He wasn't ashamed or embarrassed by the scars; as a young boy he'd wished he had more, thinking it would make him look even more roguish or handsome. Part of him—maybe stupidly so—was convinced that the healers would be able to remove most of the discoloration, because he, Raphael Malfoy, could not possibly be left this scarred. It was hard to feel ugly in that moment, though, even with her staring in horror, because her hand had reached out between them and he could practically feel his skin tingling in the places he imagined her fingertips might land. When she withdrew her hand, the tingling ceased, but his heart continued to pound furiously against his chest.

It seemed she'd slipped, too. The authoritativeness was lost from her tone, giving him an opening. He leaned down just enough that he could use his height as an intimidation tactic while still being able to look her in the eye.

"If you need to look somewhere, I'll be the one taking you there," he said firmly, unwilling to budge on that front.

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