What? Hermione thinks in a stunned-frozen sort of way, trying and failing to process what is happening. And there is a moment, before she pushes back a little. A handful of heartbeats, where their eyes lock until she goes cross-eyed, and all wobbly in her stomach from the drink. The firewhiskey. She shoves a few inches away, using the front of his shoulder for leverage, her fingers holding tight to the heat of him, his bare skin and the jut and hard lines of skin and muscle-swathed bone. Her thumb grazes the base of his throat, and his hand is in her hair. Tentative and light, ready to pull away at the slightest sign from her it seems, because his eyes are cautious on hers through the drunkenness, and his muscles taut. She is glad of that caution, but she doesn't give him a sign.