Hermione knows then. She recognises that voice, that tone, and numbness settles over her like a blanket of snow as the shock of it hits, and hits hard. She stares at the ceiling as his hand shifts in her hair – still yanking her head back awkwardly and sending needles of pain stabbing into her skull. Malfoy, she mouths silently to herself, excruciatingly aware of his hand fumbling roughly over the curve of her waist, across her stomach, reaching around to grab over the other breast. Malfoy.