Draco Malfoy sat in the Slytherin common room, fire glowing in the hearth, vaguely aware it was nearing 3 am. His fingers danced over Goyle's misplaced Remembrall, musing over the irony that he'd forgotten it, his eyes refusing to close. Not when every time he attempted sleep she was there, dark eyes taunting him. She hadn't, truly. But Slytherin's Prince could still feel her breath on him, the prim admonishment over allowing his friends to leave "toys" about just leaving her lips, and he could taste her.
In a way he'd never been by any other witch, Draco was fascinated.