The blade in his father's hand looks so sharp. So sharp. One of Aunt Bella's, Draco can see, inlaid with silver in swirling patterns, like the ones freshly carved into his stomach. He wonders how much effort it will take to get the dagger through the bone of his arm. Whether his father will break the bone, or need to use magic for that part. Bile is sour in his mouth. He lies there helplessly and wonders how exactly his father is going to do it. How much it will hurt. Draco's gorge rises as he imagines the pain, and his hands would be clenched into white-knuckled fists if they weren't dead and limp, laid out over the marble like pieces of meat. Not his hand.