She was bold and went after what she wanted. Tried to take it slow. But there was always an creature inside her that wanted more. She wanted no gentleness. She wanted no affection. She would communicate this to her partners—some would struggle to please her and others took up her requests with delight. Still, to her dissatisfaction, Hermione felt something was missing. These strangers were no match for Draco, and it pained her to admit that. Hermione would find herself masturbating to the memory of his lovemaking, his consuming attentions, the way he could fit into her. It was troubling that she had yet to find another lover who could make her feel  the way Draco did. She continued to dream of him constantly, always feeling him in her sleep as though he were there with her, on top or underneath her, spearing her, murmuring praise and encouragement into her ear. It was distressingly vivid each time. She would wake, wet between her legs, her body unmarked and untouched but with the unfailing sensation that it had been ravaged by his mouth and hands.