of the observer, overwhelming him with gentle, caressing words spoken softly into his ear. At first, the vibrant red of spilled blood drenches the pure blanket but layer upon layer hide the spoils of war more fully. The crisp silence is shattered by the cry of a pale baby, the mirror image of the scene outside, as he tastes for the first time the cold air of winter.
raising the perfect mask:
Each cascading flake only adds to the perfect wall forming around Draco's heart as he grows in that unforgiving castle, each teaching him how not to feel, how to bar himself against useless emotion. When he is at last pried away from his window overlooking the frozen womb that is the night over the Malfoy estate, the icy shield he is creating is more permanent than the artist vision he leaves behind. His drifts of snow will not melt away with the appearance of a once-welcomed sun, they are more lasting and more barren. No joyful souls will come to play in the winters of his heart; he has steeled himself against it.
entering a foreign realm:
But it is tedious to remain an unaltered figure of ice when he is lying in the sticky heat of Blaise's bed. Time after time Draco feels his frigid heart threaten to melt away under the pressure of his pounding blood which burns and boils with the promise of a shattering orgasm provided by the Summer God on his knees before Draco. He thinks he is a snow globe placed by some trickster in the middle of a desert, surrounded by heat waves wafting up from the cracked surface.
existing past the lies:
Yet when he really thinks about it, if he's away from Lucius' deadly chains of inheritance, and Blaise's spicy, slithering tongue, and all other seasons, and temperatures, and weather, Draco would really just like to lay down in the centre of the chilly image he's been modelled after and fall into the safe arms of oblivion where he's white on white and the outside world is clear.