It was the rhythm, like the push and pull of the tide, the slow pistoning of his fingers, the hot lash of his tongue. She could feel it building in her, reaching a fever pitch, and as he suckled lightly on her clit, she stopped caring what she sounded like, stopping thinking at all, in fact, something which had never happened to one Hermione Granger. Keeping her legs open was a suddenly impossible task as she bucked hard, thighs squeezing, back arching, as he dragged her over the edge, and she didn’t crest so much as  spiral.