Half-starved and nearly delirious with the dehydration that makes her tongue thick and her lips cracked, Hermione is just drifting beneath the surface of sleep when a hand wraps in her hair and pulls her up roughly. It hauls at her until she struggles and thrashes up to her feet in an attempt to reduce the yank on her hair. And then the assailant traps her between the wall and their warm, hard body. For a moment she panics and thrashes violently, a low keening sawing raw from her dry throat, but then another hand gently reaches and squeezes her right breast, before releasing it altogether. A crude, awful signal, but one that she recognises with a surge of intense relief, skin crawling anyway. Malfoy, she thinks, so relieved that she wants to weep and cling to him with gratitude just for being here.