He hadn't bothered lighting any of the lights throughout the flat. They wouldn't need it; this evening wasn't for nightcaps and conversation in the living room, after all. This was for that old song-and-dance, the tripping over each others' steps as he catches the edge of her shirt, tugs her backwards down the hall to the one bedroom. They make their way in through in a chaos of hands and mouths, kisses interspersed with Draco nudging the door open with one wingtip shoe.

There's just enough light from the streetlamps out in Diagon Alley, which are perpetually on throughout the night, to see the shape of a dresser; a few discarded clothes already draped over a chair in the corner; a large bed with obscenely high-threadcount sheets in navy and black (apparently he is not cliched enough to still deck everything in Slytherin colours post-Hogwarts).

"Hope this doesn't seem presumptuous, but since we narrowly escaped the closet," he murmurs between breaks for breath, his mouth against Hermione's ear, "I supposed you might like something a bit more comfortable than a sofa."