He accepted her ferocious kiss, gripping her in return, his hand cradling the back of her head, his hands roaming possessively all over her, as if trying to memorize her form one last time. Hermione did the same, hating that despite her eternal rage aimed at him, that a hideous lust had grown alongside it. Her mouth opened and his tongue rushed in, sliding over her own. His smell enveloped her and she inhaled it greedily, and he was doing the same, bending to press his face to her breasts and then travel upwards to her lips again. Her fingers found the punctures her fangs had left in his throat, which she’d neglected to heal, and pressed down on them with her nails—he hissed, and she let him grab her hair and drag her head backward so he could plant a trail of blazing kisses down her throat.