Hermione released her grip on Draco’s shirt, pushed against him hard. For a second his arms tightened around her and he pressed another intent kiss on her scarred flesh, and then he let her go with a small, abject sigh of loss. She stumbled back searching the floor frantically for her shirt, and upon seeing it snatched it up and began hurriedly dragging it back on. She couldn’t look up at him, her face red as a lobster and tear streaked, hair straggling down from its neat bun, lips tender from their frantic snogging. She knew she looked dreadful. And her treacherous brain was asking her slyly, over and over again, what was that, Hermione? What was that?