The Dark Lord inclines his head as Malfoy steps across the threshold, well-tailored black dress robes showing just the collar and cuffs of his pale grey silk shirt, and the bottom half-inch of his charcoal-grey trousers. Malfoy has looked cold and blank, since they left his suite; pale grey eyes flat and unreadable, mouth a neutral full-lipped line that contrasts with the sharp angles of his face and his high brow, platinum blond hair swept back with not a lock out of place. He is undeniably handsome, Hermione thinks, but now in front of Voldemort, his handsomeness is in the same manner that a statue is – the vivid sense of the artist's feeling istrapped forever inside cold, inert stone, only coming to life in the viewer's imagination. Hermione's imagination only leads her to dark places, now, as it tries to now, staring up at Malfoy's cold expression.