"I'm sorry," Malfoy murmurs as he hooks her naked leg up, his arm around her waist, his face nestling down to the crook of her shoulder, hefting her up a little in his arms, experimentally. His breath is hot on her skin. "I'm sorry." And Hermione just stands there pliably, feeling distant – floating on clouds of hunger, separated from her body. Malfoy mumbles something about how that position should work all right, and then lifts his face. His cheeks are red with embarrassment as he meets her eyes; there is a scant inch separating their faces, and she can't look away.