"Touch yourself," he murmured in her ear, an arrogant demand, and his fingers convulsed around her throat. Hermione experienced a sudden moment of perfect clarity. Touch yourself. The two words reverberated in Hermione’s head and she froze, suddenly seeing the two of them, as if she was an outside observer and not locked in Draco’s grip, struggling for breath. The pair of them in the pantry up against the shelves of tins and cereals, with Draco choking her as she whined and tried to beg him to take her bloody virginity. Here, now, like this, after they’d just told each other how much they hated each other, said awful, horrible things. God, what on earth was she doing? What was she thinking?