Stepping into the warmth of the hall he shed his robe - the sopping cloak slapped the stone floor as chills ran through Draco’s body. He was drenched, like a drowned rat. His woolen uniform jumper reeked like a wet dog as he pulled it over his head. His white shirt clung to his body - peeling it off, he winced as the icy fabric brushed across his shoulders and down the length of each arm. Standing in the light of the lone lit hearth Draco took in a deep breath and, for the first time that morning, didn’t see his breath as he exhaled. His skin was firm and taut from the cold, gleaming like grey porcelain in the light of the hearth as it spat and sputtered over wood, turf, coal, and whatever else it could to keep him warm.