Harry's eyes flew open as rope like steel cords suddenly bound him. He couldn't move, he couldn't break their power over him. He heard some-one mutter a spell and found himself floating in mid-air, moving out of the cell and up stone stairs. A door opened and Harry squinted against the light but fought to keep his eyes open at the same time.
"Where do you want it?" Although dead of emotion, almost devoid of life, Harry recognised that voice to belong to Draco Malfoy, his school arch-nemisis. Such rivalry seemed petty now – he was just one of them, and individual names and traits didn't matter. They were his hatred.
Bellatrix cackled and told him to keep his hands bound above his head and put him in the middle of the room. The rope was magically tied to the ceiling from a hook. She then waved her wand and Harry was declothed, and completely and entirely vulnerable. He was at her mercy. Draco was about to leave when he heard her call to him. Pulling on a mask to hide his disgust he turned to her.
"Come here," She cooed, "I'll teach you a beautiful art." Draco thought he'd rather cut his own ears off than learn her 'beautiful art' - but the consequences would probably be much more severe, so he walked back to her, trying to look proud and almost delighted, hungry for the information. "Watch the patterns I can make," she said, sounding like a child who had found a portal to fairyland.
Harry watched her circle him, looking him up and down as if he were an interesting three-dimensional canvas. He clamped his mouth shut and tried not too shout as her knife was drawn up his side and along his ribcage, then around the shoulder blade – but when she forced the knife in to his shoulder harder, digging into the muscle and sinew, he could not hold back a muffled yell from sealed lips. She giggled like a maniac, twisting the knife until she heard her scream. She didn't take it out then, though. He had to beg for her mercy, beg her to stop until she would.
"Now, Draco, now watch this. Pretty patterns can be made with blood and words here." She drew her knife along him again in a single, drawn out, fluid cut, then again she pushed the knife in futher, into his thigh this time, watching his face greedily as if his pain, his shouts and screams were essential nectar. As if a need. "Now, Potter, who really killed Sirius Black, hmm?" Draco felt the colour drain from his face. He didn't want to be part of this. Yes, he picked on first and seccond years now and then if they got on his nerves. That kind of stuff happened. But this... words failed him.
Harry heard her ask the question, the horrible question he never wanted to answer. He'd watched her killing curse hit him, but he knew that's not what she meant. He'd told Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore and Lupin how he felt guilty for Sirius's death and that he was sure it was his fault. But this was different. And as she drove the knife slowly deeper and deeper into his thigh he wondered how much he could endure. He felt it's cold silver deepening through his flesh and screamed, his legs gave way under him but he was suspended by his arms, his sleft shoulder dislocated again and Bellatrix began twisting the knife this way and that, and asked him again because he'd already forgotten – who really killed Sirius?
"I did" The strangled confession slipped from his throat, because he'd always known it – always known it was his fault that Sirius died, and it was his fault that Cedric died. His friends consollations couldn't provide the truth that he knew, buried deep in his heart.