Hermione Granger’s tortured screams echoed off the manor’s handsome walls and fell loudly on Draco’s ears. He began to feel nauseous. They were bloodcurdling, her screams; he couldn’t take it anymore.
Bellatrix looked up to see who had barked out the order then narrowed her heavily lidded eyes at her nephew.
“Stop? STOP?” She rose to her feet and hovered threateningly over a now whimpering Hermione. “This witch,” she delivered a swift kick to Hermione’s side, “KNOWS SOMETHING. I shall wear her filthy blood on the hems of my robes if she refuses to speak!”
“Then put on your Sunday best, Aunt Bellatrix,” said Draco, drawing his wand. “Because it looks like we’ll have a funeral to attend. But it won’t be Granger’s.”