Hermione tingled all over at the prospect. It excited her. She'd had sex plenty of times, most of it under severe duress, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd been aroused sexually. She felt it now. She considered it with a sense of embarrassment, bordering on shame. Sex had always been a chore, an extension of household tasks. To be frank, something to keep her alive, to keep her out of the Avada Chambers of the death camps. It had been the same for Sue, for Luna, for every other woman she knew. To even suggest enjoying sex was functionally equivalent to admitting treason in their world.