Her eyes go wide and she sucks in air. Neville’s eyes do too, and now he’s watching her face, glass still in hand. He’s wearing the Neville version of city clothes: clean and perfectly respectable, but certainly more practical than Draco’s finery. She looks down at the tan of his thick canvas trousers, then the shine of his brown brogues, and wonders how each in turn would feel rubbing against her hot cunt. Fuck.