Hey guys. So this is my one-shot. I got this idea a few days ago and had to write it down, so today I finally did and got it done pretty fast.
Dislaimer: I don't own HP or the quote below.
"The taste of sugar sure reminds me of your kiss, I like the way that they both linger on my lips. Kisses remind me of a field of butterflies, must be the way my heart is fluttering inside. Beautiful distraction, you make every thought a chain reaction... When I think about rain I think about singing, when I think about singing its a heavenly tune, when I think about heaven, I think about angels, and when I think about angels, I think about you...?"
-Jamie O'neal
A Beautiful Distraction
Draco stared absently at the deep, black of his dress slacks, his pale hands, ghostly, ethereal, their blue veins leaping out from his delicate, papery skin, his fingers gently holding a bright red rose, the thorns pricking into his fingers, causing a pain he couldn't feel, drawing soft, pinpoints of red liquid to fall, coating his hands and then tumbling, onto the soft blanket of snow beneath his shined shoes.
The chair beneath him, just like the one in front of him and the dozens, hundreds possibly, in front of those, was a white, hard wood, softened only by a deep red, velvet cushion, the chair's only redeeming quality. Draco lifted his eyes slowly, his heart weighing down every movement he made so that it felt as if he were moving underwater, the weight of the world, and his heart, slowing down his motions so much, he wondered why time itself didn't stop and start moving backwards. The hourglass of time might as well have flipped; everything had been turned upside-down and metamorphosed to nonsense.
His silvery-gray gaze focused on the white, marble coffin in front of the hundreds of seats, the castle towering above, just to the left and back a bit, its shadow casting over him, as if accusing him of what had happened, the sky above as white as the ground below, the entire landscape white, devoid of all light and color and life now that she was gone, even the trees were bare, every hope, glimmer, of greens and reds and golds having disappeared with her, the branches of the trees stuck out, their pale hands grasping towards the heavens, as if even they were begging her to return.
Marble, Draco thought, what a contradictory choice. She had been warm and vibrant and soft, like the red cushions who yielded only to the pale, hard wood of the chair. If anyone was as unforgiving and glacial as marble, it was he.
As he stared at the coffin, his eyes opened by a fraction as his mind tried to jolt his body awake. He was shocked, in a stupor, but why? Why the hell did he care? He didn't. Wasn't that what he had whispered in her ear every single time he had fucked her? Hadn't he told her as she was leaving, her hair swaying behind her as she crept out of his dormitory and he, his pale, cruel hand resting on the onyx doorknob of the heavy wooden door, that she was nothing, would never be anything to him, that she was merely a beautiful distraction? Hadn't he said those words? He had; he had whispered them as he stared up at the dark green canopy of his bed, repeating them, like a soft, gentle lullaby as he drifted off to sleep, convinced that his lies to himself were true. She was only a beautiful distraction.
A black mass rose before him, the students rising to pay their respects to her, row-by-row. The entire mass of humans was swathed in black; the dark, oppressing color something she would have disapproved of, he knew.
Time trickled by, slowly, as if Time's hourglass, too, was underwater, the weight of it's grief weighing it down as well. The sound of rustling fabric came from his left and Draco stood, stiffly, robotically, as if in a dream, as if none of this were real. He still couldn't believe it was true, the words of his classmates still rung in his ears, stinging them as the news assaulted them and his heart cried, screamed, until nothing else existed but those words and the aching sting of his heart.
Blaise had been the one to tell him, his deep voice impassively recounting the news as he had heard it, flecks of food flying from his mouth, one hand poised to shove another mouthful of pudding into his jaws, as his swarthy lips threw invisible daggers into Draco's hidden heart with each word he spoke.
"Hear she's dead. Hung herself over some chap."
Eight daggers, each penetrating as deeply as the last and next, the pain seeming to never cease. It was his fault, he knew, his. It was because of what he had told her, over and over. He should have known, should have guessed, should have turned around and seen the tears pouring from her beautiful brown eyes. He should have known that a person can only take so much hatred from the person they love. He should have told her, should have expressed his feelings.
His shoes crunched over the white snow, the chill seeping through the expensive leather, stealing the heat from his numb toes. His entire body was numb. He hadn't felt a thing since three days ago, when he had heard.
The entire landscape had been bleached of color, now resembling him, Draco, the one responsible, the one who killed her. It seemed as if the world would never see color or life again. He didn't doubt it; she was the one who had brought life and color to his world, something he felt confident would never grace his eyes again. He would forever be stuck in this glacial wasteland, the one he had been born into, the one he had thought she had saved him from, the one he would die in, alone.
The line was moving, his feet crunched on the snow again, his hands gently holding the bright red rose, blood dripping down to the snow below, dotting it, coloring it with life again.
He didn't know exactly when it had started. He had admired her hair one day in class, he remembered. Gods, he had loved that hair, it's brilliant, iridescent color, the way it fell across her shoulders, the thickness, so easy to pull when they had been wrapped up in one another, sweat dripping down their bodies, coating her shiny bangs, making them stick to her forehead. And then, it had become an almost nightly routine. He had become addicted to his distraction.
Draco's grip tightened on the rose, causing the thorns, their tips like knives, to slice into his palm, tearing it open, the crimson liquid life spilling, unnoticed, from his hand.
He had planned it as a distraction, something to keep him awake at night, to chase away the demons that haunted his dreams, but it had quickly evolved into an all-consuming addiction. He hadn't been able to get enough of her soft, opalescent skin as she moved in the moonlight, or the sweet, soft moans she emitted, grudgingly, or her candied taste. He hadn't been able to breathe around her, sometimes, a weight would fall on his chest as he stared into her eyes, blocking all sense and oxygen to his brain, but he had loved it all the same.
And yet, he had still told her, every night, after they had untangled their sweaty limbs and each retreated to their corners to gather their clothing, avoiding the other's eyes, that she was nothing, meant nothing, was merely a beautiful distraction, something to entertain. But she hadn't known he hadn't meant it; no matter how much he had wanted it to be true, it never had been. She had had him wrapped around her little finger from day one, from the way her smile radiated pure joy, to the way her hair glistened in the moonlight, to the way her cherry lips tasted as they explored the crevices of his mouth, she had had him addicted, hooked.
Draco took one last step, his feet numb, as if detached, and looked into the calm, peaceful face of his beautiful distraction. Her hair glowed softly, even in death, the color bright against the white cushions of her coffin. They had dressed her in white, the collar high to shield the viewer's eyes from the bruise Draco knew must sit on her thin, pearly, perfect neck. Her hands were placed on her flat stomach, her eyes closed as if she were merely sleeping, a soft smile on her lips, all signs of worry or aging erased from her face.
Draco gently placed his rose, it's stem darkened by the blood on his hands the thorns had drawn, atop the mounds of others that heaped her coffin, drowning it in their sea of soft, silky red petals and harsh thorns. He stared into her face for a moment more, shock thrumming through his veins as the evidence confronted him. His beautiful distraction was dead, lying in a coffin, because of him and his cruel words.
Her face, oh her beautiful face, the nose he had kissed so many times, the mouth he had invaded with his tongue and memorized, hungrily, as if he were a starving man, her brown eyes, the ones he had stared into for so many moments as he wrapped his hands into her hair, gently tugging on it, their sweat-covered bodies wrapped up in one another, becoming united and one.
He stepped away from the coffin and walked past the rows of white chairs and soft, red cushions, and mourning students dressed in black, the snow crunching softly beneath his expensive leather shoes, the castle still towering above him. He passed his seat and kept walking, his mind rushing through the moments and events leading up to her decision, her death. He strode past the black-clad students, their faces solemn and sad, faux tears springing from their eyes as they cried for a girl they had hardly known.
Bowing his head, he scowled at the ground, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, the movements stinging the neglected cuts on his hands. None of these people had truly known her. They hadn't known of her wild side, the one that liked to sneak out of her dormitory at night and steal downstairs to meet Draco. They hadn't known that her red hair smelled of strawberries, nor of the fact that she had a tiny tattoo of a red butterfly on the sensitive, ivory skin near her hipbone, just above where her legs began.
Draco trudged into the doors of Hogwarts, shoving past the empty halls. In the kitchens, elves ran frantically around, hurriedly preparing a banquet feast in honor of the dead girl. Opalescent, pearly, ghosts roamed the halls, the moon shining through their gossamer skin as they floated through solid walls with ease, as if the walls had about as much substance as themselves. No one else was around, but he didn't take notice. Instead, he strode forth, his body barely containing his emotions.
Slinking into the dark depths of the dungeons, he found he could go no further. Finding an empty room, one he knew he could be swallowed by and no one would ever find him, he crossed to the farthest wall and slunk to it's bottom, resting his head in his hands as the tears fell.
He stared at his shoes, the faint sound of water hitting the floor just barely audible over the pounding of his heart as the wetness slipped down his cheeks. He hadn't told her his true feelings, hadn't been enough of a man to admit that he loved her, that he was infatuated with her, that he felt the same. Instead, he had hid his emotions from her and constantly reminded her, and himself, that he didn't like her, didn't need her.
They had found her body dangling from a thick, white rope, it's cords straining from her weight, three days ago, hanging next to her bed. They had found the chair, it's plush, red pillow knocked aside, the chair turned over onto the ground. And they had found the note, it's white edges folded crisply, the black ink scrawled perfectly, a thin thread describing the reasons she had committed this horrifying act, protecting the boy, leaving him nameless, even when he had caused her so much damage.
Draco lifted his head from his hands and stared at them with his silver, tear-ridden gaze, his pale brows knitting as he saw his hands were red, the palms covered in blood. The blood of his beautiful distraction. The blood of Ginny Weasley.
Sequel: A Beautiful Lie.
If you liked that, review.
-Katy