Shades of
By: Grace (purplemud)
Disclaimers: Standard disclaimers apply.
Parings: bit of H/Hr, H/G even D/G
Summary: So, who says here Silver is the essence of Draco Malfoy? No? How about Pink?
Spoilers: Books 1-5-ish. Not much, really. It's more of an AU anyway.
Note: I hope that you enjoyed reading this one. Do let me know what you guys think. Rreviews are very much appreciated.
Shades of: Yellow
If Draco Malfoy ever heard Pansy Parkinson compare his hair once more to the color of yellow, he was going to happily push her off – no kick her – from the Astronomy Tower.
Trust Parkinson to ruin a very entertaining hand job by spewing off such nonsense.
"I am not one of your fucking little poster boys." Draco said smoothly as he tightened his hand around Pansy's arm, enough to hurt and leave a mark for days to come. He frowned as soon as he realized this and quickly loosened his grip. Pansy just might delude herself into believed that he was marking her as his.
"But all I said is that I love your yellow, golden locks of hair." Pansy mumbled, looking so thoroughly disgusting, Malfoy thought with growing contempt, as tears streaked down her pale cheeks.
"Gold isn't even the same shade as yellow, my ignorant little tart." Draco said as he continued to drag Pansy towards their Common Room. "Gold is a much, much grittier color than yellow." He paused to look down at her, smirking coldly. "Dirtier actually and a bit just like you to be honest." he told her, smiling pleasantly as she whimpered his name, which only served to infuriate him even more.
He was very tempted to lead her towards the Astronomy Tower and see just how much and what sort of sound her body would make as it hit the ground. Probably a dull, empty little thud, Malfoy thought sneering at Pansy, but, no; he wasn't in a murdering sort of mood tonight.
Lucky Pansy.
So down they went along the dark corridors and hallways, with Draco yanking Pansy's arm every once in a while, since she tend to stop every minute to complain about her aching dainty, little feet, her arms and of course, Draco's favorite: "Oh, Draco, stop, please, my heart is aching."
"If you don't walk any faster, Pensée, my dear," Draco said in his drawling voice, "it'll be more than just your feet or your arms or your heart that you'd be complaining about."
She walked much faster after that, with fewer complaints about his rough treatment. Dating Parkinson could be such a drag, literally and figuratively speaking. Sometimes he wished… well, he wished Pansy wasn't so painfully stupid. All she was ever good at was going down on her knees and breathing his name that way… that silky, gentle, lilting way of hers but other than that, well, there was just nothing else.
"Why, why, why?" Pansy was sobbing beside him and Draco rolled his eyes.
"You want to know why?" He asked placing his fingers underneath her chin and jerking her head up. "I hate silly, stupid girls. And you Pansy, you can't even distinguish one color from another." He dug his nails into the flesh of Pansy's arm.
"Oh, Draco, you're hurting me."
Well, alright, he liked that small, delicate, fragile helpless Pansy voice too.
"That's the idea, love. Think of it as your punishment."
"I won't. I promise, I won't ever…."
"You won't what?" Draco leered at her.
Pansy sniffed, rubbing her nose with her wrist and wiping away her tears. "I'll never be silly again."
And Draco actually laughed at that. A real genuine laugh and he rather enjoyed the stunned look on Pansy's eyes so much that he actually bent down to lightly kiss her on her cheeks. "Pansy, dear, you will always be silly."
"Oh, please, please Draco, I didn't mean to insult you about your hair. I do love your hair. I really do."
"Shut up." He said in a steely voice as the door to their common room swung open. "Let's make this clear, alright Pansy? Are you listening to me?"
She nodded her head, looking up at him with large watery eyes.
"My hair is neither the color of gold nor yellow," he paused, eyes glittering with barely suppressed rage, "its platinum blonde!" He roared the last part for effect, brusquely depositing Pansy into one of the many silver and green couches scattered haphazardly around their common room. He didn't care if he entirely missed the chair, leaving Pansy by the floor. He left her there as she helplessly fluttered and flounced around, following him as he made his way towards his room, finally slamming the door on her face when she attempted to enter his bedroom.
He would have to get rid of her soon, Draco thought. She'd become more annoying, clingier and sillier – if that was even a possibility. She'll have to go. First thing in the morning, at breakfast, he'll tell Crabbe that he could have her. Crabbe had always had a thing for Pansy and those two certainly deserved each other. Draco lazily muttered the silencing spell, smiling, pleased with himself as Pansy's cries of apologies were suddenly cut short.
Good riddance! Finally, some peace and quiet! He tossed his robes on the floor and flopped down on his bed, staring moodily at the gray ceiling.
Well, now that he had gotten rid of Pansy, he felt just a little bit disappointed. He probably should've let Pansy finish the 'job', he thought with no great amount of regret. He could've at least salvaged this night had he not blew up on her for her silliness.
Draco paused, placing his two hands at the back of his head. Actually, he thought, chuckling softly, blowing up on her, that, sadly he had failed to do.
He snickered some more, nodding appreciatively at his own little joke. He was quite funny when he wanted to be. Too bad though that most girls from his house (Hufflepuffs too, for that matter) couldn't quite get his jokes. The Ravenclaw witches were far more interesting shags of course, as they always have something witty to say, although they lacked a certain bite to their wittiness, which was why he was a bit sorry for not having had the opportunity to bed someone from the House of Lions.
The girls there, they all had sharp retractable claws.
Not for the first time, his mind shifted towards a memory from last month. That fateful day, he had been contemplating on the many ways to make Scarhead's life miserable and as it turned out, he had also unknowingly caught Potter in a rather unguarded moment.
They were all outside for Quidditch practice and since Snape was a slimy, conniving arse who hated every and all Griffydors he had promptly written and signed, by Draco's own request of course, a note officially and effectively kicking out the Gryffindor team off the field so the Slytherins could practice.
The red-headed Weasels were already up in arms, wands drawn, pointing at their targets. Potter was right in front of the pack, eyes glittering with rage and was just about ready to throw a punch at him when someone intervened.
"C'mmon, Harry, you know they're not worth it."
There was a rather bored tone in Granger's voice that made Draco turn his head. There she was, the filthy little Mudblood, standing right beside him, her brown hair a washed in bright yellow sun light. He didn't know where she had come from, wasn't even aware that she was in field, although he really should not be surprised at all. Where the Pottyhead was, the Mudblood was sure to be there as well.
She proudly held her chin up, eyes glowing with wild defiance and for some strange, utterly unexplainable and positively demented reason, she reminded him of yellow dandelions bathing in the summer sun.
Bright, yellow dancing dandelions.
How very fitting for Granger, Draco thought. Den Leonis. Lion's tooth.
Or in Granger's case, Lioness' Tooth.
There had never been a question among the Slytherins who really wore the pants in the Good For Nothing Trio. Weasley-King was nothing but a sorry little sidekick. Potter was the unlikely Hero, forced to be one, more like it. Granger, despite her dirty blood, was formidable. She wasn't just smart – she knew every fucking little thing and worse, she remembers every fucking little detail. Had he not been brought up to hate mudbloods, Draco wouldn't have minded being acquainted with her.
But being the well trained son that he was, he had snorted and sneered at the impertinent mudblood before turning to look at Potter, ready to spew off so many of his more cutting remarks about the sorry, loosing state of his chosen friends – a mudblood, sons and daughter of second-rate, dirt poor wizzarding family, of which one, Potty was actually dating – when he caught the look on Potter's eyes.
It was gleefully disturbing that Potter could still wear his fucking heart out on his fucking sleeves, like it was something to be proud of. He wasn't at all surprised by this. Potter had always been sloppy and not at all familiar with the more ruthless rules of psychological warfare. Being Lucious Malfoy's son guaranteed that he learned and mastered the art of fucking people up in the head. Nothing came so easy to him as playing mind games, spotting moments of vulnerability and Potty The Pothead was just about the most pathetic arch nemesis. He was fucking hopeless, really. Always choosing to make useless gallant, honorable deeds, always showing the enemies his weakness and today was no different.
For everyone to see, Pothead had been displaying his one, true weakness: the longing, concerned, gag-inducing look of tenderness from Potter was just the perfect opening Draco had been looking for and he was going to destroy little Red Weasley just because Potter was looking at her with so much undeniable, unspeakable devotion…
Oh, wait…
Well, well. Lokee here.
A great day it was, Malfoy recalled fondly. Finally discovering that the honorable Pothead was nothing but a treacherous fucking little cheater! The bastard hadn't even looking at his supposed girlfriend, who was breathing fire, by the way, ready to put her Bat Bogey Hexing skills to the test.
Oh, no, no. Not Poor Little Red.
Harry Potter's bleeding heart had been displayed out in the open and it had been very pointedly pointing towards the mudblood.
The discovery had been too fucking precious he actually laughed out loud. Of all the fucked up little melodramas he had ever seen, and he had seen plenty in his very own home, this just tops them all: Potter was quite possibly in love with the filthy mudblood.
And suddenly his ringing laughter had been cut short by the very object of Potter's affection.
Granger had stepped right in front of him, hands on her hips, practically hissing with rage, yellow light and all and Merlin's word! She had never looked so threatening that day and this from a girl who had already punched him straight, without warning, without hesitation and without any remorse or whatsoever.
And well, there was nothing that turned Draco on than a woman who knew how to fight and fuck it, ever since that day out in the field, he had enthusiastically wanked with nothing but the image of Granger and that look of unadulterated hatred in her eyes. He wanked so hard, sometimes he was sure he'd gone fucking crossed-eyed.
It was shameful: a mudblood like her, to cause such stirring in his blood… but oh, the very thought of him shaming his father, the precious Malfoy blood line… it made the wanking even more appallingly, fuckingly brilliant.
Little Red was pretty, sure, he wasn't blind. But she was more like some cheap perfume: enticingly wafting in the air, sticking to your clothes but at the end of that day, you could just casually wash her away. She was a pretty ornament. All lace and silly frills. Nothing else. The Dark Lord had already conquered her - and so very easily too.
Sure she was merely a child then, during the great year of the Basilisk, but he had heard of rumors from Death Eaters discussing the youngest, seventh, gifted, special child and well, for all that Ginny was supposed to be, she was nothing but a darn pretty face that occasionally displayed bursts of hot tempered tantrums perfected only by a true spoiled brat. He should know he had been one when he was boy; the only difference was he had outgrown it, whereas for the red head, she thrived on it. What she wanted, apparently, she got. By all means possible. Of course, Ginny, to her credit, was quite exceptional when using the cunning, manipulative ways of pretty girls like her. She knew she was beautiful and that knowledge and acknowledgment was her power. She had no qualms of using her perfect-ness; otherwise, she would have never entrapped Potter into this sordid little mess. But above all, she was a patient sly fox. With all that combined, even Draco would be reluctant to cross path with her.
Granger, on the other hand, was of another make. She wasn't stunning. Oh, no she wasn't. She was rather plain looking and to be honest and she seemed to be so painfully aware of this, seemed to strive to look that way even. She would never stand out in a crowd of veelas, that was for sure, except well, except when she needed to show her sharpened teeth and claws and then suddenly she was Hermione Granger, Hear Me Fucking Roar.
A hundred vapid smiling veelas would have nothing on her and that's what makes her different from any other girls.
Draco had often wondered why she seemed to glow whenever she was angry or at least when trying to save Potter's sorry, stinky hide. But now, he need not wonder any more. There was no doubt in his mind why exactly. And he thought that Granger had brains. The stupid Mudblood! To love someone like Potter. All that spirit, all that courage would go to waste. Potter would be the death of her someday, he was quite sure of it and for the briefest moment, he wished it wasn't so. But there were deaths in wars. It was inevitable. And if, by some miracle, Pothead ever survived this war, it wouldn't be because of his damnable courage, or sheer fucking luck. No. It would be because of Granger.
That day, Draco having had just realized Potter's greatest strength and weakness, he remembered leaning towards the source of Potter's strength, the future reason for his downfall. He had leaned so close to her, his lips was almost brushing her cheeks, briefly sharing with her that golden yellow light surrounding her, feeling its warmth and the warmth of her breath and of her skin.
He remembered whispering all sorts of dirty, illicit, licentious, immoral acts and how he would do each and every one of them to her anytime, anyplace if only she hadn't been such a filthy, little mudblood.
Granger didn't even have the time to react because, as evident to what happened next, the mere sight of him in such close proximity with the mudblood was enough to send Pothead in a fury of unparalleled proportion. In fact, until that day, Draco never did think that the Pitiful Potty was capable of blood lust, but obviously, The Boy Who Lived was just brimming with dark, malevolent rage.
Draco had been hospitalized for three days and his father had visited once and only to tell him that it would have been better if he had died, that way, they could've thrown Potter in Azakaban without much fuss. His father had endlessly lamented (more like had been utterly disgusted) by the fact that Harry Bloody Sodding Potter had knocked his only son flat on his back, broke two of his ribs, busted open his lips, badly bruised his flesh and somewhat altered his pointy little nose (Draco had that fixed of course and Potter was going to pay for that soon enough).
But for the first time in his life, Draco was not at all bother by his father's cutting words. For one thing he was used to them and for another, there in the hospital wing, with the drowsy light of twilight filling the room, his bones burning and aching, his flesh screaming in agony and his father droning on and on about his uselessness, his inability to do anything right, what sustained him were the many thoughts of what he'd do to Granger.
And Draco had plenty of ideas for torture and he had thought, with little remorse, how Potter would suffer as he inflicted pain upon pain on the love of Potter's life.
After he killed Dumbledore, Draco had decided that he was going to go for Granger next and he was going to make Potter watch as he slowly snuffed out that fierce and proud yellow light from Granger's eyes.
It would be a shame to crush such a pretty dandelion but, yes, Draco thought, with fevered pleasure, he was going to steal Potter's only saving light. He was going to plunge Scarhead into the kind of darkness that he could never, ever come out of and he would enjoy it immensely.
And surely, surely then Dark Lord will deem him worthy to become his second hand.
e n d
Author's note: Well, what can I say, I like evil Draco. Hehehehe. And no, I don't ship D/G although I have to admit that D/Hr is a guilty ship of mine, so indulge me, please. LOL. I do hope you all liked this one and please don't hate me, I do like Draco, I do, oh, I honestly do, but I wanted something darker and well, it was the only thing I could come up with. I suppose it doesn't really explain why "Yellow" exactly… but er, well, I tried.