You’re sitting on her bed in the girls’ dormitory, curtains drawn, the sounds of the common room muffled beyond the hangings. Mary has turned her trunk into a neat little workstation - sterilizing charm, clean cloth, a small silver stud glinting under her wandlight.

“You don’t have to,” she says for the third time, practical but gentle. “We can stop whenever you want.”

“I want to,” you reply, even as your stomach flips - not from nerves alone, but from the way she’s taking this so seriously. “I trust you.”

That makes her smile, quick and warm. “Good. Because I’ve done a lot of research.”

Of course she has. Mary approaches everything like a project worth doing properly—fashion, charms, rebellion against boring rules. This, apparently, is no different.

You lie back, tugging your shirt up just enough to give her room to work. There’s nothing awkward about it, not really. Just the quiet intimacy of someone concentrating on you, hands steady, eyes sharp with focus.

“Cold,” she warns, tapping your skin lightly as the charm settles.

She talks the whole time. Not to distract you, but to ground you. About how muggle piercings are a form of self-expression. About how bodies aren’t something to be hidden or ashamed of. About how choosing something for yourself, no matter how small, can feel like reclaiming control.