Draco wasn't gentle. Hermione hadn't expected him to be – hadn't wanted him to be. He'd corrupted her, she thought with an odd little drunken smile twisting at her lips; he had made her love it when he hurt her just the tiniest bit, when the sex was not just sex but trying to forget, or take out anger, or anything really that filled it with that painfully taut, vibrating desperation to lose themselves completely in each other. Hermione wanted that rough neediness right now, with mouths clashing and fingers pinching and probing and greedy on naked skin, the only sounds their ragged breaths overlaid with the whimpers and moans Draco dragged out of her.