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As the war rages on after two long years, Hermione is captured by the other side and Malfoy – a double agent – is the only hope she has of surviving.
"Very well," Voldemort says, perking up, amusement cruel on his inhuman features as he stares at Malfoy and Hermione. "If you want the mudblood to be yours and no one else's, then claim her as that, in front of everyone here, so there can be no doubt. You can be the evening's entertainment. After all, this is a revel, is it not?" There is a brief, heavy silence. Hermione's head spins, and she feels her gorge rise along with her panic. Claim her as his? Evening's entertainment? She knows what that means without having to be told.
She stares up at Voldemort in stark, helpless fear, and sees him gesture with his wand for an answer from Malfoy. Her eyes flick to Malfoy - his eyes dull and his limbs shaky from the Cruciatus, the blood from the floor drying dark on his face and his clothes. His shoulders are sunk in defeat, and his lower lip trembles briefly before he flattens his mouth.
"Yes, my Lord," Malfoy says quietly at last, strain running raw through his voice. "It is."