For she was in the throes of excruciating ecstasy and, if it led to her death, she really wouldn't have had much to complain about in the slightest. For she had all her favourite things happening at once. She was in the grand library of her palace, there were books all around and ... which she was finding maddeningly arousing ... many of them were under her. She was writhing around in pleasure on top of them, crumpling their pages in the grip of her vice-like fists, because her husband's face was buried between her thighs, the index fingers of his hands moving alternately in and out of each of her soaking holes, while his tongue worked its magic just above this manual labour. The filthy keening sounds Hermione was making were the thing that drove him the most wild ... he'd told her so several times ... so Hermione stopped fighting to hold them back and just groaned louder in time with her grinding hips, all the while thinking to herself that there were certainly worse ways to die.