Voldemort looked between them, loathing in his gaze. The mudblood and the traitor, hands clasped, stood against him together. Gentle pulses of blue affirmed their unity. The Elder Wand was trained on the air between Draco and Hermione as the Dark Lord contemplated who he should kill first. His Minister for Magic, who he had elevated above all others, now defiled by a mudblood. A nobody. Filth not worthy of a pureblood wizard. Voldemort felt the white-hot shame of a childhood prejudice wash through him, and his wand drifted towards Hermione, scarlet eyes narrowing. 