Every morning after, though, when Hermione left the bedroom she was still Lady Malfoy; her carefully blank face like carved marble, her posture hauntingly erect, ever aware of her own domination. Not a tear to be seen, even if there'd been the regular cries only minutes before. When Draco kissed her in front of everyone she took it, her cold facade melting into a blush—embarrassment? Anger? And everyone fell in love with her a little more.