She drank from only him still, the pulse at his wrist the sweetest place to take from. "Hermione," he’d murmured, and she’d been lost in his arms, and weak in his hold; willing to let him have her as he wished. He’d taken her until she was screaming his name, and her nails had raked across his shoulders, while he panted in her ear. Neither of them would ever be clean, their hearts as black as the other.