Her touch consumed him. It lingered, gentle like a breeze but hot like the ring on Draco's finger. Over and over, he replayed the way she'd caressed the back of his hand and then the ring's heat flared at his ensuing thoughts. He lay in bed, sheets askew, and fiddled with the Malfoy crest ring. As Draco stared up at the dark green ceiling spinning the ring around his index finger, his thoughts wafted like smoke.

Hermione's screams echoed in his head and Draco squeezed his eyes shut to the images those screams conjured. He hadn't slept in days, and that was just one of the reasons which kept him awake. He had a feeling her presence would only worsen the reactions, especially since now he didn't just remember his own torture, but hers too. It was impossible to forget.

And her back…

Draco sighed and clutched the ring in his palm, squeezing hard enough he most likely indented the skin with the engraving. He plucked up the bottle of fire whiskey by his bedside, took a long swig, and attempted to sleep. Sleep only invited the past to the front of his nightmares.

The Dark Lord's voice whispered in Draco's ear, his foul breath uttering even fouler words: Crucio.

The Unforgivable Curse threw Hermione Granger onto her back, and as if the curse were a hand, it reached into her throat and drew out a chill-inducing scream.

Draco tried to reach her, tried to stop the worst from happening, but Fenrir had a steel hold on his arms. No matter how much he fought, the werewolf was too strong.

"Quit fighting," Fenrir growled. "You're only making this worse for yourself."

Draco slammed the heel of his boot into Fenrir's shin which caused the latter to curse and his hold loosened. "Never," he muttered and shoved away. He lunged for his abandoned wand a few steps away, but a force tackled him to the ground. The smell of dirty fur mixed with pine stuffed itself up Draco's nose as they rolled.

He attempted to angle the tip of his wand at Fenrir but couldn't differentiate between up and down, and then a hairy fist slammed across Draco's face, cracking cartilage in his nose. Blood dripped into his mouth, causing Draco to almost choke, but he spat and got his bearings.

Hermione screamed again and Draco whipped his head toward where she writhed on the ground. In that split second, another hit to the side of his head brought Draco to his knees. The world tilted as waves of vertigo caused the ground to shift under his boots. He shook his head, hoping to clear his vision. He managed to pull one foot under his body, both hands curled over the pine needles.

Then, a voice said, "Immobulus," and every muscle in Draco's body stiffened.

He tried to peer over his shoulder but couldn't. He didn't need to see who had said the spell; he supposed Goyle was doing it to save his life. If he wasn't moving, then he couldn't give the Dark Lord another reason to kill him.

He should be grateful, but only white-hot anger flared through him. Draco was frozen only a feet meters from Hermione and now he could do nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Her red, teary eyes found his and something in her gaze shuttered.

Then Voldemort yelled the curse again and the sight of agony continued.

Draco didn't know how long the Dark Lord tortured Hermione, but it was long enough that sweat had begun to soak through his shirt and his feet had gone numb from lack of adequate circulation.

Then, Bellatrix coughed and that deceptively soft, squeaky sound pierced through the chaos. Voldemort halted and his beady eyes slid to her. "My Lord," she said softly, that manic grin creeping into her expression. "I would like to make a request."

The Dark Lord straightened. "Speak, Bellatrix."

She clutched her wand to her chest, eyes wide, and said, "May I?" Her gaze flitted to Hermione's prone figure and then back to Voldemort. "We have unfinished business."

After a moment, Voldemort nodded and stepped aside.

Bellatrix approached Hermione, and though the latter made no verbal indication of her trepidation, Draco noted how the tendons in her neck flinched. Hermione had endured the Dark Lord's torture for hours, yet she had not broken. Even now, faced with the woman who had tortured her previously, she refused to show weakness.

Some form of pride swelled in him.

Bellatrix lifted her black dress so she could straddle Hermione, and as she sat, she leaned close, appearing to whisper something inaudible. Then she shrieked and fell back, clutching her cheek.

Hermione's fist had met the side of Bellatrix's face, and with that moment of freedom, she frantically crawled toward her abandoned wand.

The crowd around began to move, but Bellatrix slashed a hand through the air, halting them. She growled as she stood, her pale face already beginning to bruise and swell. Just as Hermione's hand closed over the tip of her wand, Bellatrix cried, "Crucio!"

Hermione's form buckled from the impact of the spell but did not make a sound.

Draco wondered if she had any breath in her lungs to lose.

When the wave of pain seemed to pass, Hermione continued her scramble for her wand. She had it between two fingers, so she pulled it, along with dirt and pine needles, into her palm. When she turned to cast a spell, Bellatrix was already looming over her. The woman's heeled boot smashed across Hermione's face and blood sprayed from a split in her temple. She lost the grip on her wand, and before Hermione could fully recover from the hit, Bellatrix had her own wand aimed at the girl's heart.

Both Hermione's hands were raised in front of her face as blood ran down the side of her head and onto her gray tank top.

Two Death Eaters, one on either side of Hermione, took both hands and held the girl's arms taut to the side. Her jeans were dirtied and damp, and the maroon flannel she wore looked just as worse for wear.

Bellatrix approached, teeth gritted. She drew her dagger in one hand, and with the other she grasped a handful of Hermione's curls and yanked her head back, bearing her throat to the sky.

Draco wanted to lunge forward from where he remained frozen in a crouched position, but no matter how he screamed at his muscles, they wouldn't move. Would Bellatrix really slit Hermione's throat in front of hundreds of witches and wizards? He supposed he shouldn't be surprised, but the brutality of the death made his stomach twist.

Bellatrix's hand moved down—toward Hermione's back—and sliced vertically along her spine, tearing open the center of her flannel and through her tank and undergarments. The two Death Eaters grasped each half of the torn material and jerked them down around Hermione's wrists, exposing her shoulder blades and spine.

Hermione's back muscles shuddered beneath the torn edges of the thin tank top.

Draco was surprised at the strength Hermione seemed to wield within her smaller frame. She was always hidden under those flowy black robes, but now, with her upper extremities bare to the cool air, slender muscle danced under her skin as she strained against the two Death Eaters.

However, he didn't doubt most of the strength she carried lay within her mind and will. She'd already lasted so long against the Cruciatus Curse and that burning defiance hadn't dimmed. Though part of Draco knew it'd only be a matter of time. Everyone broke eventually—even the strongest of them. Frank and Alice Longbottom were proof of that. Their wills may not have been broken, but their minds were. Either way, Bellatrix had won. She may not have gotten the information she wanted, but two powerful Aurors standing against the Dark Lord were no longer an issue.

Draco returned his attention to the group of four in the center of the clearing where Bellatrix circled Hermione's kneeling form as though she were trying to determine appropriate punishment for a rebellious mongrel. A scowl turned up her nose as she halted in front of the younger witch. She talked down at Hermione, voice low, but did not lower herself to the same level. She wouldn't. Not while Hermione continued to defy.

Then, Hermione's head snapped to the side as a slap echoed through the quiet. She paused and slowly turned her gaze up to Bellatrix whose hand was still raised from the strike. After a moment, Hermione spat on the hem of the witch's dress and Bellatrix recoiled as if she'd been exposed to a disease.

Hermione's lips moved, venom evident in whatever she said.

Bellatrix took Hermione's face in her hand, squeezing hard enough her nails indented the skin of her cheeks. Hermione attempted to bite the hand covering her mouth, but Bellatrix pulled away, cackling. She gave her one last disgusted look before nodding at the Death Eaters whose grips tightened.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at Draco, a spark of fear in her eyes.

He tried to nod and failed. Fight, he wanted to mouth. Fight, Granger, and don't stop.

Something flashed in her gaze. Recognition, perhaps. After a heartbeat, she returned the faintest nod and then did not look at Draco again.

Everyone in the forest seemed to hold their breath, anxiously waiting to see what new kind of torture Bellatrix would bring upon the half-blood.

Bellatrix stood a few meters behind Hermione, wand clutched in her hand.

Draco could not turn, could not look away, even as that first strike cleaved through air and flesh.

A soundless curse slashed across Hermione's back, wrenching a sharp exhale from her. She arched at the second lash, but the Death Eaters held her fast. A third had Hermione sinking back onto her heels, face turned to the canopy of trees above.

Then Bellatrix growled, "Crucio," and waved her wand again. That invisible whip whistled through the air and lacerated Hermione's bloody back.

This time, the tense silence of the forest shattered when a new, terrible cry yanked from Hermione's lips. Every visible muscle contorted, straining against the agonizing effects of the curse, and she pulled against the Death Eaters keeping her immobile, but to no avail.

Again, Bellatrix muttered the curse, and again, Hermione's torture began anew.

Since he couldn't look away, Draco counted the lashes, if only to keep himself from descending into madness.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten…

He felt the searing sting of each lash as it made contact with Hermione's skin, and tears welled with the growing fury straining beneath his skin.

Each lash brought upon a struggle to stay upright as Hermione's body jerked like lightning struck her bones. She screamed but continued to fight.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...

She grappled with the Death Eaters and fought against the effects of the Cruciatus Curse until she was panting and sobbing and blood soaked the waistband of her jeans. Her back was a mess of slashes where muscle had been pulled from bone, and ribbons of flesh and fascia hung from places where the whippings had overlapped.

The crack of the "whip" sounded, and the seventeenth lash ended Hermione's battle. She went limp in the Death Eaters' hands, chin sagging against her chest.

Stillness covered the forest like a fog.

A tear slipped down Draco's cheek as he took in the horrific sight of Hermione's mutilated immobile form. He tried to see if she was breathing, but from where he knelt, he couldn't tell.

Please, he thought. Please.

Bellatrix nodded to the Death Eaters and they dropped Hermione to the forest floor. She collapsed onto her shoulder, most of her barely covered front nestled by leaves, pines, and whatever remained of her clothing.

Draco's breath left him when he heard the faintest whimper as she crashed into the ground. She was alive, but for how long, he didn't know.

Then, the hair on his nape prickled. The muscles in his forearms twitched; Goyle's Immobulus spell waned. After another breath, the restraints on his body evaporated.

Any leash on his rage vanished along with the spell restraining him as Draco launched to his feet. He scooped up his wand, aimed it directly at Bellatrix Lestrange, and roared, "AVADA KEDAVRA."

Like a clap of thunder, Draco was yanked from sleep. He sucked in a breath, his muscles aching. He twiddled his fingers which were stiff as though he'd actually been frozen for hours.

His own soft, panted breaths filled the room which he could hardly hear over the blood pounding in his ears.

Without bothering to pull pants on, Draco stumbled from bed in his underwear and blindly made his way to the lavatory. As he crept across the cold stone, chills ran down his extremities. He passed the entrance to the common room and halted when the sound of hushed voices floated toward him. He pressed himself flat against the wall and listened.

"Have you made contact yet?"

"No."

"What's taking so long?"

"I'm trying not to get caught."

It was Goyle and Nott who were whispering, Draco realized.

Nott sighed. "You try making contact with someone inside Azkaban and see how far you get."

"I have," Goyle snapped. "Bribing dementors isn't as difficult as one would think."

Draco held in a breath and hoped they couldn't hear his heart pounding.

Another sigh. "We don't have to do this," Nott muttered. "We didn't really make an Unbreakable Vow. We could just walk away while we can."

Draco peered around the corner just as Goyle stepped forward and took a fistful of Nott's collar, pulling him inches from his face. "Are you getting cold feet?"

Nott sneered. "Never."

"Try again."

"What's the point?" Nott hissed, shoulders deflating. "Pansy and I are happy for the first time ever. She's finally stopped screaming from her nightmares, I'm sleeping through the night at last—" He sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "I think most of us have accepted the outcome of the war and moved on. Maybe you should too."

Goyle shoved Nott away, scowling. "That's easy for you to say when you're not me. There are expectations I must meet."

"So," Nott said slowly, "are you really doing all this just for him?"

"For him? No. For my own self-preservation? Yes."

"Why don't you leave?"

"He'd just find me."

Nott's expression hardened and he rolled his shoulders. "Then let a few of us take care of him."

"No," Goyle snapped quietly. "I won't have anyone fight for me. If I ever reciprocate, it will be on my terms by my own hand. I won't let anyone take that away from me."

"He's not in Azkaban," Nott continued. "Why doesn't he handle it? It's what he wants, after all."

"Because if I want any respectable position after this is all over, then I have to prove myself."

"To him."

Goyle's gaze found Nott's, dark eyes blazing in the dim green light. "Who else?"

Nott straightened and folded his arms across his chest. "You're going to owe me for being your little errand boy."

"I'd do it if I could."

"Except you can't, so you somehow convinced me to risk my freedom to help you get through interrogation sessions with the Ministry."

"It's not my fault you're a dumbass."

"No, it's my own fault for caring about you," Nott said, his words sharp and icy. "I'm doing this for you because you asked it of me. Because we're friends, Goyle. I wouldn't risk my neck for just anybody."

"If you hate doing it so much, then walk away," Goyle growled.

"You're right. I certainly don't want to be doing this, but I'm doing this for you, Goyle. For you. You have people who care about you but you're too blind to see it." Nott tilted his head. "You are not your father. You're a much better man than he is, but in order to get through this, you're resorting to what he taught you and convincing yourself this is the way it has to be."

"What else would you have me do, Theo?"

"Fight back."

Goyle's jaw muscles twitched. "I tried that once. It didn't end well for me."

"Maybe you should talk to Malfoy. He seems to have found a reason to fight against his heritage."

Goyle jabbed a finger in Nott's face, teeth bared in the dim light. "Don't bring that bastard into this. He's got no idea—"

"Doesn't he?" Nott's words cut through Goyle's like a knife. He cocked his head to the other side, voice low and dangerously calm. "I think his violent night terrors would say otherwise. I think watching him fade into a shell of the person he used to be would say otherwise." Nott snorted and pointed an index finger at Goyle. "I think the torture he endured—the torture you stood and watched—would say otherwise."

Goyle's throat bobbed but he remained silent.

"Don't you dare say he has no idea what it's like to feel pain because he probably knows better than any of us. Malfoy has only told me pieces, but what he's endured is nothing to scoff at. Don't misunderstand me," Nott said raising a hand. "That does not make your trauma any less real, but don't disregard his, either."

Nott cleared his throat and then exhaled. "My point is that he fought back. If I remember correctly, he fought the Dark Lord, he fought to save Granger, and you were the one who made him watch."

"I saved his life," Goyle hissed. "If I hadn't held him there, he would have gotten himself killed."

"I don't think he sees it the same way you do."

"How else could he see it?"

"He was trying to save Granger, right? You stood in the way of that." Nott shrugged. "If I was in his place and that was Pansy being tortured, I would have killed you the moment I could."

Goyle gaped. "It was Granger. A Mudblood—"

Nott waved a hand. "I'm tired of hearing that. Grow up."

Goyle's mouth snapped shut, but a sneer picked at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't actually know what his motivations were that day, but Malfoy stood against everyone and everything in that forest. He found a reason to fight. I suggest you do the same before you commit to a journey you discover you no longer want to be on."

For a moment, the common room fell silent. Then, Goyle whispered, "I think it's too late for that. I've boarded this train and there's no stopping until it has reached its destination."

Footsteps neared and Draco slipped farther into the shadows, neck craned to the side to make himself as flat as possible.

"Goyle."

A shuffle of robes. "What?"

Nott shrugged. "Don't forget trains are made with emergency brakes."

Another moment passed where Goyle stared at his feet. Then, he inhaled and nodded once at Nott before disappearing down the hall.