Lord Malfoy, however, had no such qualms. He had stared and stared at Martin as he had worked, even after Martin had informed him that his likeness had been captured, and it had worn at Martin’s nerves and made his hands tremble although he fought not to show it. Lord Malfoy’s stares were not unfriendly—he merely gazed at him as if he were analyzing him down to each molecule. It did nothing to assuage Martin’s nerves, as those clear, rarely-blinking eyes weighed on one’s conscience. The strangest phenomena—a stare that was tangible. It made Martin feel as though he were a specimen pinned to a cork board, ready for dissection, and it was that same, calculated, all-seeing stare that was now painted onto the surface of his canvas.