"You are mine," Malfoy tells her, and his hands tear her filthy, ragged shirt from her shoulders as the hands of the crowd let her go, and cuts away her ragged bra. Her breasts fall free, and his eyes are horrified and sickened. "You don't have a fucking choice." Hermione remains enough presence of mind to know that isn't just a show for the Death Eaters – he's telling her. Her gaze darts about desperately – pointlessly – but the Death Eaters and their hangers on are jammed around them, and Malfoy is right: they will only drag her back. They don't have a choice, either of them. It is this or their torture, and eventual, terrible death. This is better, this is preferable, this is hell. Hermione lets her head roll to one side, her arms go slack, and she doesn't fight him anymore. She lets him do it, and tries very, very hard to drift away, mentally – to be anywhere but there, lying stripped bare and pliable under Malfoy's hands. But she can't. He hurts her, and the pain keeps her there, present as he does things.