Pansy isn’t like the other girls.
She stalks the corridors long after dark, prefect badge shining dully on her chest in the moonlight that spills through high windows. No cloak covers the crisp white shirt of her uniform; she refuses to admit vulnerability, even to the chilly night air. Her skirt dances around pale thighs as she moves, lithe, catlike.
Dark eyes glisten as she spots her prey. She follows the gangly redhead in silence until she gets close enough to push Ginny’s back against the wall.
“Out after dark, Weasley?” she hisses, wand pressed against unblemished freckled neck. She has to look up to meet the honey-brown eyes. Pansy is tiny, but her gaze is enough to make Ginny feel twelve years old again, helpless, awkward, out of place.
Ginny stiffens and looks directly back at Pansy, trying desperately to imitate the poise she had in such abundance mere hours ago. “Leave me alone, Parkinson.”