The faint scent of cherries cuts through the familiar perfume of the Slytherin common room, sweet and deliberate. Pansy Parkinson is perched on the arm of a chair, mirror in hand, applying a fresh coat of lip gloss with practised precision.

She presses her lips together once. Twice.

Perfect.

“Well?” she asks without looking at you. “Is it too much?”

You hesitate. That’s a mistake.

Pansy glances up, dark eyes sharp and amused. “That wasn’t a difficult question.”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s- it suits you.”

She smiles, slow and satisfied, and finally snaps the gloss shut. When she turns fully toward you, the lamplight catches the sheen on her lips, glossy and red, impossibly distracting.

“Cherry,” she says, as if explaining everything. “I thought it fit the mood.”

“And what mood is that?” you ask.

She steps closer, heels clicking softly against the stone floor. You become very aware of how little space there is between you now.

“The kind,” Pansy murmurs, tilting her head, “where people can’t stop staring.”

Her thumb brushes lightly against your chin before you can react, lifting your face just enough for her to inspect your expression. She smells like confidence and sugar and something unmistakably hers.

“You’re doing it again,” she notes, pleased.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at my mouth.”

Heat creeps up your neck. Pansy laughs quietly, clearly delighted.