ice princesses and their golden princes

He's not sure how exactly it's going to work out.

Because, after all, she's Slytherin; a tangle of ochre-gold curls, big grey blue eyes no boy can resist (really), freckles splattered lightly across her nose, her mother's face (they all say). She's daddy's little girl, even when she's clearly a snake through and through; the Slytherin ice princess.

And him, he's the golden prince of Gryffindor Tower – reckless, brave, and passionate – the boy all the girls fight for – the standard Malfoy looks – blond, grey, pale, pointed – maybe more than a handsome face?

She's Ronald Weasley's little girl, a Weasley – bred like hares (Grandfather says). He, he's Draco Malfoy's son – the imperfect heir to the elusive Malfoy line.

She's like ice, really – isn't ice frozen water? – and he's fire, breathing it coolly, hotly, whichever way he pleases.

(Doesn't fire melt ice? Must ice swirl and swirl until it finally may melt?)

Or maybe, just maybe, he's wrong; wrong to worry, really – she's the ice princess – he's the golden prince – don't princesses always manage to find their way to their princes?

He's only wondering if he's the prince in question.

Something I wrote on a whim. :P

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