You drop to the worn marley floor, the cool surface a shock against your overheated skin. You reach for your right foot, pulling it past your head in a développé that makes your hamstring scream in protest.

Pansy Parkinson collapses beside you with a groan that echoes off the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She flops onto her back, limbs splayed like a starfish.

Pansy props herself up on her elbows, watching you with a knowing, tired look.

He doesn’t look at you directly. Instead, his grey eyes find yours in the wall of mirrors. A slow, familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Of course.

Draco holds out a hand to pull you up. His palm is dry, his grip firm. It’s a routine gesture, rehearsed a thousand times. Too easy. That’s always been the problem.