She kisses him, then. She cups both of her hands around his jaw and pulls him in. Harry has to remind himself to exhale through his nose, god forbid he has to pull away because he needs to do something as arbitrary as  breathe.  Draco slots herself against him seamlessly, and Harry feels confident enough to slip his hands under her fuzzy coat, where he is delighted to find bare skin, right above the waistline of her skirt. He presses his fingers into it, and Draco sighs blissfully into his mouth. She tastes like Harry had imagined, which he didn't realise he had, like red wine and smoke, and it's divine because she's so unlike anyone Harry has ever kissed before. Admittedly, the list is rather short, but there's something about the electrifying combination of her hands, holding him captive, the several centimetres of height she has on him, requiring him to tilt up to meet her, the press of her tongue and the strange sensation of someone else's piercing in his mouth. The way she hasn't let anything up to chance. The way she had him, before he even knew it. 