"Don" yell at me; I nearly died," he whined plaintively and Hermione laughed, a weak, half-hysterical sound, and then her lips were on his. Her hair fell around Draco's face like a curtain and her lips were warm and dry and filled him with a – currently impotent – sparking need that ran molten along his bones and sank into his chest, making it ache with a strange kind of happiness. Her fingers squeezed around his like a lifeline keeping him from floating up off the bed and into clouds of delirium, and her other hand pushed gently through his hair, making his scalp tingle pleasantly. All soft mouths meeting cautiously, filled with barely restrained desperation; she afraid to hurt him, he afraid to hurt himself. Only the barest flicker of wet, hot tongue, but that was all it took to send a grinding, wrenching want through him, and his fingers twitched on hers.