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Summary
Pansy Parkinson, for all intents and purposes, was a lady. A pureblood witch, raised by women with the highest and finest standards in all of Britain. Trained from birth, she was everything that was expected of her—she was poised, she was polished, and more importantly, she was proper. Except for one nasty little habit.
No amount of fine dresses or expensive robes made a difference, nor the training and the lessons. She could charm and serve and twirl better than any of the other girls in her classes, but her worst habit was also her best weapon. A blessing, disguised with a perfectly pink cupid’s bow and a lush lower lip.
Her mouth.