Seamus clenched his bandage-wrapped fist when Ambrose started mimicking his accent. The words Carrow had had him write were hidden there, carved painfully into his skin. Some, on the back of his hand, described the effects of the Cruciatus, but just over his wrist he knew that the words Paddy bastard curled in an approximation of his own handwriting. Carrow hadn't been shy about picking on his heritage; it seemed Ambrose was merely following suit. "I'm - we're - choosin' not t'do somethin' we don't believe in." He cut himself off before he could continue. He knew the other wizard wouldn't care what he thought anyhow.
He snorted at Ambrose's unimaginative slur on Gryffindor intelligence. Unable to resist a dig of his own, he muttered, "I s'pose no one's ever confused a Slytherin for someone with a conscience, either," he looked at the other boy levelly, "and there's little doubt as t'why that is."
Every instinct was screaming at him to defend Hermione, and it took all his willpower to keep his tone anywhere near even. "Oh? But accordin' t'you, she's smarter than average, and seein' as most Snatchers are likely your lot, she'd've outrun 'em long ago."