Chilled Legacy

Chilled Legacy III

Chilled Legacy III

Being sick wasn't a complete lie in itself. Draco was unsure if it was due to a side effect of what he was now calling a curse, or a result of the constant time spent in the cold.

Small fits of cough and shivers only lasted up 'till the early morning. At most he'd have an itchy nose at breakfast.
This morning was different. The gloves did nothing to protect Draco at all during his slumber. The room was an icy chamber of torture. It was enough for even him to feel its bone-chilling touch.
Draco even awoke cold.

His sense of temperature had been 'out of whack' ever since the powers had developed. He supposed even this cursed body had its limits.

After sensing Draco's urgent need for warmth, the room of requirements slowly began to de-frosts and melt the surroundings. A drain appeared in the center of the floor where gallons of melted ice disappeared into unknown oblivion.

Watching the crystalized structures crumble all around him caused Draco a strange sensation of grief. Even though the snow made his life a living hell, there was something threateningly beautiful about it, like a rose with ever-growing thorns.
The patterns and fragments of ice placed together were a poisonous art piece that entangled in his veins. Possibly his undoing.

Snowflakes turned to tears of water, plummeting to the ground. Soon enough, the room was back to normal and the drain caved in.

The coughing continued, this time taking longer to cease. Draco checked the time.
It was five in the morning. I his mind, too early for any poor soul to awake. Stupid ice.
Regardless, he put on his school robes and wandered over to the prefect's bathroom. It was one privilege of his they hadn't revoked.

Once inside, he undressed, turning the water to its hottest setting. While he waited, Draco walked over to the sink and eyed his reflection.
There were dark circles and bloodshot, fearful eyes where perfection should've been. He took off the gloves and placed them on the sink. Sighing with both determination and weariness, Draco looked into the mirror once more and said, "You can do this. This time—this time you've got it!"

The tub was finally filled.
Had Draco's hand not been touching the mirror, reflection would have been impossible. The bathroom was a warm fog of steam, the source protruding from the volcanic bath.
Months earlier there was no way in hell the young teen would have even dipped a toe into such a fiery liquid. But today—like every other day—mundane things such as bathing were experiments.

Draco inched closer to the tub. With one step he took a deep breath and exhaled on the next.
That was the first part—being as calm and relaxed as possible. The second and final step was slowly and carefully sliding in.

This was the harder of the two. In the beginning the actual temperature could be felt. Draco involuntarily cried out as he slid into the tub, smiling wider and wider the more he got in.

No, he wasn't crazy. It was working.

It was not until both of his legs were under the fires of hell that the water began to cool around him.

Again, Draco cried out, this time in relief. He held back the urge to use his powers on his aching legs in fear of freezing them solid.

After shampooing, conditioning and scrubbing at almost lighting speed (as Draco was trying to do so before the water passed lukewarm temperature), he smiled broadly and celebrated with the most important piece of a good bath; the mountain of bubbles.

The celebration was a well-deserved one. Ever since the mysterious powers had developed, Draco had been quick to find out all he could about them. After multiple failed library searches he decided to take matters into his own hands, learning to control them.