She had discovered that Draco's expression was wholly unguarded while he was in her mouth; right now his head was thrown back and eyes slitted, his teeth indenting his lower lip hard and his neck corded, a deep little furrow slashing between his dark brows. Every so often he sucked in a sharp breath, or let out a short, quiet whimper, or the occasional half-intelligible stream of "oh fucking Merlin...shit, Hermione...so good...don't – don't stop" that made her inwardly grin with an absurd pride.