Pansy hadn’t really seen you before.

You were Ravenclaw—quiet, clever, always surrounded by parchment and ink and the gentle hum of thoughts turned inward. Not the type who spilled secrets at the edge of a goblet or kissed behind tapestries after curfew. Not the type she’d ever bothered to memorize. Ravenclaws weren’t her enemies, nor her playthings. They were… harmless. A background blur of blue and bronze. And you had soft written all over you.

And Pansy didn’t do soft.

But apparently, Theodore Nott did.

She had been halfway through her second glass of wine when you arrived—wearing something soft and far too innocent for a Slytherin party, where everyone was dressed like they expected to sin.

Pansy had scoffed quietly into her glass when she first saw you. Another Ravenclaw. Another doe-eyed thing with cleverness stitched into the hem of her skirt. But then she’d caught Theo watching you—not in the way he observed chess boards and battle maps, but with a softness she hadn’t seen in him since fourth year.

The boy who could slice someone to pieces with a glance was gentle with you. And suddenly you mattered.

Still, she hadn’t meant to speak to you. She certainly hadn’t meant to laugh with you, to lean in too close under the pretense of hearing you over the music, to invite you upstairs. “You’re tipsy, darling. You can’t go wandering back to that dusty tower alone.” She’d said it like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t already imagining how your voice would sound in the dark.

And somewhere between the drunken giggles and the way your body curled beside hers, something shifted. It wasn’t dramatic—it never was with Pansy. Just the slow burn of realization in the dark, the flicker of something she refused to name when your thigh brushed hers.

Then clothes had come off—god, the feel of silk sliding over skin, your breath catching when she kissed that spot just below your ear, the way you’d whispered her name like it was sacred—and Pansy worshipped you. Not like a girl drunk on rebellion or first love. Like a girl who knew she shouldn’t have. Every kiss had been an apology she’d never say aloud.

And now the sun spilled into her dormitory like judgment.

Golden light cut through the hangings of her bed, warming the emerald sheets tangled around both of your bare bodies. She blinked slowly, her mascara smudged under her eyes, her mouth dry, and her heart louder than it had any right to be.

She stared at the curve of your spine, the way your hair fanned over her pillow, your breathing soft and steady. You didn’t look ruined. You looked peaceful—and that made something claw against her ribcage. Theodore had looked at you like you were something worth rewriting his rules for, and she’d taken what was meant for him.

She should have felt sick. Should’ve risen, cold and silent, and put it behind her like she always did. But then you turned toward her, the corner of your mouth lifting lazily, still half-dreaming. And you said her name—soft, warm, like a secret—and followed it with a murmured “Good morning.”

And Pansy knew then—really knew—that she would keep you.

Even if it meant lying to Theo’s face. Even if it meant secrets and sneaking glances and silencing charms cast over laughter. Even if it made her sick with guilt.

Because there was something about the way your mouth had fit against hers, something about the way you’d touched her like she was human, not porcelain or poison, that made her selfish enough to want more.

More mornings. More murmured names. More of you—quiet and reckless and completely unexpected.

Pansy turned her head and pressed a kiss into your hair, already hating herself for it. Already planning how to make sure no one ever found out.

But she’d let you stay. And maybe that made her weak. Or maybe it made her yours.