Hermione shakes her head, continuing to keep him at arm’s length; her eyes a barely contained maelstrom, one extended finger pointed in his face. "No, you’re going to listen—really listen—to me now. And get away from me. I’m dirty enough to make all of your problems disappear and your fucking eyes roll into the back of your head, to warm your sheets, and make you forget your  fucking  name—but oh no, I can’t forget your name. Not  your  name. No one can  ever  forget your name. Not  Draco Lucius Malfoy. Not the future husband of Astoria—what’s Astoria’s middle name?" She pauses with facetious snark, snapping her fingers a couple times, making the remaining lamplights in the room flicker ominously with the ferocity of her magical prowess. 