Hermione had seen a lot of Draco in the years they had known each other, but never like this.
She had known him to be insufferably arrogant in their years at school; drawn and terrified during the war. She had seen him scathingly angry, disdainful, scared and cold. And then – more recently – on occasion, he had started to let his guard down when he was with her. She had seen him smile genuinely, and made him laugh, and on one particularly memorable night, slurring and tripping his way home from the Three Broomsticks after one too many drinks. She has seen him flushed and sweating, hands fisted in bedsheets, voice hoarse and panting her name (not Mudblood or Granger, but Hermione, and it sent a thrill down her spine every time) and she had thought the sight of him in that state was her favourite Draco, but the one she was looking at right now was definitely giving mid-orgasm Draco a run for his money.
She berated herself silently – honestly, Hermione, you're watching him sleep? – but couldn't help it. His hair was, for once, dishevelled and falling over his brow, which was knit a little in a frown, like whatever he was dreaming was confusing him. One arm was tucked underneath his pillow, his chin resting on the inside of his bicep; the other hand rested on his stomach, the white undershirt in which he'd gone to bed riding up just a bit to expose a sliver of skin at his waist.
Hermione took a moment to appreciate his fine, aristocratic features, the smile that was tugging at the corner of his mouth. His skin was absolutely perfect – not a blemish, scar or mark of any kind (save the one that was rapidly fading from his left forearm) though, she knew, prone to colouring with anger, embarrassment or arousal easier than he'd have liked. She loved that about him; loved every moment that his carefully crafted armour chipped a little to reveal the man underneath. He had spent so much of his life desperate for the approval of people whose standards were impossible to live up to or who were simply indifferent to his attempts to gain it: Snape, Voldemort, Lucius... She relished it every time he let her in, and was grateful for it. She understood that he had been through things she couldn't understand. It was hard, and she loved him for it.
Presently he blinked himself awake, raising a sleepy hand to shield his eyes from the Saturday-morning sunshine crawling across the bed. He pushed his hair from his face with the other and smiled. "Hi."
"Hi," Hermione replied. She leaned down and sideways to kiss his cheek, his stubble scratching her face and her fingertips brushing the worn cotton of his shirt. She reveled in the feel of the warm, solid, adorably half-awake man half-underneath her and the strong, steady heartbeat she could discern in his chest, in time with her own.