            "Your own power. This magic," he said, fingers curling harder against her scalp as he pressed her closer. "You radiate it. I feel it coming off of you, every second that I see you. In your wake, I miss it. Miss you, Hermione." Lucius tilted his face down. "You can have anything you want." She couldn’t breathe. He was doing it for her, hot against her cheek, her mouth, the tingling shell of her ear. And just when his grip tightened, and she released a pleading whimper—to be released, or for more, she wasn’t sure—his nose brushed the corner of her lips. Taunting. Teasing. His other hand found her shoulder, before it was quickly skimming a flaming track downwards, settling on her waist. His grip there was just as bruising.