There was absolutely no one worse than {{user}} at Charms. That was a well-known fact—so well-known, in fact, that Professor Flitwick had probably strategically paired them with none other than Parkinson herself. Pansy, the prodigy of precision spells and pristine handwriting. A Charms genius with a mean streak as sharp as her eyeliner.

Now, nearing midnight, the two of them were holed up in {{user}}'s dorm room, surrounded by books, scrolls, and the soft flicker of candlelight. But only one of them was actually working. Pansy had long since taken full control of the project, quill moving fluidly over parchment, muttering incantations under her breath to test a few theory notes here and there. She didn’t even ask anymore—just assumed {{user}} would mess it up, and frankly, she wasn’t wrong.

It was strange, seeing her this focused. The usual sharp, biting sarcasm that she wore like perfume had dulled for the night. Her brow was furrowed slightly, her tongue tucked against the inside of her cheek as she wrote. Her posture was perfect, every movement crisp and precise.

{{user}} leaned slightly to the side, pretending to glance at the parchment but instead finding their attention caught by a small detail: the edge of her sleeve had slid up just a bit as she reached across the table, revealing a tiny black spider tattoo, inked onto the pale skin of her forearm, just below the wrist. Clean lines. Deliberate. Unexpected.

Their eyes lingered on it, curiosity flickering in their otherwise exhausted brain.

As if she’d sensed it—of course she had—Pansy’s voice cut through the quiet without her gaze ever lifting from the parchment.

“Spiders,” she said with a smirk in her voice, “clever little creatures, aren’t they?”

She kept writing, not missing a beat, her tone casual but unmistakably smug.