He's surprised he manages to form an eloquent sentence in his compromised state. Draco sits back up, straddling him, and smiles. She looks dazed, but only slightly. Her face gives little away, but Harry sees the splotchy flush on her chest, on the tips of her ears peeking out from in between her hair, and the dilated pupils in her stormy grey eyes. Most importantly, distractingly,  obscenely, the way her hardness is tenting her miniskirt in his lap. 