Voldemort muses on his followers.
They flinched when they spoke to him.
Even the bravest of them, the best in the time before, when the rest of the world had cowered before him, the ones who had poured heart and soul into his cause, the ones who had been the fastest to offer their flesh to be Marked. The less impressive ones sniveled and cringed, like they always had; he expected nothing less. Pettigrew, and Quirrel, and those like them, had a love-hate relationship with his power. But Malfoy, who'd stood beside him in every battle that mattered, had betrayed knowing him as he fell, Peter as the cock crowed. He flinched. The brothers Lestrange, who had languished in Azkaban, flinched. Bella, who'd once lifted shining eyes and given him her sweetest smile when he'd so much as looked at her, trembled. He was unsure whether it was fear or embarrassment that he'd fallen so far, become such a pale reflection of himself.