She waited until she got bored, and then stopped. The coins cooled. The smell of burnt meat filled the room, crinkling the hair inside her nose. Each blistered spot of flesh was surrounded by a wide swath of red, inflamed skin, peppering his skin like bullet holes. She watched as the coins sank slowly through flesh, through muscle, sizzling and burning on their way down. Had Crabbe been able to move or scream, she might have felt worse; it might have felt like Pritchard, when she fled from the scene with clammy hands and waves of nausea. But he just lay there, Galleons stuck to him. 