"Wait, I have more!"
It was a useless lie. Karkaroff felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple; perspiration dampened his shackled wrists. You will be returned to Azkaban—and conveniently forgotten about, with only one name to absolve you.
Back to Azkaban: to ice, to rot, to stone floors and steel bars and no company but the tortured screams in his own head. To suffering, and madness, and a brutally slow death. He could feel the dementors waiting just outside.
There was one more name. But only one.
A friend's.
Karkaroff paused.
"Snape!" He swallowed hard. "Severus Snape!"