"How sweet," Voldemort croons, and then looks around the table, grandiose as he gestures at Hermione. She must look a sight, she thinks sickly – on her hands and knees at Malfoy's side, her breasts hanging small but full, horribly exposed thanks to the design of the corset, the scraps of fabric that make up the knickers leaving the curves of her bum bare. The thick leather collar that is buckled around her throat rubs and cuts painfully into her flesh when she moves her head even the barest inch, and the silver chain attached to it – her leash – jangles faintly to remind her of its presence whenever Malfoy moves, or shifts his grip on it. She is a slave, pet, dog. Collared and leashed, and adorned at her masters" pleasure with expensive jewellery around her wrists and ankles, and a painted face and pretty hair. Ready to be used. To be shared.