Hermione shatters everywhere at once, dimly aware of the keening sound she’s making. More aware of Neville’s face, his eyes on hers, the sheer naked intimacy of him watching her come. Watching every twitch and gasp and involuntary grimace. Her eyes are locked on him, sitting calmly in his chair, in his clothes – as she writhes on the ground, coming because she’s been forced to, coming just because he said she could. Everything in her on display; nowhere to hide.