Every wizard at Hogwarts was bound to have in their possession, or have seen, a copy of the Daily Prophet's exclusive report on Fleur Delacour's recent beach holiday.
Mademoiselle Delacour, darling of Beauxbatons, was caught sunbathing in the nude. The editors ran the story all over the front page and readers were treated to a photo of the usually-poised French girl in her birthday suit, much to the delight of the male wizarding population. Sales at the Daily Prophet went through the roof that day.
In the Slytherin Common Room, Blaise Zabini peered over Draco Malfoy's shoulder as the latter examined the article.
"Good to know the carpet matches the drapes, eh Malfoy?"
Draco frowned at the other Slytherin boy and turned his attention back to Fleur's moving image. All long limbs and ample breasts, she struggled to cover her modesty with her hands. The wisps of silver hair between her legs visible to all as she ducked for cover.
Draco could not see the attraction at all. You see, he fancied himself as something of a connoisseur. The heir to the Malfoy wealth liked them bald – 'them' being pussies, cunts, slits and what-have-you's. In their bare form, one could fully appreciate their peach-like glory.
He loved having fun with them: stroking their silky outsides with his index finger, seeing the middle seam split open with the application of slight pressure, revealing all the juicy pinkness underneath. Who can forget those rivulets of sticky fluid oozing out from that glorious passageway? Oftentimes pooling in one delectable crevice or another, girl cum had its own allure that was distinct from the rest of the female pleasure infrastructure. His penchant for the nectar trained him to be a skilled cunnilinguist. The thought made him swell with pride.
Above all, Draco Malfoy was addicted to sex. Every aspect of it enthralled him: the feeling of bare skin sliding against bare skin, feminine softness giving way to his masculine hardness, the happy squelching sounds made by two bodies joined together intimately, the smell of sweat comingling with the heady muskiness of arousal, the guttural vocalisation of pleasure, the rhythmic contractions of internal muscles rarely utilised for any other occasion than orgasm, et cetera. He loved it all.
More importantly, sex gave him a brief respite from the crushing heaviness of reality. The pink between a woman's legs gave him something less dreary to focus on, even for the briefest of moments. Coaxing an orgasm out of another person felt far more rewarding than any twisted task set by his dear father. In the throes of his own climax, he could escape the bounds of his own existence – not a Malfoy, not the Slytherin ringleader, not a Death Eater, not a wizard – just a young man with needs.
Fortunately for him, he was never left wanting in terms of a willing partner at Hogwarts. Pansy Parkinson would gladly spread her legs in a jiffy, and had done so on many occasions. So would Daphne Greengrass and her sister, Astoria Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Cho Chang…
But the Weasley girl was the best. Long flaming red locks cascading down her slim back, emerald green eyes framed by a smoky curtain of lashes, a pair of creamy white globes straining against her shirt and not a single wisp of hair adorning her alabaster pussy. What he loved the most about her was how wet she was for him, always.
Draco's grey eyes darkened as his thoughts turned to the petite redhead, oblivious to the raucous laughter of his Slytherin compatriots ogling the miniature quarter-Veela scrambling inside the borders of her photograph world.