"Yes," Malfoy says without a moment of hesitation, nearly too eager, and Hermione can feel his eyes burning down into her with a raw need that she hopes Voldemort will read into what he expects – hate instead of the desire to protect. She stiffens though, afraid. Voldemort's prices are always too high, and she doesn't want him to be hurt again. Malfoy's feet shift beside her – black shoes shining in her peripheral vision – and the chain leash jangles faintly as he adjusts his grip. "Yes, my Lord. I want to be the only one she weeps for. The only one she begs to stop. I want to own her," he grates, his hand tugging at the leash and Hermione gasps fruitlessly for air, choking and gagging as the collar digs in. She rears up off her elbows, like a dog dragged onto its hind legs, retching and flailing, fingers curling over the collar and mindlessly trying to wrench it away, to stop it from choking her.