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Title: Violaceous
Author: Twinkledru J.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Rowling's, not mine, and I'm sure she'd want nothing to do with this story.
Summary: Draco's seventeenth birthday party.
Notes: Improv (http://www.imnotbitter.net/hpimprov) #1. Somewhere in the vicinity of Year 6 at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy/Viktor Krum. Further proof that I'm going to hell.


It was his seventeenth birthday and Father was letting him celebrate in style -- a troupe of enslaved selkies provided the entertainment at the party and only the greatest of the great were present. Both of his parents had retired to their vacation home in Rome and left him the manor with all the secrets it contained.

Mother had suggested a costume ball ("They're a lost art," she'd sighed through her perfectly-shining pink lips, already slipping into her past, "you simply *must*, darling Draco,"), and he'd obliged for the fantastic fantasy of the thing, but had not allowed her to choose (or even to see) his planned outfit. Of course there had been the normal turnout of fairies (generally with enchanted wings so that they actually managed to hover a few feet above the ground) and fauns (with ingenious horns and hooves, so natural-looking that he had entertained the notion that perhaps these were in fact the natural forms).

He was fashionably late, he laughed thoughtfully, to his own birthday party now (though people hardly seemed to notice; and as well they might, this was merely another opportunity for social climbing and attempts at prestige in the Juvem Nox clique), but his outfit was, his mother would have gasped delightedly, "just *delicious*" and in his opinion made the wait entirely worth it.

Draco was a fairy (done to death by the girls, but not by the boys, and damn if he didn't do it well), but nothing like the gossamer-winged pastel-iced shimmering spectacles currently crowding Malfoy Mansion. He had spent several months working out in an attempt to get the perfect muscle definition for this, and damn if he was going to let it go to waste. He was bare-chested, wearing only black dragonhide pants which fitted like the skin on a grape (and by Sedna's fingers they had been hard to get into, but he had to smirk at the way they showed off his ass -- and the package? well, he didn't want to brag), his silver-blonde hair mussed just enough and sprinkled with Tentase, his mother's favorite holding potion to keep it thus. A charm he'd picked up while visiting Gladrags conjured a cloud of red and silver glitter which had hovered over him and dusted his bare skin and hair just enough that he twinkled the slightest bit. He'd stolen a tube of his mother's lipcolor and painted his mouth so that it shimmered scarlet against his ever-so-fair skin, and smears of black shimmer (flecked with red glitter, of course) above his eyes completed the makeup.

His feet were bare, of course, the pale rounded toes at the end of delicately high arches each flecked with the same black polish which was on his fingers.

But it was the wings he was proudest of.

They'd been oh gods so painful to put on -- an Endermis spell had caused them to grow roots a few millimeters under his skin, holding them in place and burning like a bitch whenever they were caught on something. But all the pain was worth it. Rather than the same tired old iridescent dragonfly/butterfly/floral styles everyone else was sporting, these were dragon wings. They arched a good two feet above his head at their points, and extended a foot and a half out from his back. The lowest points came down to only a few centimeters away from his ass, and they were spread wide, as though he were preparing to take flight. Rather than leather or silk, too, they were a thin metal alloy, with a dull scarlet lustre to them.

Out of habit, he reached for one of the vials on his bookshelf -- a glowing purple item -- but stopped himself, remembering his makeup. He swore, recalled that he was playing the part of the coyly eerie creature, and swore again, but more *delicately*, and that was the important thing. Picked up his wand, mindful of the black nail polish (with red glitter mixed in), drawled "wingardium leviosa" in a light tone, and levitated the vial over. This was nothing he'd picked up in class, was nowhere to be found in the schoolbooks (even to Professor Snape's favorite pupil), but he'd seen his mother make it enough to know exactly how to do it. The cork popped out, and with a wave of his wand, the minty stuff had vanished down his throat.

For a moment things seemed to move in fast motion, far too fast for his human comprehension, but then his body adjusted and he was quite comfortable with the rhythm of it -- drifted downstairs and smiled that charming-dangerous smile which caused nearly all of Slytherin's girls (and more than a few of its boys) to fall at his feet as he made the rounds, and people swooned over his costume, as they were supposed to.

He caught a whiff of cinnamon as a young veela from Durmstrang floated by on Blaise Zabini's arm (Blaise had always been open about her bisexuality, and she obviously had good taste). The veela was whispering things in Blaise's ear, and Zabini nodded her head towards the private chambers. Draco nodded once, the nod of a monarch granting a favor, and as Blaise and her girl glided towards one of the guest bedrooms, she leaned over and pinched his ass with a wink. "Nice outfit," she smiled, showing off the fangs which looked as though they might've been as difficult to put on as his wings.

In the hellish light of the blue- and red- flamed candles and glowing crystals embedded in the walls (not just stylish, but practical too -- the crystals could be used a variety of ways in torturing your guests if you had a little imagination), the effects of the costumes were multiplied to the nth power. He could hardly have recognized even Granger had she waltzed into the party in some stupid Mudblood getup.

But one could hardly fail to recognize Viktor Krum in any light. The Quidditch star was lurking in a corner, not bothered by any of the other guests at the moment, though Draco noticed more than a few girls looking Krum's way hungrily as he observed the athlete while making the rounds.

For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what Krum might be. Given the scowl on his sallow face (generally hidden beneath his dark, greasy hair) and his black robes, he bore no small resemblance to Professor Snape, but the similarities were always there anyeay, and a relatively small percentage of the party's attendees were Hogwarts students anyway.

After a few drinks with various well-wishers, Draco finally made his way over to Viktor's corner, from which Krum hadn't strayed for as long as Malfoy had been watching him.

"Hadn't been expecting you here," he says, the same empty smile on his face but an accusation in his tone. "Since that headmaster of yours ran like a scared dog, I mean."

"Karkaroff is a fool," Krum muttered, staring out at the crowd.

"Indeed," Draco said idly. "His body's downstairs, you know," he added conversationally.

Krum stared at him. "Sorry?" he asked stiffly.

"Dear Igor's body. My parents were the ones who tracked him down, actually," he continued in that light tone. "He was tortured for nearly a year before they finally killed him. I was glad when they did; his screaming always kept me awake during my visits home. First it was just for information, you know, in case in his incoherent babbling he happened to let anything useful slip. But after that..." Draco leaned in. "It was just for fun."

He rolled his eyes, as though they were discussing his parents' pathetic tastes in music. "At first it added a bit of character to the place...but after so long, the screaming just got *dull*."

Krum was still staring at him in shock as he finished. "He's... he's dead?" he whispered.

Malfoy rolled his eyes again. "Of *course* he's dead. What did you think, that we'd just welcome him back?"

Inanna's *hooks*, Viktor was a dull conversationalist. No wonder Granger liked him so much; he was the only person on earth more boring to talk to than she was.

But he *was* attractive. Part of it, of course, was the fact that he looked so much like Snape, and Malfoy *had* been harboring a bit of a crush for several years now. But there was an awkwardness which was charming in an entirely different way from Snape's sureness (but no less charming, to be sure), a quiet near-vulnerability.

It was probably just the Violaceous from upstairs which did this to him; in addition to the nifty little 'rush' there was also a sometimes unnerving feeling of disconnection from his rationality -- to be plain, a loss of inhibitions. But highly illegal potion or no, here was Viktor, and here he was, and he had to admit that Granger, Mudblood or no, must have some kind of taste in that huge head of hers, for the man was nothing if not alluring.


Oh gods all he could remember later was how much it hurt when Krum's powerful arms ripped the wings out of his skin and how he jumped and bit into Viktor's arm to keep from screaming --

But that wasn't all there was at the moment by any means; there was good and nice and he thought he might have screamed at some point anyway

(the expensive dragonhide pants, Krum had ripped off after Draco fumbled with them for a few too many moments)

and he had really been too drunk to hurt much when Viktor finally entered him roughly.

As he began to moan and gasp, one of Viktor's hands drifted up from his chest to clasp over his mouth, so he must not have screamed because he had noticed a bandage on Krum's hand in a Daily Prophet photo a few days later and he remembered the tang of blood in his mouth when he really thought about it.

He never thought about it too hard, though, if he could avoid it. Mother had always warned him against things like that -- "thinking about your dry little books, of course, but thinking about things like memories? Draco, that's nothing but trouble."

In the short few moments afterward, he had collapsed, and when he came to the new house-elf had cleaned up the mess in the main chambers and everyone had left long ago. Oh, it had hurt like hell to wake up with his shoulders stinging and knowing he wouldn't be able to sit down for a while and be all alone, but he hadn't really expected Viktor to stick around anyway.

You couldn't really trust the famous, he had learned; they had a habit of turning out to be nearly insubstantial when you cornered them.

But they were great to have around at a party.


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