TW: drug usage and explicit information of how to do it.
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"Listen to me... Shut up!"
"Or what?!"
Eyes narrowed, heat growing every second around two bodies. Tension already built. It is constant. An eternal circle of anger.
Just like the number 8, its shape represents infinity, spirals that don't end even with the help of a number 0. It is curious because if you part both circles of the eight you get a zero. Infinity comes also with a 1, a blindfold tied behind your head.
Anger is like the number 81.
The darkest shade of all blues together. A sea that drowns you until the air decides to abandon you in the deepest of the abysm of despair. Lava from a volcano that burns and then dries leaving the hopes of breaths down a blanket of darkness.
"Or fucking what, Malfoy?!" she yells. "What are you going to do, huh?!"
And he pushes her. Doesn't use to much strength but it still manages to make her go back a few steps.
"Shut your fucking mouth!" his muscles are tense, crimson is climbing his neck, warming his body and raising the temperature.
Jealousy could be colour pink, like a peony. It is such a beautiful colour but then you get tired of it and becomes annoying, suffocating, hateful. It turns to a yellowish kind of green because it merges with anger and fear. The ugliest of the colours without any doubt.
The peony pink once it was now is dark and smells bad, releases a kind of yellowish-green smoke that looks like sickness. That is jealously.
Its like number 5, sharp and with the hint of having an eighty-one inside.
The demon inside you stiffens up; it is tense, alert. It scrapes one finger along the bottom of your stomach, yellowish-green as iris and hungry. Is a fire within you, burning away all logic and reason and good feeling — all that remains is hatred, irrational anger, and resentment. A twisting in your stomach.
Dead peonies, smelling bad.
And all because of a letter. Two in this case. One with more words than the other. But with the same love, just that one of them doesn't realise it and feels bitter.
Jealousy is a bitter flavour and its texture is sandy and dry.
Things around them are exploding. Some papers are in fire, smelling like burned hopes and words none get to read or hear.
It had started at breakfast, when the Malfoys' owl entered the Great Hall with one parchment attached to its foot and beak holding two letters.
All had been fine. Calm. Then the peony's pink started to wilt in shades of dark aquamarine.
