Cold Hand

When I first lay eyes on the boy, I knew what he meant. What his just being meant to me. For me. Maybe not consciously, but I felt it. I felt it with all of my being, and, for a moment, I was left breathless with the force of it all. I stood there, arms held limply by my side and standing on a stool, staring at him. I was unable to do anything else, petrified as I was. We were in a robe shop – Madam Malkin's. I was thirteen.

He had shifted uncomfortably. He looked over at me for a second – a second. And I knew he was mine. He would be mine forever.

My mother told me that, when I was born, I was marked. By Fate.

Fate was a goddess among the Wizarding world. She was fabled in fairytales and was a bedtime story for wizard children. In the stories, she was kind and bestowed benevolent gifts among her children. Her Fated children. She appeared when a baby was born and would wrap her warm hand around their heart and internalize – solidify – their destiny. This brought great joy upon the wizard marked – it was an honor. They would end up successful in their life through apparent luck in the ways of love or careers or family...

What the stories never mentioned was that only one of Fate's hands were warm. The other was cold and harsh. It contained bitter resentment and made your very core cold – your mentality ruined.

That hand – that frigid grasp – curled around my heart when I was not a day old, freezing me inside. It left me unfeeling. I was cold, cruel Draco Malfoy. Because of Fate's cold hand.

At least, that was what I believed. Why else had I felt so empty for thirteen years until I saw the angel? The sweet, sweet angel with messy hair and pale skin and awkward glasses covering round eyes the color of the richest grass...

I lay eyes on the boy, and he was mine. My soul. Complete because of him. I simply beamed. I couldn't even speak – he rendered me speechless. He had to feel what I was feeling – it was too strong. Too impossibly strong, I almost fell.

And then a needle stabbed my leg painfully, and I was pulled slightly out of my daze. Madam Malkin had just finished attending to my boy and had started on me. I glared at the seamstress for interrupting my gaze on him.

Swiftly, I returned my gaze as to where he was, but he wasn't there. Frantically, panic lacing my long-frozen chest, I spun in a full circle. Malkin was calling my name. I couldn't be bothered, though, because I just lost my lifeline. My soul. Where was he?

Then I saw him. He was walking past the store's windows, and I pushed myself off the stool, running uncouthly out the shop, unfinished robes still donning my body.

I pushed past people rudely, uncaring. And then I had reached the boy.

I grabbed his arm, spinning him around, and I was almost lost with the sensation. I couldn't even remember my own name. I didn't know where I was. Heaven?

"You," I whispered.

The boy looked confused, but that couldn't be. He had to know he was mine. He had to feel it, too.

I grasped onto the boy reverently, my hands on him turning into arms until he was fully pressed against me. I shivered, overcome with emotion. I wasn't in control anymore – Fate was controlling me. Like she had my entire life – it was just more concentrated control now.

He was here – I no longer felt like a piece of me was missing. And I didn't even know his name. Mine, either. That didn't matter, though – the fact that he was finally with me was enough.

But then I felt a struggle – my beloved was being taken. Heavy breathing and moans filled my ears and I held on tighter. I wouldn't let him be taken away when I had just found him. I had to keep him – he belonged to me – he couldn't be taken – he wouldn't.

"Stay," I begged. "Stay, please, stay." It was pathetic, but I felt like he could leave me at any moment. I didn't want to feel empty again. I didn't want it. I only wanted him.

I needed him.

The struggle intensified, and I started sobbing. Who was trying to take my beloved away?

Stay. The word could no longer come out of my mouth because of the tightness in my throat, but it was a mantra in my head.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

I lay motionless. And he ran. My lovely angel with his black halo and iridescent skin ran. From me. Why? Why would he do that? Couldn't he feel it too? Couldn't he feel the way he belonged with me – by my side – forever?

Someone had to be controlling him. I could see him now, from where I lay stunned on the ground. He was hiding behind Rubeus Hagrid, the great brute of a groundskeeper at Hogwarts.

I fought the curse with all of my might. I struggled. I couldn't even call out to him. I couldn't even call out to my dark angel and tell him how I needed and loved him. How he completed me. How, for a minute of my life, I felt content – before he was taken from me savagely.

And then my father was there, unleashing me from the spell. I stumbled to my feet with haste and made way for my angel. My father grabbed me.

"No – you don't understand – I need him – I need him!" I cried hysterically. My beloved angel looked frightened.

"Get him out of here!" my father snapped at Hagrid.

The giant began to usher my beloved away, and I screamed. I screamed and screamed for him. Why was this happening?

I was Apparated away, but I could barely feel it, as I already felt like my chest had stones pressing in on it from every side.

I was in the manor, finally, and my father released me. I crumpled to the ground, knowing I had lost him. I had lost my soul. The only part that mattered, anyhow.

"Why did you do that?" I whispered, looking up at my father, who was glaring down at me in disgust. I must have embarrassed him, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I didn't care about anything except getting my beloved back.

My father must have known about Fate's cold hand on my heart – why was he doing this to me? Why was he keeping my savior away from me? In that moment, I hated my father more than anything.

"Do you have any idea what you've just done?" my father asked, ignoring my question completely.

"You took him," I said in disbelief. I shook my head. I didn't want to believe that I would never see him again. I had to. He was mine. Mine.

"That was Harry Potter!" said my father. "Harry Potter – eleven years old. The Boy Who Lived!" I didn't say anything. I couldn't even say I was shocked by the admission. I was too upset that I had just lost him.

"But he's mine," I said. I was meek in my shock. "He's mine. Where did you take him?"

My father huffed, turning his back on me coldly. "He is not yours, Draco. You are a fool. Did you really think Fate was going to be kind to you?"

I didn't say anything, broken on the floor. And then my father left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

It took me a long time to realize that the struggle given was my sweet angel. My sweet Harry. Leaving me. It took me even longer to realize he wasn't mine. Not forever. I was lied to.

Yes, Fate's hand was cold.