A hand cages her breast then as she arches and twists, and shock slams through her – revulsion, horror. Those feelings are quickly chased down by hot agony as the hand squeezes through her shirt, until it feels like her whole breast is a mass of molten metal on her chest. Hermione forgets that this man is apparently here to help her, because he is hurting her and it hurts and it hurts, and she screams and thrashes and weeps and begs in a horrible choking slew of pleading. She struggles and tries to escape the pain, but his hand on her breast and in her hair hold her still, and she is weak – beaten and dehydrated and half-starved. And he is not. He is strong and he is hurting her.