Her right hand, the one she’d forgotten existed as Malfoy mapped her body like an uncharted land, fisted in his hair. Pushed his head below the meridian of her waist, past the flawless expanse where a navel would have been had Hermione been born. She’d studied mortal healing texts at length in the earthly libraries she spirited into, fascinated by mortal’s flaws and infirmities, as well as the subtle differences between their bodies and her own—the cost of that stolen knowledge having placed her directly under this demon’s tongue.