Author's Note: Rated R

DISCLAIMER: I do not in any way, shape, form, colour, flavour, scent, degree, extent or luminosity resemble or claim to resemble J.K Rowling, therefore I claim no ownership to Harry Potter.

Plot: Plot? What plot? (PWP)

*Black and Violet*

Pansy Parkinson has always loved her nails, she loved them as a child, and she loves them now. She's always loved caring for them, keeping them pretty and shiny. When you first saw her in your first year, they were long and clean and French manicured, and for a while, they were just her natural colour. But she began to paint them, a different colour, a different style every week. She had such perfect nails, and such lovely hands (only God knows how intently you watch her hands).

It's been five years now, since you first saw her and her perfect nails, and you've come to notice that she quite likes her lips as well. They're always so soft and shiny, never chapped and cracked like yours often are. She's always got lipgloss or lipstick of some shade on. Except, you've noticed, she never wears bright red, which upsets you just a mite, seeing as how you personally think it'd look good on her. You overheard her once telling her friends she would never wear bright red lipstick, because it was her mother's colour and she hated her mother because she was a shameless slut. That was why Pansy wore violet lipstick, because her mother hated it, and she delighted in that hate.

She was lovely, Pansy, not ugly and pug-nosed like people say behind her back in sad attempts to hurt her feelings ("As if she has any," you think). Her silver-green eyes were bordered thickly by black eyeliner and her eyelids were covered with black-violet dust. It was always black. Everything on her was black (except that gorgeous, silky platinum hair of hers), like the wet, warm cavern that was her venom-filled mouth; like her long, long nails that scratched at your back as she moaned and looked you wickedly in the eye; like the poison that laced her voice when she growled at you and threatened to kill you if you stopped. If it wasn't black, it was violet, like the violet lipstick marks she left on your collar one afternoon after she cornered you in an empty classroom in the dungeons, the ones that Lavender and Parvati pestered you about until you threatened to hex them; like the bruises she left on your neck and thighs and wrists because she squeezed and bit so very hard (but it felt so very good, and you never complained).

"It's not love," you remind yourself, "it's just sex. She's just using you..."

This you say to yourself, you recite to yourself like some prayer or mantra as she pushes you against the headboard of her Slytherin bed covered in Slytherin sheets in the Slytherin dorms (never thought you'd find yourself in here, did you? And yet here you are. Again.) and grabs the front of your blouse, yanking and sending little white buttons flying in every which direction.

"Not love," you whimper as she kisses you demandingly, biting and bruising your lips and tangling her fingers in your brown hair.

"Not love," you think again as her hand disappears under your skirt; "Not love" when fireworks explode before your eyes as her fingers find their target; "Not love" as you gasp and moan and scream her name as she laughs at you and tells you how pitiful you are as she sucks her fingers clean.

When she's done with you, you just lay there in her bed, damning yourself because of your weakness. Gryffindors were supposed to be brave, strong, and look at you, look at how pitiful you are (you were begging her, you were whimpering...pleading, even!)...and something in you snaps and you growl (so beastly, like the vicious, mindless animal you really are), throwing her against the headboard almost violently and telling her that you weren't quite finished with her yet.

You find something oddly entrancing about how the eyeliner in the corners of her eyes runs as she squeezes her eyes shut as she digs her black nails into your back; you find it lovely how her violet lips open and close and whisper your name and the name of a God that you prayed would someday forgive her her many sins and yours ("OhGodohGodohGodohGOD!") like a chant, a novena. When you're both sore and swollen and sweaty and tired and neither of you can come anymore, she holds you from behind, coiling her serpentine body around you, burying her face in your untamable brown mane. Her forked tongue darts out to lick your ear as she hisses, "I hate you, Granger" and you smile and kiss her and tell her you hate her too.