"Too true, Lord Voldemort – too damned true," a wizard that Hermione doesn't recognise responds emphatically, American accent saturating his words. "We have a whole mess of trouble with mixed blood magic users back home. Diluting lineage, puttin" on airs, meddling where they don't belong. This revolution you're running here, well, that's something very interesting to us. The Muggles don't bother us much, speakin" honestly, as we have little to do with the dull masses of them, but Mudbloods? They need to be reminded of their place." The casual disgust and cruelty with which the wizard speaks chills Hermione to the core, and the slide of his eyes over her bared breasts makes her feel sick. She lowers her eyes back to the floor, feeling multiple pairs of lascivious eyes on her like red-hot brands now, wanting to run, because the thought of these monsters touching her and hurting her and tearing her into nothing is unbearable.