He is full of awful, terrible words, and his hands maul and hurt her perfunctorily – just enough to satisfy the watching crowd, and no more. It is still far, far too much – the revelers are bloodthirsty and cruel. Hermione just lies there and shuts her eyes, feeling waves of nausea swim over her, cutting though the pain of what she already feels from earlier injuries, and what he does to her now. She wonders if it is worse for him, to have to do it; to be forced to participate actively, to be the one inflicting it upon someone else instead of just enduring it. No,she thinks dizzily. It can't be worse than what she is feeling. His fingers pinch and twist at her nipples until she screams from it, her eyes screwed shut and her hands fists at her sides, and she doesn't care how he feels anymore. She hates him anyway.