            The transport seemed to have no effect on Lucius’s condition, good or bad. He just laid there, on the leather couch they’d lowered him into, trembling every few seconds. A coating of sweat shined his sallow skin, beads sliding down his cheekbones, his nose. Hermione knelt by the couch, elbows pressed into his limp arm, watching his face contort with every quake of his body.