She is shaking like a tree in a storm: her dress is soaked through with sweat and sticking to her arched back and trembling thighs, her dark hair is hopelessly disheveled, and she keeps biting her crimson-painted lips in a half-hearted attempt to stifle the moans wrenched out of her by the blazing heat in her core.

That's how Cho touches her.

Right now, it's like Cho's fingers are burning through her dress, through her skin and her flesh, leaving her feeling branded and owned in a way so different from what family allegiance, youthful arrogance and arranged marriage have done to her.

Another hard thrust and Pansy knows that she has been claimed for good.

Perhaps one day it will be more than hot hands settling on her hips and a lithe, muscled body pressing against hers.

On the other hand, Pansy cannot help appreciating how primal and uncomplicated this is: the burn and the thrill, Cho pushing through her barriers and Pansy's body and mind opening up in a moment of scorching simplicity.

Nothing has ever been like this.