Draco smoothed his hand over the jersey in his lap. Did he care that she was a Muggle-born anymore? He had left the Dark Lord, defected; that part of his life was gone now, so... In for a knut in for a galleon – he thought, eyes glazed on the wheat-gold of her jersey, remembering the taste of her. He admitted silently to himself that kissing Hermione had been like the rich, throaty burn of well-aged firewhiskey, or the feel of Sylph-woven silk sheets on his cheek. He had no fucking clue what to do with that realisation though. Hermione Granger.