Isn't He Lovely-Professor Snape

Deathly Hallows Pt 5

The enraged voice of the guard resonates through the air, shattering the oppressive silence that envelops me within the confines of my dismal cell. "Where is Harry Potter?!"

In this desolate place, time warps, making it impossible to discern whether it's been hours, days, or even weeks since the onset of my captivity.

"For the millionth time, I don't know," I stammer, my voice strained with the weight of exhaustion.

Unyielding chains anchor me to this unforgiving spot, and the only reprieve comes from the small window that offers a glimpse of the outside world. The warmth of the sun streaming through it serves as a stark contrast to the grim reality that engulfs me.

A downward glance reveals a sea of red—the fresh blood staining my clothes induces a lightheaded sensation, a visceral reminder of the brutality I've endured.

In response to my repeated denial, the man delivers a sharp slap to my face, the impact eliciting a cry of pain. "Where is he!?" he demands once more, his aggression escalating.

"Alright, that's enough. She needs to eat now," someone snaps, their words cutting through the tension in the dimly lit room.

My head lifts swiftly, my vision blurred, but Draco's voice cuts through the haze. In the midst of these dire circumstances, he remains the one to offer solace and care.

With a deep exhale, I strive to regain composure. The incessant shaking of my body gradually subsides, yet the throbbing pain in my arms and buttocks persists, an almost unbearable reminder of the torment endured.

"Get these off," I quaver, tugging on the unforgiving chains that bind me.

Draco crouches down, his voice a soft whisper, "I'm sorry. Just hold on for a bit longer, Niamh."

In the dimly lit room, Draco looks timid, almost scared, as if his own house holds secrets that puzzle him. He produces a wet white cloth, gently dabbing at my face. I groan as the sting permeates, but an internal gratitude accompanies the pain.

After dealing with my face, he moves to my arms, tending to the myriad cuts that mar my skin. A few minutes pass, and he drops the stained cloth, leaning back to grab a bowl, presumably filled with oatmeal.

"Draco, I can't eat; I'm going to throw up."

"You have to eat," he says rather aggressively, but his eyes give a pleading look.

I open my mouth reluctantly, allowing the tasteless oatmeal to enter. The texture is unpleasant, but I force myself to swallow. The moment it goes down, a nauseating feeling overcomes me, and I turn to the side, retching violently. Draco winces at the sight, his expression reflecting a mix of concern and helplessness.

"Shit," he mutters, frustration evident in his voice, the weight of our situation pressing down on him.

Wiping my mouth, I look at Draco, tears streaming down my face. "I can't keep doing this."

He leans in, whispering softly, "Niamh, you have to continue to fight. I believe in you."

I nod, my emotions a turbulent storm within me. "Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?" I manage to ask.

Draco takes a moment, his expression thoughtful, before replying, "I've had a change of heart." The sincerity in his eyes clashes with the harsh reality of our surroundings.

I nod, tears continuing to fall down my cheeks.

"Right now, you have to distract yourself. Just picture this - if you could be anywhere, then where would you be?"