"My Lord," Malfoy says humbly, with a deep and elegant bow that shows none of the pain and stiffness Hermione knows he feels in his wounded back. The Dark Lord doesn't reply immediately – first his eyes slide down to rest voracious on Hermione, his lipless smile blossoming to a grin that exposes more of his cavernous, ugly mouth. His tongue flickers mockingly out, as though he is titillated, as though he is tasting her fear, as though he is enjoying the sight of her like this. Hermione has no doubt he feels all three. She looks down at the floor, her cheeks blazing red with humiliation and her skin clammy with fear-sweat as she tries to shrink behind Malfoy, seeking a pathetic illusion of safety.