And the effect served to open her up a little more. She pushed back slowly, practically growling with every inch of Harry that she took into herself, until finally, with a jolt of surprise tinged with smug self-satisfaction, she felt his balls slap up against her open, throbbing cunt. For that's what it was called tonight. All its cutesy names had followed her head and her cogency out of the melted window. Hermione threw her head back like a half-feral cat, revelling at Harry being so cosily deep inside such an intimate part of her, resumed her stream of gutter verbiage like a bout of sexual tourettes, and looked out across the night, realising, with a sobering jerk, just how far down the ground was from the Seventh Floor of her Palace.