Nothing had felt better that night than the look on Draco Malfoy’s face as he’d seen her. That moment of slack-jawed, wide-eyed how the fuck, that moment when it had become clear, once and for all, that the boy was a fifteen-year-old hypocrite whose principles and ideologies folded at the sight of a bare shoulder and an exposed collarbone. Hermione had held his eye for half a moment and grinned the smallest of grins at him: a tiny, self-satisfied smile of victory.