"Mmph," Malfoy says inarticulately as he bends into the kiss and deepens it, and his right hand comes up to grasp her waist hard, his left tangling in her hair as his lips catch her lower one between them, sucking, nibbling, tormenting. A dart of electric-hot arousal darts through Hermione's abdomen and sends hard pulses of need quaking through her, and she makes her own inarticulate, muffled sound into his mouth, her fingers sliding down from his face to curl desperately into the rough silk of his shirt at the shoulders. She is breathless and dizzy, head spinning, and she doesn't know if it is because of the corset, or because of his kiss. She moves her mouth searchingly against Malfoy's, experimenting hedonistically, insistently. Her lips push and press against his, and he makes needy little huffs of noise into her mouth, and their tongues graze and seek delicately and then sloppy-urgent and titillating, and it is so strange that something so odd can feel so desperately, urgently good.