Making the slightest movements, he slid as far away from Hermione as he could without falling off the bed. He dragged his hand across his face and looked down. Even in the dark, he could see the tented sheet. With her breathing next to him, there was no chance of it going down. Last night he had even tried to think of things that he usually assiduously avoided to make his cock go down. But the morbid thoughts - of his aunt, Voldemort, the dungeons - just wouldn’t come. All he could think about was the soft skin of Hermione’s neck, the shea-butter smell of her hair, and - oh, god - the firm feel of her arse along his length.