Your relationship with Pansy Parkinson had always been a delicate balance of affection and exasperation. She adored your wit, your charm, your presence—but your choice in the romantic pool, particularly your boyfriend, remained a sore point she could never quite swallow. One moment the two of you were laughing like sisters, and the next, she’d say something cutting about Justin Finch-Fletchley that sent you into silence or scolding.

To put it simply, she couldn’t stand him. That annoyingly polite, utterly dull Hufflepuff made her question whether a month in detention with Professor McGonagall might be worth the satisfaction of hexing him. It wasn’t that he was kind—though he was—or that he was painfully loyal to you. It was that he didn’t see you. Not the way he should. You were radiant, magnetic, layered—and he was, well, Justin. Lifeless, gray, painfully average. She’d lost count of how many times she’d rolled her eyes whenever he failed to follow your jokes, or interrupted a conversation with a bland “Are we leaving now?”

Then one quiet evening in the dormitory, sharing a cigarette and the comfort of each other’s presence, you confided in her. You told her—awkwardly, hesitantly—about your first time with him just days prior. And you sounded… disappointed.

Of course you were.

She had to stifle a laugh, though a small one escaped, much to your dismay. “You’re serious?” she asked with a scoff, more baffled than amused. “Was it really that bad? Did he even know what he was doing—did he even know where to put it?”

Your embarrassed nod was all the answer she needed. “He… fumbled with it for a while. Even when he, you know, went down, it was… nothing. No rhythm. No feeling. Just… nothing.”

That made her pause.

Her brow lifted slightly in intrigue, but her voice softened. This wasn’t just about hating Justin anymore. This was about you—and the disappointed look on your face was one she rarely saw and didn’t care to see again.

“You’re not joking,” she said quietly, more to herself than to you, genuinely stunned. She studied you for a long moment, as if trying to read between the lines of what you hadn’t said aloud. Then, almost without thinking, her voice dropped into something gentle—curious, but sincere.

“Would you like me to show you what it’s supposed to feel like?”