English hasn't exactly ever been my forte. Okay, so I could talk alright, of course, but when it came to writing or finding the right words, I was completely lost. I've never been able to explain what I'm feeling. If I had, heck, things would have been very different. I won't flatter myself as to say we'd be safe: something was always bound to happen. But maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't of been in danger. If I could talk without being a total idiot, I could have told her what she meant to me; I could have begged her to leave, to escape; to save herself from anything that would destroy both of us. Only now can I begin to explain those crushing feelings that consumed me, my heart, my scared and helpless being on that terrible night.
I remember entering Malfoys' drawing room, with it's purple walls, large blazing fireplace and enormous chandelier that dominated most of the over-head space. Most of my senses were focused about the shaking hand of the girl I was tied with, the smoothness of her skin, the warmth of her fingers: I tried to process everything, just in case. Just in case what? An inner consciousness asked me doubtfully. My eyes stung, and I shook my head to gather myself. Just in case, I answered the voice with ringing finality.
"What is this?"
I froze, and felt Hermione and Harry do the same. Hermione's breathing picked up and I squeezed her hand, trying to reassure her, and admittedly myself.
No, not her. No, please, anyone but her.
"They say they've got Potter," Narcissa Malfoy replied, sounding unsure, "Draco, come here."
I hadn't seen Draco up to now, but yes, there he was, by the fire with his father. I held back the insult that sprung suddenly to mind, and concentrated ever more on Hermione's trembling hand, tracing circles with my thumb onto her skin. Calm down, don't make it worse... Don't do anything that could put her in danger...
That would be easy enough, as my whole world was attached to her like some orbiting planet round a blazing sun. I couldn't lose her: there was no point in orbiting nothingness.
I felt a push, but didn't fight it, as I saw Greyback turning us. It seemed a strange thing to do, until Harry was directed underneath the chandelier and his - frankly, hideously distorted - face was thrown into relief. Our lives suddenly seemed to depend on Malfoy now. How ironic.
"Well boy?" rasped Greyback impatiently. Malfoy seemed to be taking his time. The choice seemed pretty easy, from a if-I-was-Death-eater-filth point of view. Die now, or wait until Harry's face was back to normal, I suppose. What was he waiting for then?
"Well, Draco?" his father asked avidly, "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"
"I can't – I can't be sure" he answered, not looking at Harry.
Our lives were balanced on a knife edge, and I had a feeling we were about to fall.