A Rainbow Of Blood
by AshLight
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, don't you think I would have kept Dumbledore alive?
A/N: DISTURBING. As in, very disturbing. It kinda scares me. If you don't like self-harming, the mention of blood, slightly disturbing thoughts about Gryffindor Halfbloods, Draco Malfoy having dark, slightly romantic thoughts, or an obsessive list of colours, then don't read.
Otherwise, read on! I'm actually quite proud of this. But frightened all the same.
He watches them all, idly, with some sort of tired half-detachment, safe in the knowledge that soon he will leave all this, leave all the mudbloods and traitors and dirty little filth.
He focuses on a little Gryffindor; same age as him. She's a halfblood, father a mudblood, mother a witch, and Potter says that mudbloods are as magical as purebloods, but what do you expect from a little halfblood himself? She coughs, rests her head on her hand, and he wonders; is only half her blood tainted? Is half her blood pure, red as fire, glistening like a mirror? Is half dirty, thick and contaminated, black and mucky as swamp-water? And if he spilt her blood, could he find out?
He never used to think such things.
But he never used to be this powerful.
Potter's glaring at him again. He returns the stare with cool abandon, smirking long enough to tell him 'There. For once I know what's going on. Not you,' and turns his head, enjoying the riled hiss coming from Weasley. He enjoys it all, nudging them, slyly, until one day, at one point; they'll be pushed over the edge. Until then, he can wait.
It's all just a game, after all.
The days are starting to get tiresome, languid. Prefect duties, schoolwork, riling Gryffindors; none of those matters anymore. He even tires of Quiddich; and this is something that hurts, because it's always been his focus, his passion, something remarkably close to joy, ever since his first year. He remembers watching his first school Quiddich match, clapping, jumping, cheering himself hoarse, and then furiously smashing his hands into the seat (that left a mark, a broad, angry red welt) when Potter captured the Snitch. He was only eleven, a foolish little first year, who still expressed his feelings and emotions freely.
He's sixteen now, a sixth year, and he knows better.
He was stronger in the second year, he reflects. A summer filled with lectures, orders and practise duels that left him aching, a summer of cold glances and tight, disdainful glares, a summer of cold green and harsh silver, away from brilliant red and bright gold. He remembers a fleeting feeling in the pit of his stomach as he held his broom for the first time, but dismissed it coolly, and breathed a relieved sigh when he came through from Potter's confrontation without showing a speck of emotion.
Now Quiddich is just a game, a tiresome little game, the Snitch, just a little golden ball (and why should he lower himself to chasing something gold after all?), his rivalry with Potter; a childish thing, something to be ashamed of. Now all he needs is power, determination, and a hunger for blood; these are the only things he desires.
In his dormitory, he fills his hunger for blood. A shard of jagged glass, and he traces, thinly, over the veins. Blue and purple, he observes interestedly, gentle, soft colours, in thin spider's webs criss-crossing across his wrist. He presses the glass in, and red spills, slightly, so the gentleness and the tenderness should be overcome with anger, ferocity and passion; all disgusting, obvious feelings, but they're interesting, somehow. He longs for that sense of overcoming emotion, wants to drown in it, let it take him over for just one second. But there is no feeling, no anger, no ferocity, no passion, and so he strikes again, and the searing pain in his wrist is as close as he gets.
Now he gets up, tosses his work lazily onto the desk in front of him, ignoring the disapproving look from McGonagall; because who cares about what she thinks, a halfblood herself, and a Gryffindor, and a traitor to boot, thinking that by teaching her stupid little subject she can protect them, hide them from a world that's already found them.
The little Gryffindor, a sixteen year old sixth year and small as a pixie, is talking to Granger, rolling her black-rimmed eyes expressively, waving her arms around slightly, almost striking Smith straight in the face. She's always been a little wild, he recalls slowly, remembering as if drawing a forgotten book from a dusty library shelf. In the fading light from one of the corridor windows, her face is basked in a soft golden light, Golden Gryffindor. As she shoves Granger slightly he can see chipped lilac nail varnish, her dancing eyes are a faded sapphire.
Gentle, soft colours. And yet under her skin flows pure, berry-red, dirty, night-black blood, all mixed together, from filth and purity into one little body.
The thought that he cannot see this strange dance between the Pure and the Foul, cannot see the colours mix and turn, cannot feel the strange, foreign pulse from her wrist under his fingers, angers him so, and this is the rush of all three emotions he has longed for; anger, ferocity and passion. He strides forwards, Nott following apprehensively, actually interested, and slowly, deliberately, enjoying himself, reaches forward and pushes her forcefully down the stairs.
It's such a mesmerising dance, the way she hangs in the air for a split second, the way her hair splays out in the air, the way her limbs flail hopelessly, the single shrill, panicked note that spills out from cerise lips.
And then the spell is broken, and she tumbles down, down, down the stairs, crashing into the floor in a broken, crumpled heap. Granger sprints down towards her, dropping her books in her horror, Weasley and Potter not two steps behind her. The girl gasps, chokes and rolls over onto her back, taking in deep, shuddering breaths of air. Granger's hand slips under her head, Weasley takes her arm, helping her up and Potter steadies her as she sways violently and clutches at Granger's shoulder, beginning to gulp and sob, tears filling her eyes, threatening to fall, just creating a deeper, more cerulean blue.
Just in that moment, when the first tear slides down her delicate little jawbone, a striking droplet of blood appears by her cheek. Probably from the steps. He can envision it, smiling softly, as if it were a private luxury for him alone. Such a pretty little mess; the skin, breaking apart as the cheekbone struck the corner, threads of flesh tearing and fraying, letting the precious bead of blood escape. It's such a small thing, such a tiny droplet of carmine liquid; but it's a mixture, a mixture of the things he has been ordered to respect and the things he knows to loath. Such a small thing, but it's there, the pretty little mess, and her body let it go just for him, though she doesn't know it. He walks down the steps slowly, languidly, as though he couldn't give a damn about the little halfblood filth, though his heart may be hammering in his chest, and sneaks a look at her face.
It's a deep, shining shade of scarlet, no black muck to mar it; pure, and at the same time he knows it's filthy, surrounded by a pattern of deep indigo and vermillion bruises. Beautiful, in a way. Repulsive, in another. And either way, completely and utterly captivating.
Granger's looking at him, alarmed, disturbed. There's an interesting sliver of panic in her eyes, of fear, of terror, "Did he…why would…." Funny, how her voice wavers slightly, in that one word. Why.
She's still staring up at him, confused, and at the same time horrified. The little girl is clinging to her, like clutching a half-broken raft in a storm. Her fingers are digging into Granger's cloak, and her wrists are so thin and milk-white, so fragile, like slim flutes of glass.
He wonders what it would sound like to snap them.
And at the same time wonders how encircling them softly with his fingers would feel.
Weasley shakes his head in disgust, not bothering to look up, "He's a git, Hermione," He snarls viciously, "Death-Eater's son. Complete bastard, as we all know, so just ignore him," Potter nods firmly, patting the little Gryffindor on the shoulder.
She gasps slightly, holding her ankle out at a strange angle. Her ankle is slim, delicate, almost porcelain, and bent out of place. It's so interesting, such a dainty little thing, completely snapped and out of place, ruined, marred. He knows that Aunt Bellatrix says that all things are more beautiful when ruined, that delicious trace of evil just scenting it. At the same time he can't help wondering how perfect it must have looked before.
The experiment's over. It's like a sudden breath, like when you surface from being under water, that first gasp of fresh air that pierces your lungs and slices through your throat. He knows what the blood looks like now. He should be turning away, back to the cold, jaded Common Room, dark, midnight black walls of his dormitory, back to pouring over dirtied plans and maps and the cracked spins of complicated spell books, back to the icy feel of glass over his wrists, back to Pansy Parkinson, her sharp nails and coarse black hair and her kisses that could turn a man to stone. But he's standing here, in this corridor that suddenly seems too golden, too light, too bright, studying this experiment, this girl that seemed so alive, so bubbly, and definitely brimming over with emotion, and scalding hot blood is pumping its way up to his face.
He's always felt freezing, cold in some way, and his flaming cheeks, feeling as though someone had pressed a brand to his face (hotter, more real than the Dark Mark) is a horrifying, and not entirely unpleasant feeling.
Potter turns the girl around, watching her totter slightly on her scuffed heels. She whimpers, just about, sounding like a frightened rabbit. The sound is so pitiful, so utterly weak, and pleading. It reminds him of liquid, in some strange way, thin dribbles over water flowing over rocks, blood splashing against the stone floors of the Common Room, tears crashing halfways and sideways into the ivory-white sink, liquid thoughts spinning and swirling and easing their way through his mind, thoughts and dreams about flashes of green, black marks cutting into his wrist, red blood sliding through veins and cloudy corn-flower blue eyes that he can imagine flying through, flying free.
Pansy's eyes are murky brown, the colour you see on the edges of old parchment. He can't imagine anyone dreaming about that kind of colour, so perhaps it isn't the blood that haunts him, after all. Perhaps he just wanted to see those eyes crumple up and fill with tears.
Perhaps he's going crazy.
Perhaps he's going to end up like Aunt Bellatrix.
Bellatrix has never had dreams about eyes before, he's sure of it, unless she dreams of scarlet slits and ebony black pupils reflecting a hundred different shades of emerald, jade, lime and bottle green. So perhaps he's just haunted by thoughts of colour, the different shades echoing through his mind, the thought that wherever colour goes, so too does the absence of colour, and that is black.
If only to prove himself wrong, to prove that he isn't sane, this is just perfectly normal blood lust, he will find out what it's like. Feeling the blood (half pure, half filth, and shouldn't the two conflict?) flow under paper-thin milk-white skin. Tasting copper and tin blood on his mouth (he's a Malfoy, he has refined tastes, after all). Hearing the pitiful sobs right next to his ear (and who says that she'd break, she's a Gryffindor, she'd try and last it out). Smelling fear as if he could reach out and touch it, a feathery, silken feeling (fear is such a delicate feeling, Aunt Bellatrix says). Watching a pair of blue eyes that hold the sky within them lose the light behind them (and one day the sky will grow dark, and will fill with a thousand green sparks).
Frightening, the power he holds. But, he reflects, as he watches the little Gryffindor walk off (and the poor thing thinks she has problems now), it isn't such a bad thing.
Power, blood and colour. They all have their uses, if only you can find, tame and use them.
And oh, he'd do all three.
A/N: All of Honeydukes if you managed to read that without shuddering.