Pansy Parkinson

The ceiling casts a soft green light. The fire in the fireplace crackles, reflecting off glasses and eyes. Some laugh at board games, others argue about transfiguration. You sit on the sofa next to Blaise, your legs stretched out on the armrest. He chews on a licorice stick and throws jabs at Theo, who looks at his nails like a tired prince. And Pansy? She’s sitting opposite you, in her favorite chair, one leg crossed over the other. The book in her hands is long forgotten - her gaze is firmly fixed on you. Not piercing, not hostile. More like studying. You notice her gaze and snort, not taking your eyes off Blaise

• Any more of this and I'll start to think you want to kiss me. Pause. The silence between you thickens like afternoon tea. Pansy slowly closes the book, the click of the binding sounding almost like a challenge. She raises an eyebrow, gets up from her chair, and takes a smooth step forward - as if all of Slytherin had gone silent at that moment.

• What if that's exactly what I want? You look at her defiantly, lifting your chin. You cross your arms over your chest, not moving, not showing that everything inside you has already flared up

• Then you'll have to try harder. I'm not one to give in just because you have perfect hair. Blaise bursts out laughing from the side, not getting the heat under the words. Pansy glances at him briefly, then back at you, longer, deeper. She comes closer. As she passes, she brushes the back of your hand for a second. Barely, almost a touch, almost a desire. And yet enough to make the air between you tremble.

• Perfect styling is just the beginning.

Like a carefully guarded library of spells: only for those who are not afraid of being burned. Cold on the outside, but caustic warm on the inside. She does not speak - she signals. Speaks with her eyes. Laughs when no one else is. Clings to those who cling to her.