The Inappropriate Use Of My Heart

“You’re despicable, Draco.”

“Despicable, disgraced, depraved,” he adds, and takes me into his arms. I already know I’ve lost the battle when he trails kisses across my jaw and descends to my throat. “I don’t have time,” I whine, annoyed that blood is rushing to all sorts of unhelpful places.

“Seeing as I am your adviser, and know your schedule intimately,” he says in a husky whisper that makes the hair on my arms stand up, “I’d say you have a bit of time, Hermione.”

Or: Draco comforts Hermione, closet edition.