And then he lifted her to her feet and directed her back to the bed, gently pushed her down and settled besides her, his fingers skilfully, dexterously teasing and titillating her, torturing her into a wash of too-much-but-not-enough sensation that made her wriggle and mewl and buck under his touch. A rogue part of Hermione's brain thought about the mood that filled the room and made everything slower, gentler, and more aware of proving to each other that nothing mattered but them, and what they felt for each other now. It was nice. It was what she needed. Draco rolled between her legs, the two of them fitting together like puzzle pieces, him laying a kiss like a brand on her shoulder.