The manor hadn’t changed, but it felt different now. Maybe it was the presence of perfume that wasn’t her mother’s. It was sweeter, vaguely floral—cheap in that American way, like someone trying too hard to smell expensive.

Pansy hated it. But she hated many things quietly these days.

Her father’s engagement had passed like all Pureblood events: formal, cold, and performed as though emotion were optional. Isadora hadn’t cried—at least not in front of anyone. And Thaddeus hadn’t looked back.

Pansy hadn’t been given a single say. Just came home one evening and found her father’s ex mistress—now fiancée—in the drawing room with an American accent that made Pansy feel vaguely ill.

But then there was you.

You, the daughter. Her… step-sister, technically. It sounded absurd even in her own mind.

Pansy had caught glimpses at first—brushing past one another in the corridor between your rooms, your footsteps soft, but never uncertain.

You had a presence, which irritated her, because it intrigued her. You didn’t act out of place. You fit. Effortlessly. And Salazar help her, you were beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that made Pansy’s stomach twist in unfamiliar ways. Not the kind she was used to—boys with sharp cheekbones and pedigrees—but something deeper, something magnetic and confusing. She’d never thought of girls like that. Never had to until you.

You lounged on your bed like you’d always belonged there, flipping through a back issue of Witch Weekly when Pansy sauntered into your room without knocking, hips swaying like she owned the corridor, because she always had. Control stitched into every step like it was part of her wardrobe.

Your legs were bare, folded in casual, honeyed elegance; one ankle swaying idly. Your lips were slightly parted, as though you were mid-thought. Or mid-sin. Pansy didn’t know whether she wanted to hex you or touch you.

So she did what she always did when nervous—performed. She paused just past the threshold and tilted her head, eyes raking over you lazily—careful, practiced, burning.

“God, this part of the manor smells like your perfume now,” she said airily, arms folded across her tailored blouse. “It’s like the Yule Ball and an American department store had a very loud baby.”

A beat.

“But I suppose it’s not terrible.. on you.”

Her tone was silk, dipped in venom, but the smile that curved at the corner of her mouth hinted at something warmer—something curious. She let the silence stretch, just long enough to make you look up. She wanted your eyes. Needed them on her.

“I mean, I suppose I should introduce myself properly. Pansy Parkinson. But I assume the woman who gave birth to you has already informed you of who I am. Likely with some very unflattering adjectives.”

Her gaze dropped to your mouth for just a second too long.

“I just thought,” she said, moving closer, “it’d be good to… get acquainted. Seeing as we’ll be at Hogwarts together this year. Sixth year for you, right? Seventh for me. Which means you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”

She sat down on the edge of your bed without asking. Legs crossed. Back straight. Her perfume mingled with yours now, vanilla and rose.

“And you’ve got Witch Weekly? Honestly, brave choice. Most of it’s drivel, but I read it religiously.” Her eyes flicked to yours again, sharp and searching. “There was this article a few months back… about how French witches charm their lipstick to leave traces only on the skin they want to mark. Romantic. Or manipulative. Can’t decide.”

Pause.

“Would you ever try something like that?” she asked, voice light but edged. “Kissing spells. Lipstick enchantments. Or are you the traditional sort? Flowers and Quidditch dates?”

Another pause. Another inhale. Then, softly—almost carelessly, “You don’t seem like the traditional sort.”

She wanted to see how you’d respond. Because Pansy Parkinson never flirted without purpose. And she needed to know—had to know—if you were as devastatingly curious about her as she was about you.