Pansy slid stealthily down the darkened street, slipping in and out of shadows, keeping a watchful eye on the door of the flat. She stood quietly, not moving, barely breathing, until the dark-haired man left, closing the door behind him. Controlling her urge for him to see her, touch her, smile at her, she waited, watching him Apparate away. She suppressed a grin. He wasn't lying to her after all; he did go to work extremely early, indeed leaving home before the sun was properly up.

Stepping out into a pool of light created by the street lamp, she smiled evilly. This would be fun. This would be more fun than she'd had in weeks, and that was saying something.



She held up her wand, crossed her fingers, said a quick prayer to whatever deity was listening, and Apparated directly into the flat.

To her surprise, the wards allowed her in. That alone gave her pause, that he hadn't reset them, that he trusted her enough to allow her access to his home at any time. Perhaps I should do the same for him, she thought idly.

She had never been here by herself, and took a moment to look around properly. She ran her hand on the back of the sofa, smirking at what had happened there a few nights ago. She inhaled, smelling the scent of him, and bit her lip. I should have come a bit earlier and caught him before he left, she mused, continuing her perusal of the room.

His home was smallish, but very well done, clean lines, no fussy frills. Very few personal touches. The glaring exception was the portrait of the Spinnet bint, sitting on the mantelpiece, covered with a piece of fabric. Even though they'd never spoken of it, she'd seen it the first time that she had been in his flat and she recognized it immediately.

And decided that it would have to go.

She sauntered over to the mantle and lifted the gilded frame from its home, setting it gingerly on the coffee table, propping it up on some books. She took the covering off of the painting, tossed it on the floor and sat down on the sofa, crossing her legs, gazing at the artwork.

Pansy watched the Alicia in the painting preen for a minute, stretching, pretending as if she'd been asleep, until the girl caught sight of who it was that had uncovered her.

"Oh, it's you," she spat.

Pansy smiled prettily. "Yes, darling. It's me. Disappointed?"

The girl scowled at her. "Yes, I was expecting C. He does like to admire me, you know. He does it often, in fact."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Yes, I admit, stylistically, you're lovely. As a subject though, darling," Pansy clucked her tongue, "you lack a little something."

The painting spewed forth a barrage of foul language, gesticulating angrily, giving half -hearted insults and growling intermittently.

Pansy sighed, a bored expression on her face as she shook her dark curls. "Charm and deportment being chief among your faults, dear."

The subject continued to rant and flail about in the painting, and Pansy yawned, studying a crack in the plaster in the wall. She absently put her thumbnail between her teeth, letting the artwork carry on with it. Glancing at the girl, she sighed and took out her wand.

"I may not know art, but I know what I like. And I don't like you, darling," she purred.

The Alicia in the painting began backpedaling. "Wait, wait, don't- What are you going to-"

Pansy cocked her head, studying the girl who was now covering her breasts with one arm and holding up the other in defense. The dark-haired woman shook her head. "It seems such a shame to destroy such a lovely piece of work."

Pansy sighed. "Oh, well. Can't be helped."

She pointed her wand at the canvas, and at a muttered spell, flames shot forth from the end of the wand and engulfed the painting. Pansy grimaced as the smoke filled the room, and cast another spell to contain the fire, listening to the portrait scream and run about inside the frame, wailing while trying to put out the flames. The fire licked the canvas, causing it to curl and turn black. The frame eventually turned to red-hot embers; Pansy watched intermittently, sitting on the couch, flipping idly through a Quidditch magazine as the artwork slowly burned its way into a pile of ash.

As she swept the ashes into a little pile, she murmured, "That was for calling me a 'chit.'"

After vanishing the ashes, she ran a hand over the coffee table, which now sported a very large scorch mark, and frowned. Oh, bother, she thought. Now I'll have to get him another table.

She neatly folded the cloth that had covered the painting and left it next to the mark. After quilling a quick note to Cormac, she looked around the flat and smiled, sighing happily, satisfied with a day's work completed, and Apparated away.

[Note left next to singe mark:]

Cormac,

Did a spot of redecorating. Hope you don't mind. The table will be replaced soon; after all, it has more than a few good uses, doesn't it?

Fondly,

Pansy

{Summary: Pansy Parkinson takes critiquing art to an entirely new level.}