Purple Tulle and Blonde Hair

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

Draco Malfoy hates the color purple. 

Despises it, really. It's one of those colors that just makes his skin crawl. And just as much as he hates the color itself, he hates purple colored clothing. Because who, in their right mind at least, would look at something purple and say: yes, that's what I want to wear. He can't understand it. Can't stand it. Hates it, like he said before.

But now, as he's staring out across the gradually filling dance floor, he sees it. Sees her. And it makes his stomach do an uncomfortable kind of flip, at which he turns his gaze towards the ground and bites the inside of his lip to distract himself from any other kind of feeling.

She looks stupid, really, in that color. In that dress. It's a kind of bubblegum pink at the top, and gradually becomes more and more sickeningly purple the lower it falls on her body. And there's a bunch of frilly looking tulle at the bottom — a part of the dress that holds his focus for a bit too long. And he wishes that she'll trip on it while dancing. Maybe she'll step on that bloody Sasquatch Viktor Krum's giant feet while they're waltzing. He doubts that she even knows how to waltz. And if she does, she'll look utterly ridiculous doing it.

He's mildly enjoying the thought of it before the sound of the music begins, and he can see her starting to move, Krum's thick, oak trees for arms wrapped around her like she belongs to him. She doesn't. Draco's eyes thin before he even realizes that they have. Before he can wipe the snarl off his face. Because as he watches them — her, dance, he's noticing that she, in fact, does not look utterly ridiculous. She's not a bad dancer, if he's honest.

She's quite the opposite, actually. She moves like the lyrics of a slow, calming song. Like the melody of a piano ballad, the kind Draco learned to play back at the manor. The kind his mother had taught him during his first summer back from Hogwarts. She'd placed her hands on top of his, then, guiding his fingers along the keys until he was good enough to do it on his own. And now, as he watches Hermione Granger, she reminds him of it.

It's the way she sways. Dips. Steps to the beat of the music. The way she smiles and laughs every time Krum spins her around, her hair falling in loose curls around her face.

Her face.

God, he wants to hate that part of her too. Wants to hate the way her nose's arch curves downward flawlessly. The way it wrinkles up when she laughs. The way her lips part slightly when she's thinking, her eyebrows furrowing together into a straight line. The way her eyes crinkle at the edges when she smiles.

The way she smiles.

Bloody hell, he's been trying to hate her smile ever since he saw her step off the train during their first year at school. And now, as he's watching her smile once more, he can feel a pit settling in his stomach. And it makes him want to rip out his own insides. Because what is wrong with him? It's Hermione Granger. The girl he called a filthy little Mudblood. The girl he wished death upon when the Chamber of Secrets was opened for the second time. And the girl he'd tried desperately not to think — dream about for the past four years.

Now, as Krum dips her backwards and runs his hand down her arm, he convinces himself that it's just a stomach big making him want to vomit. He's not sick over her. Over bloody Hermione Granger and her stupid, ugly purple dress. He's not.

And as he forces himself to look away from the scene playing out in front of him, he tells himself that it's because he wants a drink. He's thirsty. That's all. Not for her, though. For a drink of punch. And as he pours it, sipping distractedly at the fruity tasting liquid, he scowls, thinking about how horrible that dress really is. And it doesn't matter how nice it looks around her thin waist. How it clings to her chest, and falls loose around her legs in that ugly tulle. That pink and purple, gaudy looking tulle.