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There were several shades of red. Too many of it, as if they all blended together.
Waving flags and shaking banners, the main choice to showcase true hearted support at the Quidditch Pitch.
Wacky accessories complementing their shining garments. Paint smeared across familiar faces.
The Gryffindors in front of him, euphoric for the imminent victory of their team. The brown stands barely visible, shaking from the violence of their exhilaration. The sweet intensity behind beating their greatest adversary.
An irritating view to behold.
The joy was making them flustered–either from the screams or in light of the collective gleefulness.
Since he still remained as one of the most proliferant players of the Slytherin team, the best seats at the front of the pitch belonged to him. Today they were just an empty space among the crowd, nobody daring to intrude what was known to be his.
Draco settled into a spot at the back, leaning against one of his House’s stands when he arrived halfway through the match. Almost hidden beneath the arc to keep a low profile, enough to cover his deep shame for how his team was useless without him.
If he was completely honest, his participation wouldn’t make that much of a difference, with his mind and efforts scattered everywhere, but not that he would ever admit it to anyone. Still, it frustrated him to the core.
Nothing was going according to the plan. Too much pressure on his shoulders, its weight overwhelmingly present. Feeling haunted by the shadows of his flaws.
As Weasel dismissed yet another quaffle, Draco didn’t try to contain his scoff.
His Father wouldn’t have allowed such incompetence. He wasn’t very tolerant these days.
Another failure of his. Now to his dearest forest-green team.
But Lucius' command had been crystal clear.
Your focus must be on the task, and the task only.
Pansy was beside him, arms crossed on her chest. Palpable irritation painted across her face after seeing Blaise’s broom snap in two, giving the Lion’s team advantage from the momentary loss of a player.
Draco unconsciously lifted his right hand to his mouth and it wasn’t until Pansy slapped it that he noticed the action. Clenching his jaw, he gave a quick look to his nails, the biting barely noticeable.
Good.
No sign of recklessness was allowed. Not anymore.
The Slytherin side of the pitch started chanting the song that he and Pansy created, in a futile attempt to reverse the inevitable. The ludicrous scenery annoyed him, making him raise his frowning eyes.
Even though the scarlet tone reigned on both sides, only the darkest shades prevailed among his housemates. Pansy’s cheeks were like cherries from the restrained shouts held behind her lips.
Blotched faces, almost violet, on those who had lost all manners and let the annoyance get the best of them, shouting nonsense as the chant abruptly died once the rival audience used the opportunity to have a laugh.
Enervated players, with sweat running through their rosy skin, frustrated and embarrassed.
But a poisonous viridescent flame was beginning to evolve inside him, eclipsing any trade of crimson fury.
He scanned through the hoard of people on the other side at the pitch and found her, tracking once more the fond look she aimed at the masterfully mediocre player of the game, whose secret abilities seemed to have flourished that day.
It only managed to ignite the flare further, creating all nuances of green. Because he deserved to be on the receiving end of one of those amber gazes.
Just one.
Uneasiness slowly rising through his throat. The impropriety of it all made his gut contract.
Because he had become weak, not being able to stop once he spotted her fulfilling this raw desire. This need to contaminate. Almost territorial.
A delight to his eyes, each time she gave herself permission to carry the secret presents she received throughout these past months. Admiring how she unknowingly admitted a foe’s touch on her life.
Pansy was the subject of his experimental phase, fooled into thinking it all came from Blaise. When Blaise asked him what was going on, he just invited him to take the opportunity and snog Pansy senseless. The lad was grateful. Never questioned once.
Week after week, he kept perfectioning every aspect: charming pens to make his calligraphy unrecognisable, seeking new ways to deliver the items, searching and executing spells to add his own flavour.
Surrendering to the Imperius. Learning to let it come from within. To mean it. Confident in his success, he had decided to take a step forward before concluding with his ultimate goal. And what better than to mock the, ironically, most powerful one. The other two wankers were nothing without her.
Granger.
Keeping it sporadic, almost inconsequential, he would delicately place the bracelets, the brooches and the earrings inside a velvet box. Choosing only shiny gold silk to embrace the delicate ornaments.
Red disgusted him.
She always performed diagnostic spells, the curious swot. And he made sure to satisfy that need, indulging and leaving something for her.
A smell, a design, a note.
Meaningless? Never.
Mint. Grass. Parchment . As she had declared.
And always at her lowest.
Making her feel seen. Appreciated. Cared.
He would make her cherish it. Non-dismmiseble.
And that’s how he had prepared. Just to fail anyways.
His latest acquisition was still yet to be provided. Burning on the inside pocket of his robe, but not being able to find the right moment thus far.
Katie’s incident was still fresh on everyone’s mind. It would be too risky, borderline stupid, to hand it now. He shouldn’t be even wasting his time on this, considering the situation he has got himself into.
Time was mercilessly thundering as days went by.
Tick .
His mother’s pleading eyes.
Tock.
Death drawing closer.
The final whistle ended his ruminations.
His eyes went to her as the whole crowd jumped and clapped and screamed. She imitated.
Rearranging her scarf, her hand rose to the curls that had sprayed across her face from all the franticness, placing them behind her ear.
And there it was.
The shining earring in plain sight. His second gift. Shaped like a pristine droplet of water, matching the gleaming depth of his eyes. Short enough to be sophisticated, long enough to be felt.
A subtle contrast from the vibrant colours surrounding her.
A touch. A splash. A signature.
A call .
Constantly looking for who would return her prying eyes whenever she displayed the little offerings.
Draco smirked for himself. He would never give her the joy of it.
Silently, he turned around to leave the pitch early, to hide again within the three pointed wooden walls that most needed him. Where he was supposed to be.
Now satisfied.
Because no matter the circumstance, the animosity, the naivety.
Granger would always wear silver.