It still wasn't the rose petals, romantic music, huge bed, and slow stripping off of silky lingerie that Draco had wanted to give Hermione, but it was slow and luxurious, and neither of them was drunk or furious or crying. So that had to count for something. He lost himself in Hermione, making every moment count; cock so hard it was throbbing, and he felt desperate to bury it in her, but he was determined to make this good for her. Make it last. Make it fucking perfect.