Hermione had revelled in it, even as she had hated him, and Draco had seen that afterward she had hated herself for her body’s reactions. Hated herself. Like she felt betrayed by her own body. Draco drank, hand automatically lifting the glass to his lips as he remembered her panicked revulsion, hoping the alcohol would drive the memory out of his brain, for a time, at least. He wished...he wished that hadn’t happened. Draco hadn’t intended...he hadn’t wanted to hurt her to that extent.