Draco resisted the urge to bury his nose in Hermione’s jersey and breathe in her scent. Instead he went to bed and lay there silently, playing the kiss over and over in his head, and resisting the urge to jerk off lest Hermione somehow see it in his eyes the next time he saw her and murder him for it. He resisted right up until what felt like the wee hours of the morning, when, still sleepless, Draco sighed and swore and scrambled out of bed to where her jersey lay on the small table, and breathed in her scent. Smooth and sweet, with rich, woody undertones, and he blushed and gave in and buried his face fully into the tickly wool and breathed in deep. And then he slid back into his small, empty bed with her scent lingering in his nostrils and the memory of her mouth greedy on his, her skin smooth under his hand, the swell of her breasts inside her cotton bra.