uno amore
pink
She hated the colour pink. She hated its texture, the way it shimmered under the light, and most of all, the way it looked on her. It made her figure look drab, and made her features look like they belonged on a fifty-year-old woman. She hated it, so why in the name of Merlin had she worn it?
It was all Draco's fault. If she hadn't been late to Charms, and if she had hadn't have taken a wrong turn on the way to class, she wouldn't have stumbled on an abandoned classroom, and she most definitely wouldn't have heard him say that he adored the colour pink of girls, and that whoever wore it to the Yule Ball would catch his eye.
But of course, someone else had worn it. And that someone else had been Hermione Granger, who – she had to admit- looked fairly respectable, of course, for a mudblood.
She had been the one who had caught Draco's eyes. He had followed her since she had arrived at the ball, hand in hand with Viktor Krum. Pansy knew it her heart that she was the one Draco fancied.
So she left the ball in tears, cursing the colour pink. Her dress lay in tatters on the floor, her mascara smudged into black, wet lines down her cheeks. Pansy sat on her made bed, her knees curled up to her chest, tears making their way onto the covers, leaving a damp patch.
At breakfast next morning, she refused to look at him. He chatted away merrily, barely acknowledging the pain he had caused her. He didn't feel the same way, did he? If he had, he would have told her. Pansy was too drab, too plain, too dumb, too silly for the likes of Draco Malfoy.
But still to this day, she hates the colour pink. And, as fate would have it, she absolutely adores it on her daughter.
Who knew that Pansy Parkinson could have created something so beautiful?
Of course, Draco's genes may have helped.