Any hesitation evaporates at Harry's confirmation, and Draco shifts her weight forward some more, until his head is on the floor, wedged between the tiles and the sole of her boot. Harry's mind whites out, the amalgam of pleasure and shame and desire swirling hazily through him. He watches quietly, unmoving, as Draco pulls out a tube of lipgloss and casually leans over the sink to touch it up in the mirror. She runs the tap and uses her wet hands to slick down some flyaways that have come undone from her ponytail. She only looks down at Harry again when she's done, slowly lifting up her boot with an expectant look on her face. Harry doesn't move, keeping himself bowed down to the floor where she left him, waiting. Draco smiles at him then, and it's incredible. 