Red Is For...
A Queerditch Pub Drabble
by Kihin Ranno
"Tell me again why we're doing this?" Harry asked, sounding as if Draco were telling him to run his limbs through a spaghetti maker. "I mean, I don't see why this is necessary."
Draco blew a slivery lock of hair out of his eyes only to have it fall right back into place. He glared at it with much vehemence and probably would have transfigured it into something horrible had it not been attached to his head. "We are doing this, Potter, because I am bored and you know boredom is death for me."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "So I exist solely for your personal amusement."
"I was wrong about you, Potter. You catch on fast."
Harry sighed, leaning forward to take a closer look at Draco's handiwork. "Just.
tell me. Why red?"
"I thought you Gryffindors were mad for red," Draco said disdainfully, never looking up from his palette. "Thought you found yourselves unable to keep from whooping and frothing at the mouth at the sight of it."
"Am I frothing?"
Draco shrugged delicately. "Well then, for your surprising lack of house pride, red is the color for bad girls. And since I clearly inhabit the dominant role in this relationship--"
"Says the one who owned this... stuff in the first place."
"Shut up, Potter."
Harry pulled his foot away, inspecting it as closely as his flexibility would allow. "I don't think it compliments my skin tone very well. Don't you think I'm too pale?"
"I'm too pale," Draco corrected. "Careful, Potter. People might mistake you for a poufter."
Harry snorted slightly. "Very funny."
"I know," Draco agreed.
Harry was about to respond when he happened to see the doorknob turning the same way it turned in the cinema. Impossibly slow and accompanied by ominous background music from some far off place where surely the musicians were laughing at them and their predicament. Harry froze in a very un-Gryffindor manner, but thankfully Draco noticed as well. He grabbed Harry roughly by the hair (a bit more roughly than he usually did) and tossed him under the bed.
Crabbe trundled into the room, looking solemn.
"Crabbe, you great thundering buffoon, did your heifer of a mother not teach you to knock?" Draco snapped, moving to stand in front of any incriminating evidence on the bed.
Crabbe blinked stupidly. "Umm..."
"What should I expect? They were so lax on honing your powers of speech." Draco waved his hand dramatically. "Just go. Get out of here and don't come back until you learn some manners. Which I'm sure won't be for another week or so. If I see your face before then, I'll see to it that you're seeing a very different face for quite some time. Understand?"
He clearly didn't understand the threat, but he left just the same.
Draco breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing for only a moment. Then he sprung into action, circling to the other side of the bed and throwing up the skirt, looking down at Harry's bony feet. His face fell, kicking the bedpost in one of his typical violent outbursts.
"Shit and mother fucking monkey balls!"
"The polish smudged."