Hermione's blood runs cold as the words echo and rebound in her head. Share. Shareshareshare ohdearMerlinepleaseno. She shuts her eyes, unwilling – unable – to look at the people who it seems she may be shared with. She clings to the shred of stupid hope that when Voldemort speaks of sharing, he means at a revel and not tonight, but she knows full well it is a foolish hope. Malfoy swallows hard. "Of course, my Lord – what is mine is yours to do with as you wish, just as I am yours to command as you wish." His voice is perfectly even as he goes on, and the sincerity in his tone and manner would fool even Hermione: "Thank you for punishing me. Thank you for forgiving me." The gratitude in Malfoy's voice is sickening, horrifying, even despite that Hermione knows it is just an excellent sham. "I am not worthy to serve you, my Lord." He bows his head again, a study in humble devotion.