You wipe the last traces of spittle from your lips before turning to face your fellow… captives. Snape is still pressed into the wall, his face turned from yours, but you don't need to see the blood seeping slowly from his nose to know that it is there. Hermione has yet to wake, and you try in vain to hide the shaking in your limbs as you inch over to her. She is breathing, thankfully, and you allow yourself a brief flash of belated worry at this. You don't know what you would do if she was gone. You don't want to even think about it, sternly ignoring the infuriatingly practical little voice in the back of your mind that whispers about realities and eventualities.
A rather unlady-like groan snaps your attention back to the present, she's waking up. You don't move from where you are, half-sprawled by her side, and you decide that it isn't a matter of not wanting to move, more a physically inability. The shaking has gotten worse, and your entire right leg is twitching every so often. Looking up as subtly as you can while exhausted beyond all measure (which isn't very subtly), you see that Snape has finally moved a bit, and if you really look for it, you can see the tremors that wrack his body as well.
Forgoing your inspection of the exposed spy for a moment, you turn your attention back to your best female friend for the time being. Actually, you suppose that she's your only female friend after all of this, if not your only friend at all. (It isn't until you see Hermione's confused and slightly pained expression, not to mention Snape's lone quirked eyebrow, that you realize you might have said that last bit out loud.)
"Sorry- bugger!" you croak, wincing belatedly from the pain. You make a mental note to avoid screaming your throat raw anytime soon. Snape's gaze, layered with pain and the ever present tinge of sarcasm, doesn't waver. In lieu of speech you settle for gazing stonily back at the man, until a flash of green arcs across your vision and you drop your eyes sharply, and take a deep, shaky breath, and simply try to forget. "A mudblood and a traitor, a half-blood traitor no less! You don't even deserve the death I am about to grant you!"
You blink and the memory is gone. Snape is still staring, but you wonder bemusedly if that is a trace of worry you see in his eyes? Hermione has finally eased herself into a sitting position and you turn to her now, falling back into the familiar routine of checking each other over for injury. You have both been in enough scrapes for the action to be nearly automatic, though the situation has never been quite this desperate, you grudgingly admit to yourself. "M'fine, Harry." She mumbles, sagging against the wall. "Just tired." The rough crack in her throat reminds you that you were not the only one to scream themselves raw. You wonder how long you will all be "fine" for, how long you can all keep it up. The three of you settle yourselves more comfortably in the cell, and it is only later you notice that you are all within touching distance.