Falling Forever

I hate him.

There was a time when Pansy Parkinson used to like rubies. She remembers the excitement of opening her mother's jewelry box, on the rare occasions she was allowed into her dressing room. The sapphires were pushed aside immediately, the emeralds admired only for a few moments, until she found her favorite: a deep red ruby ring that glittered magnificently on her then-small finger. She would sit there, entranced by the pretty jewel, until her mother slipped it off her finger and pushed her out of the room. Now she can't stand the sight of them.

The red hazy mass in front of her suddenly shifts, pulling Pansy back into the present. Her eyes focus on the rubies as they drop down, adding to the impressive heap at the bottom of the hourglass. Another twenty points to Gryffindor, Pansy thinks bitterly and twists away from the wall, ignoring the pointed stares from the gaggle of Ravenclaws congregating near the staircase. She's too tired to fire back an appropriately contemptuous response. Besides, she's already late for Transfiguration and McGonagall is not nearly as forgiving as Snape.

I hate him.

The red and gold ribbon drifts down softly, an unwelcome presence at the sullen and silent Slytherin table. A wave of her wand and Pansy sends it fluttering away once more, only to fall on one of the many empty seats. She wonders, and not for the first time either, why she's here and not with the rest of her housemates, licking their wounds within the safety of the common room. But Pansy refuses to be driven away, and so she remains seated, digging half-crescents into her palms and staring intently at the parchment in front of her. Soon her eyes are starting to water from the strain and lest the pathetic Gryffindors mistake them for tears of despair, she looks up and blinks them away. When Pansy's eyesight clears, she notices Potter looking in her direction. With a smirk on her lips, she holds his gaze, until Potter breaks and turns away. It's only a child's game, she realizes, but petty victories are all she has these days. Soon the festivities become too much to bear and she decides to go, gathering her things and leaving the Great Hall behind her, unaware of the narrowed eyes that follow her every step.

I hate you.

The words tumble from her lips, whispered in between ragged breaths and broken moans. Potter doesn't seem to hear her, or maybe he simply chooses to ignore her. Pansy can't tell; her head is resting against the wall, fingernails chipping against the hard stone as Potter's tongue traces intricate patterns along her heated skin. His fingers trace a similar path between her legs, the calloused tips almost too rough for her sensitive flesh. She's close, so close and a simple flick is enough to have her screaming her release. Before she can catch her breath, she's spun around, the softness of Potter's shirt replaced by the cold, unyielding wall. He's between her thighs now, sliding deeply inside her. Pansy wraps her legs around him and squeezes tight, burying her smirk against Potter's neck when she hears the hitch in his breath. But she savors that victory only for a second, before Potter snakes his hand between their slick bodies, before her world starts to spin out of control once more, and she's crying out his name as he spills inside her.

It's only after they've collapsed to the floor, limbs tangled together, her head tucked under his chin, that Pansy hears Potter's answer.

I hate you too.