Her knickers were next, whisked down her legs by Draco’s rough fingers, and she gasped as his fingers traced over her thigh, perilously close to the short vee of fuzz at the apex of her thighs; there wasn’t a lot of time for personal grooming while fighting a war. Not that Hermione had ever been a meticulous Brazilian type of girl anyway. There was no way she would ever go get a Muggle wax – far too embarrassing – and the magical methods all sounded too prone to going horribly, terribly wrong. She didn’t want some twisted genital version of the Polyjuice Incident to take place. And after all, Hermione had told herself after the chances of anything happening between her and Ron had melted away, it wasn’t like anyone was going to see it. She felt flushed with nervous embarrassment, but Draco was staring at her there and the look on his face was anything but dissatisfaction.