Hermione had imagined this, imagined him, imagined the taste of his lips on hers more times than she could count. He was the sun, gold and glorious and burning. The heat of his fingertips on her skin enough to draw her perilously close to him, closer, closer, closer. The flick of his tongue along her bottom lip, demanding entry, searing and numbing, indulging her in her fantasies of his tongue elsewhere and bringing her closer, closer, closer.