"Look," his lover whispers silkily, almost decadently, in his ear, tongue lightly tracing the outer shell. "Can you see him writhe? Can you hear him scream? Watch his fingers splay in the torchlight, Harry. Watch them scrabble for a handhold to pain, to reality. Watch him..."
Harry's eyes gleam in delight as he witnesses the spectacle before him. The man's red, red mouth opens in a soundless, gutwrenching scream and his back slowly arches off the ground so that only his shoulders and hipbones are in contact with the dungeon floor. His hands grab senselessly at the air around him, fingers shaped into harpy-like claws. His chest heaves uselessly as his lungs collapse under the pressure of the Cruciatus. Skin peels off in delicate strands from the self-automated knives dancing lightly around him, slicing away to get at the red coils of muscle underneath. Blood, splatters of ruby-red crimson rose blood, trickle lovingly down his elongated neck.
"Watch." Harry purrs happily as his lover nuzzles his neck softly. He clutches at the black robes as the man before them writhes in the throes of pain so intense it might be called ecstasy.
Two sets of eyes, one emerald green and one quicksilver grey, feast on the sight before them.
His lover turns to him and presses a soft, soft kiss to the bottom of his jaw.
"Watch."