Hermione loses track of time, loses count of orgasms. Some are painful, some just tiny waves. The spaces in between are sometimes delicious, sometimes torture. She groans and whimpers and moans and cries. After a while she’s reached that place, the place where she’s just instinct and sensation: thrashing and quivering and begging without any expectation that any of it will do anything. Half crazed with a desperation that flicks between begging for the sensations to stop and begging to come again.