“Again,” Pansy says, already adjusting her posture before you can respond.

You lower the camera just long enough to roll your eyes. “You didn’t even see the last one.”

“I don’t need to,” she replies smoothly. “I know my angles.”

You’re set up in an unused classroom that’s been temporarily claimed as your studio - curtains drawn, enchanted lights hovering obediently at your command. Pansy stands in the centre like she owns the space, chin lifted, expression sharp and deliberate.

Pose.

She shifts her weight, one hip cocked, arms loose but intentional. Her gaze snaps to the lens, cool, challenging, unmistakably Pansy.

Flash.

The light pops, brief and bright, freezing her in that exact moment of confidence.

Repeat.

She moves again before you can even lower the camera, hair falling just so over one shoulder. There’s something mesmerizing about the way she controls herself - every tilt of her head calculated, every look practised but never empty.

“Are you actually taking pictures,” she asks, eyes narrowing slightly, “or just staring?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Hard not to stare when my subject keeps stealing the show.”

That earns you a smirk. “Good. That means you’re doing it right.”

You adjust the focus, watching her through the lens. The camera captures what most people miss: the concentration behind her poise, the flicker of anticipation when she waits for your cue.

“Now,” you say, “hold that.”

She does. Perfectly still. Trusting you.

Flash.

For a split second, the mask slips - not enough for anyone else to notice, but you do. There’s something softer there. Real.

When you lower the camera, Pansy steps closer, peering at the preview over your shoulder. Her perfume is subtle, her presence undeniable.

“Well?” she asks.