Very athletic indeed. He was a genuinely good Quidditch player for a time, good at bracing himself against that broom for long hours. So his thighs aren’t half-bad, is the thing,

except that Draco finally wobbles when she pulls him closer and kisses him, losing his balance and that careful equilibrium, and he half-topples to the floorboards with her. But he kisses Hermione back, unhesitating; doesn’t give a shit that it’s morning and they haven’t brushed their teeth and it’s not picture-perfect. It had always been a little messy from the start, her mouth tasting like wine and shoved in a closet and accidentally knocking over cleaning supplies.

When he has to surface for air, he catches himself and readjusts so he’s sitting next to Hermione on the floor instead. It’s just nice to sit here. Unpretentious. There is a sofa on the other side of the room — oh, look, his coat’s still lying there from last night — but it seems horrifically far away, when he could stay here and kiss her again instead, his fingers curling into the fabric of his own shirt.

After a moment, a contented sigh, and: “You said something about breakfast across the street?”