Razorblade romance, that's what he has. He's so pale, so colorless. Like the old black and white photograph of his grandparents, seriously dull.
Crimson, blood red, rose red, ruby red, scarlet.
The color of Gryffindor.
He just doesn't care anymore.
When that searing metal touches him, caressing his heart and mind and body better than the little Weaslette whore ever has...
Oh, sweet bliss, sweet release….
And, oh, how fucking ignorant he is.
But she whimpers his name, and its like nails on a chalkboard, skreee, skreee, skreeee, high pitched, dracodracodraco, over and over and stop, make it go away.
Kiss of sin, a silver flash…those razorblades whisper so lovingly….
Crimson color, and he isn't a Malfoy anymore.
And Ginny thinks she knows, but she doesn't.
Fuck her, fuck Slytherin, he likes the color red.
dracodracodraco…..