She bites her nails.

She says it's because they're annoying and she likes them short. They hurt when they're long. They're inconvenient. That's why she bites them, she says. But that's a lie. She bites them in habit. When she was younger, that's what she did, now that she's older, she can't just stop. Her nerves won't let her. She could just clip them, but she bites them, so destructive, like she'd trying to oppress them with violence. Of course, they'll keep growing back. But she bites them. It can't be healthy for her, either, what with all the dirt that gathers.

Secretly, she wants long nails more than anything. She wants to paint them herself and see their shiny surfaces and clipped edges. So why can't she just stop? It can't be too hard, can it? But it is. She tries to quit, she does, really. But after a day or two of sitting on her hands, she forgets, and soon she's sitting in History of Magic, mindlessly gnawing away. Sometimes she forgets and sometimes she just gives in. Well, that nail is crooked, so I should just get that corner and be done with it. But that method snowballs, and soon she's sitting in History of Magic, meticulously biting all of her nails until they're even and matching (an impossible feat, the conscious in the back of her mind says, your biting them will never help).

Perhaps she couldn't succeed because of her trouble with instant gratification. Even when she did stop, she never saw results but after weeks of waiting. The happiness didn't come until after the struggles, and she didn't want to fight the struggles. It was easier just to bite them.

The rest of her friends have such long and healthy nails, that never break, and always have smooth, even edges. She watches on enviously at night when they tend to their beautiful nails with files and clippers. She never tells them how jealous she is, because they think she likes her nails short.

She felt guilty. Every time another one broke off and she spit it from her lips she felt so sorry. I don't want to, really, I have to! There's no other choice! She was so guilty whenever she gave in from one of her strikes. It felt like taking away their only hope, their reason to live. Why be there if they can't grow long? She almost feared them falling off all together, leaving her fingers fleshy stubs, forever missing what makes them acceptable. They'd still function fine as fingers, but she'd be so embarrassed of them, even a little grossed out.

To be honest, she's grossed out by the way they were. Even present, with their rough layered edges and pink shades, sitting below the sensitive cushions of skin they're supposed to be on top of, even then, they gross her out.

It was just a bad habit she tried to justify. Just a bad habit she wanted nothing more than to be rid of.

"Hey, Evans!"

"What do you want, Potter?"

"What I want, to be exact, is your hand in marriage. But for now, I'll settle for a day in Hogsmeade?"

"How did I know?"

"Is that a yes?!"

"Never in a million years."

Just a bad habit.

A/N It's a metaphor! (please review)