Draco's hand moves downwards, trailing from the top of his head to the side of his face where she cups his jaw, stroking a tender thumb over his cheekbone. The fleshy bit of her palm is right over his mouth. Maybe she won't notice. Harry turns his head into her palm a little bit more, just enough to press his lips to her skin. She notices. Her thumb stills and her fingers press into his face, like a warning. It tugs at Harry's heart, how badly he wants her to look at him. Her hand moves up again, returning to stroke through his hair. He shifts closer to her, trying uselessly to ask the question of which he knows the whole point is that he doesn't ask it. If she notices at all, she doesn't react, and it's terrible. Need and defiance flares up in Harry's chest like a firecracker. Maybe it'll be worth it. So he closes the space between them, kissing the bare skin below her skirt, and skating his fingers up the back of her thigh. Immediately Draco's fingers twist tightly in his hair. Harry winces, but she doesn't pull, as if giving him the opportunity to go back on his decision, but Harry doesn't want to take it. Instead, he presses closer, kissing up her leg and nosing under the hem of her skirt, grabbing at her thigh. This time she pulls, but her flesh is so soft under Harry's mouth, so feverishly hot and irresistible, and he doesn't want to listen. He wants to taste her skin, so when she yanks on his hair a second time, he bites down. Above him, Draco yelps, and Harry finally lets her pull him away. Her face appears above him, grey eyes thunderous and disbelieving, and it's bliss. She tilts his head backwards, forcing him to meet her eyes. 