She stood behind one of the high wing backed chairs, fingernail tracing idly over the fabric, not really paying attention to that, just watching him pace as she half-leaned on his furniture. Her other hand held her wand, and she'd been thinking of asking for another lesson, not that she didn't know enough already, not that she hadn't trained tirelessly with him. Not that she wasn't grateful. After all, this wasn't some Tom, Dick or Harry you were talking about here. This was the Dark Lord, and when he bestowed his presence upon you, you were bloody well grateful. And she was grateful; all that and more.
She contemplated this as she watched him pace.
"Muggles," she murmured, voice dripping with disdain, "Could they not have gotten a mudblood at least?"
Even if it had been a nobody, it would have been better than a Muggle. A filthy mudblood, now that would have been ideal. One of those do-gooders. But perhaps she ought to still her tongue, and she bit back further words. Let it be for him to judge how well the situation was going. Face tilted slightly down, but eyes not entirely lowered, she regarded him.