The way he'd stared at her lips. The feeling of his chest against hers. His tongue sweeping sinfully through her mouth, coaxing, then demanding. His knee slipping between hers, pressed against her core, feeling his body surrounding her.

Hermione squirmed, a strained embarrassment flushing her. She rolled onto her back and ran her hand over her face.

There had been something dark in him last night. A cord pulled taut and dangerous. And instead of restraining herself, she'd tugged, tumbling right over the edge with him when it broke.

She'd been too needy. She never should have tilted her face to his and pushed her tongue into his mouth like she needed to breathe his air. Should have ignored his thigh and how she wanted to rub herself against it.

His panic as he pulled away from her. Had she done something wrong? Perhaps her lips had been dry, or untrained. Or maybe he'd simply recovered, remembering himself, remembering her. Remembering all they'd been through.

He'd been so hesitant to touch or even look at her since the day he'd thrown her on this bed and ripped her slip open. It had taken months for them to recover, but they'd finally reached an understanding — a partnership, even.

And then all their careful control had melted away last night when she let herself become the girl in the red dress with red lips and red knickers.

A wave of heat crept over her as the memories drifted to the surface. She tried to shove it all aside — the feeling of his lips on hers, her body pinned to the wall, his groans into her mouth, continued to assault her psyche.

Would it be so bad for her to give in? If they both wanted the same thing—

Huffing loudly, Hermione rubbed her eyes, refocusing on her canopy.

She couldn't—wouldn't—forget herself. Today was no different than any other day, and she had research to do. Beginning with the tattoos.

She threw the covers off herself and stood. Frowning at her unmade bed, she wondered where to start today. And then Nott Sr.'s rant last night slammed into her head like a punch.

Not even the Scourers could succeed where we have!

Her breath hitched. She rushed to the bathroom, splashing water on her face and tossing up her mangled hair.

Scrambling through her books, she pulled out the volume on magical North America that she'd only just started. Her trembling fingers flipped to the index.

Scourers, 240, 394-395

Her heart pounded. Three pages. Only three. Hermione blew out an exasperated breath as she flipped to page 240. She could do this. Information on Horcruxes had been scarcer when she was on the run, and she'd still managed to crack them.

Timothy Smithstone was later captured and executed by the Scourers in Massachusetts before his request of copyright could be answered by the Wizengamot in Britain.

Hermione blinked down at the page. Timothy Smithstone was a blip in the radar about the creation of the Calming Draught. She quickly turned to page 394, praying she'd find something more helpful.