Pansy is not a prize to be won, so much as a conduit of acceptable desire.

It isn't a distinction she particularly minds – not in the hormone-soaked moment of hands and busy mouths on wet skin – doubts will surface, as they have a tendency to do, will linger as bitterness always does, but tomorrow is a shapeless word around her tongue; tonight tastes of Draco's peppermint mouthwash and Blaise's faintly spicy French aftershave.

Their hands stroke over her body like piano keys persuading music from an instrument at their command, and as pale hands trace over her breasts, hardening her nipples to aching points, and dark fingers slip into her throbbing body, Pansy can barely breathe.

Pleasure soaks through her skin, a soft incantation written in the swirls of Blaise's tongue and punctuated by Draco's forceful thrusts within her; heat flares as Blaise's mouth meets Draco's, and between them, Pansy burns.