"...no," she says, a breathless sound that is more whimper than answer. "No." And then Hermione turns, corset laces dangling, and presses her back to the bedpost. Malfoy's eyes are wide grey and brimming with so much feeling that she could cry, that it is impossible to hate him even if she wanted to, that it is too easy to want this despite how unwise her mind says it is. She reaches her hands up to cup Malfoy's face as he stands there still, eyes fixed unblinking to hers, the faint rasp of stubble tickling her palms and her fingers. And then Hermione draws Malfoy's face down to hers – he moves with her easily – and she presses her lips gently to his, her heart shaking and straining in her chest like it will burst. Malfoy's lips are warm and dry and soft as flower petals, and as she pushes against them with her own red-painted lips, they part on a needy groan as though something has broken utterly in him.