Disclaimer: Yeah…right. I wish like hell, but to no avail.
WARNINGS: Ron/Draco action. Yes, people, this means slash. Also abuse and mention of wanking off.
-Color Me Red-
The world used to be rainbows. Used to be flowers, and colors, and smiles.
Then you turned nine. You got in a horrible row with Father, and he beat you.
You ran outside, away from his livid face, his hard, bony fist, and into the cold. You got all the way to the lone tree standing watch by the pond before your knees crumpled. You just lay there, sobbing and bleeding on the snow.
After that, the world was pastel. No more particularly happy moments with Father, and he still beat you when you were stupid.
Then you turned eleven. You'd be starting at Hogwarts the coming fall and would meet other Purebloods besides Crabbe and Goyle, who were unbelievably thick.
When you had to get away from the mediocrity of you bloody life, you'd lurk around the tree in the back lot, the one by the pond. Sometimes you'd drop your drawers and piss in the snow, drawing crude designs in yellow.
After that, the world was starkly black and white. The only thing that brought you pleasure was tormenting the Golden Trio-famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived; Hermione Granger, bookworm and a Mudblood; and Ron Weasley, one of the poorest wizards in school. It was particuarly amusing to watch Weasley turn red when his soddy robes and second-hand textbooks were brought to light. He had such a temper.
Then you turned fourteen. Potter was one of the Hogwart's Champions, along with that Hufflepuff prat, Diggory, and Weasley did not spare even a moment of tolerance or truce. Sometimes he would look so appealing, all pissed off for some reason or other that you'd have to leave. Go out to a shadowed tree and let your desires subside.
After that, the world was gray. There was no clear margin between Evil and Good, Dark and Light. You were drowning in ambivalency.
Then you turned seventeen. Potter was learning things that he shouldn't have been-Dumbledore was 'training' him against his inevitable duel with the Dark Lord-and Weasley was sinking into the shadow of the famous Potter once again. To everyone's surprise, and Father's irritation, you refused to accept the Dark Mark and had only two choices: Be killed and dismembered by the Death Eaters, or go into the service of Albus Dumbledore. You chose the latter.
After that, the world was completely white. Nothing really mattered anymore.
Then you turned eighteen. You realised you didn't give a bullcrap about morals. And that you might as well get a good shag in before the end. When you told Weasley this, he just smiled. That prick smiled. Like he knew it all along.
It's funny how you're laying here in the snow, blood once again mixing with white. The only difference is that it's a different kind of blood. His hair. That's what it truly was.
Then you look over at him. He smiles at you, panting like he's run a marathon. You smirk back.
"That was wicked." he goes.
"I'm going to hurt like hell tomorrow," you reply, pulling yourself closer to him.