Draso

Draco Malfoy had lived in a glass cage since he was seventeen.
The curse had been cast in retaliation—an old woman he had refused to help whispered something in Parseltongue, and from then on, any touch burned him. His mother couldn't hug her son. Pansy tried—and spent a week with blisters on her palms. Even his own clothes caused pain, and Draco learned to sleep without touching the sheets, using a spell to keep himself suspended in the air.
Only one thing could lift the curse: intimacy with a girl who could touch him without being burned. A girl he had not yet met.
Draco stopped searching. He learned to live in solitude, wore gloves, skipped dancing at balls, and answered any questions with an icy smirk. "I am not to be touched," he would say, and everyone interpreted it in their own way: as arrogance, as a whim, as family pride.
He had begun to believe it himself—that the fault lay with him. That the curse was simply an honest reflection of who he was.

And then, on a rainy Tuesday, in a shop on Diagon Alley, a strange girl in a green scarf tripped over the threshold and grabbed his arm to keep from falling.
And nothing happened.
No pain. No burn. Only her warm fingers on his skin—for the first time in four years.
Draco froze. The girl looked up, apologized, and walked on, not even realizing what she had just done. And he stood in the middle of the shop, watching her go, feeling the skin beneath his glove where she had touched him burn—but in a completely different way.