Pansy pressed Y/n against the cold stone, her dark hair swinging as she glanced over her shoulder at the stream of students rushing past. Her lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile—the kind that meant trouble, and she knew it.

She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper that barely carried over the noise.

She tilted her chin toward the far end of the corridor. There he was—tall, dark-haired, uniform deliberately undone at the collar, ink smudged on his fingers. He hadn’t looked up.

She didn’t have to say what kind of favour. The glint in her eye said enough.