The pain. He couldn't breath, he kept screaming and screaming and screaming. He just couldn't stop. White-hot fire raced through his body. He was sure he was going to die. He wished he would die, if only it would stop. He closed his eyes and tried to make it all go away, but of course it didn't. Roaring filled his ears, he could no longer hear the death-eaters cold cruel laughter. Then finally, blissful blackness fell upon him.

***

Slowly Draco peeled his eyes open and almost groaned seeing that he was still chained up on the hard wooden table, but his chest hurt too much. He saw small bruises all over his body and what looked like a cut on his shoulder. Like before though all his wounds had been tended to. It was amazing how just a simple word and the point of a wand could cause so much pain and suffering. If only he could escape, or die. Dying would good. At least then there would be some relief, unless he went to hell, he wasn't going to hell, he didn't believe in hell. As all witches say, "to believe in something, to name something, is to give it power." Also the reason so many people referred to Voldemort as You-Know-Who. But calling him You-Know-Who was almost as bad as just giving him another name.

Draco suddenly felt warmth coming from the wall on his right side. He slowly turned his head, and felt his neck and shoulders scream, black dots covered his vision threatening that he would black out again. Finally getting his head to turn he saw a fire in a fire-place he had not noticed before had been lit, but who'd lit it.

"Do you like my fire?" a cold drawling voice asked.

Draco shivered, not from cold, but from fear. Fear, that was something he had not really known until now. He suddenly felt guilty for all the little animals he killed, the people he'd beaten up. Had they felt like this, fear from him, fear that they'd never see daylight again?

Draco heard footsteps and turned his head to see another death eater; another stonehearted thing to feed on his pain.

"I asked you a question," the death eater said and walked around the table to the fire.

Draco said nothing and glared at the death eaters back.

"I rather like fire," the death eater continued not waiting for a answer, "Its my specialty."

Draco watched as the death eater leaned down and picked up a hot poker right from the flames.

"The fire doesn't burn me," he said seeing Draco's gaze, "It's my power, very useful too at that. I can make magical fire barriers with the twitch of my pinky, make whole buildings burst up in flame with the flick of my wand, I can also increase the heat of a fire simply by staring at it, and the heat of something that was heated by a fire, like say, a hot poker."

Now Draco knew what this was about. Rather than using the curse, he'd use the old fashioned way. He briefly wondered if it would hurt more than the curse. Probably.

The death eater came and held the poker near Draco's face, he pulled his head away feeling the heat of it. Then the death eater touched it to his chest and dragged it down across his stomach. Searing pain coursed from where the poker had touched him and he bit down hard on his lip drawing blood, trying not to scream.

This was worse. Rather than just pain coming from seemingly nowhere, this was pain with a solid source; a solid source that made it that much more intolerable. Finally he screamed, maybe screaming would make it shorter. The death eaters liked to hear the screams. He felt so weak, deprived of food and water, tortured till his whole body was simply numb with pain. How long had he been in the chamber? A day? A week? Blacking out had become a normal thing for him. Until finally, relief came, he found himself being dragged back to his room. "To heal and rest" until he was well enough to be tortured more, or maybe they'd just leave him to die. They were treating like scum, like nothing more than a bug beneath the death-eaters feet, like slaves.

They threw him back into the cell and he curled up in the straw where he quickly slept. He wanted to sleep, and stay asleep until he died, but then the straw of his cell kept poking into his back and his body clamored for him to get up. He tried to ignore it, being awake meant being conscious, which meant dealing with the pain. He didn't feel like dealing with the pain. It was all he could do to simply lay curled up in the corner of his cell.

Dimly he heard the creak of his cell door being opened and looked up, praying to the Lord and Lady that they weren't here to take him to the torture chambers again, but they weren't.

The death eaters were holding onto a girl, who looked relatively healthy and out of place here. He squinted at her face; it was familiar from somewhere.

"Granger?" he asked, but speaking took too much out of him and his head dropped back onto the straw.