"I hate you."

"Wimp."

"I really fucking hate you."

"Oh, for God's sake," she said. "Grow a pair." He glared, she rolled her eyes. "It's almost over. Quit swearing at me."

"I'll fucking swear at you as much as a goddamn like… Bitch."

"Very creative."

"I wish you would stop talking."

"And I wish you could go a week without—"

"It's done now. If I go back, I'm dead."

"Your optimism is positively inspiring," she said.

"Your sarcasm leaves much to be desired."

She pursed her lips at him and removed his foot from the small vat of potion on the floor. He hissed, but didn't so much as twitch his foot. It made her guts churn to think about it—his pain threshold was higher than any she'd encountered, his self-control astounding. She wished he hadn't had to develop either.

The foot, flayed until all the skin had been removed, looked better than it had, though that wasn't saying much. She used a support charm to make it easier for him to hold it out in front of her, and quickly painted on the thick DermiGro (cousin to SkeleGro and most commonly used for skinned knees and the like) with a soft-bristle brush. He closed his eyes and reclined against the wall, breathing on an eight-count through his teeth.

"That's the last time, then?"

"Yes."

"Who was it?"

"Lestrange, of course."

"He was your friend."

"He was."

She nodded, and turned her attention to the mess around her. She'd pulled everything out of their first aid kit in her hurry to get him what he needed.

"What do you mean by that?"

"By what?"

He raised an eyebrow. She shrugged.

"He was your friend. It explains why you're alive."

"He didn't spare me out of some old—"

"No, that's not what I meant," she interrupted, stilling her hands to look up at him. "He was your friend, so your betrayal hurt him. He wanted to hurt you back. He let you live longer than he should've because he wanted you to suffer. You were able to escape."

"That's about the shape of it." He turned his face away, so she went back to her cleaning-up.