"If you are so eager to keep the mudblood to yourself, then it occurs to me that you must surely be willing to pay a price for the privilege of exclusivity. For the privilege of being the only one to hurt her, and use her, and make her grovel and beg," the Dark Lord croons, lipless smile creasing his ashen skin. Hermione ducks her head to avoid those vicious, cruel eyes, feeling flayed raw under Voldemort's gaze, and the stares of the handful of Death Eaters who sit and lounge around the hall, watching with a lazy kind of interest. It is only the beginning of the revel, and Hermione thinks that Malfoy dragging her in here, half-naked and leashed, is the most exciting thing that has happened this evening. Yet. "For the right to be the only one she names Master. Are you, Draco, my boy? Are you willing to pay a price?"