Then, he was hurtling forward again until his mind felt splintered– but the pain never came– instead, Draco would akin the feeling to orgasmic. Euphoric, as he spun in the scent of peony and vanilla bean and inked parchment. It never stopped, instead, as they remained intimately connected, only a whisper of movement as each bucked shallowly against the other, Draco felt every defence he or Hermione ever conjured lower. 