His hands were tearing at her clothing. First her dress, then her knickers. He hardly ever bothered with zippers, ties, or buttons—seams ripped, fabric split. He had always loved ruin. His hands grasped, pulled, tore. Hermione winced, watching reddened marks appear on her skin from his force. He was pressing against her, his hips insistent and grinding on her. She could only cling to him, let him take.