"Will you pay the price, or not?" the Dark Lord snaps, features twisted with a rage that terrifies Hermione, and then wrests control of his anger, smiling thinly again. He lazes back upon the bodies, his sharp nails tracing a bloodless cut on the dead flesh beneath his hand. "I have little patience, my boy. I am bored and I am beset by the idiocy of those around me, and I would have you either amuse me, or be gone from my presence and leave the Mudblood here, to be placed with the other slaves for communal entertainment." Hermione can hear Malfoy's throat click as he swallows dryly, and she sneaks a glance upward. He is ashen, chin up and shoulders back, jaw set firmly; she wonders for a moment if the Sorting Hat would still place him in Slytherin, because the courage on his face is pure Gryffindor.