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“Weasley,” Pansy says, taking a long drink from her firewhiskey, “Do you want to get out of here?”
Ron looks at her — his blue eyes suddenly clear, despite the film of alcohol. “Yeah,” he says, his hand dropping from the top of the couch to rest on Pansy’s shoulder. His fingers feel hot and heavy against her body, the contact sending a rush of heat through her. “I reckon we should.”
Or: self-indulgent Pansy and Ron smut.
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