Hermione’s conception of the world vanished. She knew nothing but Draco – his gleaming grey eyes, the press of his fingers, the sweat-slicked blond hair which clung to his forehead, the steady jerk of his hips between her legs. She was not even aware that she had been screaming until her insides were swamped by a rush of warmth and he collapsed on top of her, panting heavily; it was then she realised her throat was scraped raw.