They’re both debauched and sated: Hermione’s hair a tangled mess, Draco’s faring little better, sweat at the napes of their necks and slicked against their skin, his breath shaky against her mouth as she kisses him again, and again. And then Draco finally relaxes and sinks back against the headboard, dragging her with him as they fall back into the pillows (there are very many and they’re very fluffy; his bed really is stupidly comfortable). She’s still straddling him, he’s still spent and inside her, but she doesn’t have to brace her weight and sit up on her knees anymore. As he flops back, she can sprawl over his chest instead.

He makes an undignified little oof noise as they re-settle themselves, trying to find a comfortable position, the air driven out of his lungs. His heartbeat is still thrumming away in his throat, his chest, still coming down from that high. When they break the kiss to catch their breath one more time, Draco sighs, presses his lips to her bare shoulder.

“Fuck, you’re good,” he says, simply.