Pass me that top coat, will you? The one with the little silver flecks. No, not that one, the other—yes, that. She examined the tiny bottle with a critical eye, her sleek dark bob not moving an inch as she tilted her head. I swear, if this chips before tomorrow’s Potions, I’m blaming the manufacturer and not my own complete inability to sit still for more than five minutes.

You say that every time, and every time it chips, and every time you just repaint them in the bathroom before class anyway. Cressida didn’t look up from where she was meticulously lining her waterline with a charcoal pencil, her frost-grey eyes narrowed in concentration. It’s a ritual at this point. I’m starting to think you enjoy the drama of the last-minute fix.

It’s not drama, it’s efficiency. Why waste a perfect manicure on stirring cauldrons? This way, I get to have nice nails for the fifteen minutes I’m not actively destroying them. She began applying the polish with steady, precise strokes. Besides, it gives me something to do while Theo tries to explain the theory behind the Draught of Peace for the third time. He gets so earnest about it. It’s endearing.

She had been quiet for a while, leaning back against your bedpost with her knees drawn up, idly peeling a dried flake of green mask from her cheek. Her voice, when it came, was soft, almost lost in the quiet hum of the room. You know who never has to worry about chipped nail polish? Draco Malfoy.

…Excuse me?

She set the polish bottle down with a soft click, her sharp gray eyes fixed on Astoria. Elaborate. Immediately.

She shrugged one shoulder, a fluid, careless motion, but her gaze stayed down. I just mean… he’s always so put together. Everything is always perfect. His robes, his hair, the way he stands… even his hands. I’ve never seen him with a single thing out of place. It’s impressive. And… kind of intimidating, I guess.

Astoria. Cressida’s tone was dry, amused, and utterly penetrating. You’ve just described approximately seventy percent of the male Slytherin population, most of whom are also heirs to ancient fortunes and have personal house-elves dedicated solely to lint-rolling their robes. Why is Draco Malfoy the specific benchmark for your manicure-related anxieties?

She finally looked up, and there it was—a faint, self-conscious pink tint rising on her cheeks beneath the flaking green mask. She offered a small, wobbly smile. Okay, fine. It’s not about the nail polish. I just… I notice him. A lot. More than is probably normal. I think… I might have a bit of a thing for him. Like. A crush. A massive, embarrassing, can’t-stop-thinking-about-it crush.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her voice dropping into that calm, measured tone she used when she was dissecting a particularly interesting problem. How long?

Since last year. The Yule Ball. I saw him come down the stairs in those dress robes, and he just… looked like he’d stepped out of a completely different world than the rest of us. He didn’t even dance with anyone. Just stood there, watching everything like he was bored by it all. I couldn’t stop looking at him.

Classic. Of course it was the unattainable, brooding, too-good-for-this-party aesthetic. You have a type, darling, and it’s emotionally unavailable aristocracy. She capped her eyeliner with a definitive snap. So. What’s the plan? Pining from afar until we graduate? Writing sad little poems in the margins of your Transfiguration notes?

I don’t want to just pine! The words came out in a rush, tinged with a frustration she usually kept buried under layers of easy charm. I want him to… notice me. Actually see me. Not just as Daphne’s little sister or someone in the background. I want him to talk to me. To choose to sit next to me. To… I don’t know. Look at me the way he looks at… complicated runes or a really well-brewed potion. Like I’m something worth figuring out.

A slow, deliberate smile spread across Pansy’s face. This was her element. A social puzzle with clear variables and a desired outcome. Okay. Alright. So we make you impossible to overlook. We don’t just throw you at him—that’s desperate, and Draco hates desperate. We make you… inevitable. We put you in the right places, with the right context, saying the right things. We make you the most interesting person in his immediate vicinity, consistently, until his attention has nowhere else to land.

Starting tomorrow. Cressida said it like it was already decided, gathering her makeup into a neat leather pouch. Potions is right after lunch. He always gets there early to claim the bench at the back. We make sure you’re already there. Not waiting for him, just… existing there, perfectly, like you own the space. We’ll work on what you say. Something casual. Something that doesn’t sound rehearsed.

And we’ll be there. Not hovering, but… present. Redirecting conversation if it stalls, noticing if he’s listening, creating little openings for you. It’s what friends do. She looked at you, then at Astoria, her gaze steady and sure. We help. All of us. Right?