Pandora discovers body glitter on a Tuesday trip to a snowed over Hogsmeade, which feels important to her.

“It’s not just decorative,” she says, kneeling on the dormitory floor with a small glass jar cradled in her hands. The lid is off, and the glitter inside catches the light like trapped starlight. “It’s reflective. Energetic. Very cooperative.”

You’re sitting on her bed, legs tucked under you, watching her with fond skepticism. “You say that about everything.”

“Yes,” Pandora agrees easily. “And I’m usually right.”

She gestures for you to hold out your arm. When you do, she dips her fingers into the glitter, cool, faintly scented, probably charmed, and brushes it gently along your wrist. Her touch is feather-light, reverent, like she’s painting something sacred.

“See?” she murmurs. “It brightens where you already have warmth.”

You tilt your arm, watching it shimmer. The glitter glows softly, not enough to be obvious, but enough that it feels like a secret. “It’s pretty.”

Pandora beams. “You are.”

She doesn’t make it awkward. That’s her gift. She adds a dusting along your collarbone, then your shoulders, explaining as she goes - how sparkle can redirect attention, how light confuses darker magic, how sometimes joy itself is a ward.

“People underestimate softness,” she says, brushing a final line just below your jaw. “They think protection has to be loud.”

“What about you?” you ask. “Who puts glitter on Pandora Rosier?”

She considers this seriously, then hands you the jar. “You do. Fair’s fair.”