Draco’s a doted-upon only child, of course he fishes for compliments. But he’s grinning against Hermione’s lips as she rolls closer and kisses him again, and he just manages to say “I knew i—” before she’s stopped his mouth and derailed him. He falls back into it easily.

It’s not as frenetic as that first, break-down-the-doors kiss in the closet; they’re not knocking over cleaning supplies and elbowing each other into the wall. In their comfortable sprawl in the afterglow, it’s more languorous and comfortable, but soon enough, the heat starts to build again. And that fire’s easy enough to stoke: her leg still thrown over his, his hand drifting up and palming one of her breasts as they deepen the kiss with that slide of tongue.