"It’s disgusting," he caught up with her halfway to the library; he grinned maliciously, "a pure blood," then thoughtfully, "as pure as a blood traitor can be, that is -- why would he lower himself to making out with filthy flesh flaps. Like worms," he delighted at his own inventiveness. Hermione kept walking, back straighter than ever. "I suppose he must have had enough of mud and moved on to something," digging deep to keep the earthworm metaphor going, "less cold and slimy. Then again, his taste is terrible. I mean, he probably wouldn’t even notice -"