So Draco just sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless and hair rumpled, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees and watching the moment unfold – his face carefully shaped into an expression of amused contempt. He didn’t want to give Potter the satisfaction of seeing Draco’s creeping worry that in the face of Potter’s pressure, Hermione would choose the approval of her friends over Draco. He knew that Hermione had meant what she had said earlier, and hearing her say it had been so fucking good. A balm to his soul, but...