He clamps his mouth shut on a scream – a yell of pain that makes Hermione jerk the bottle back up and stare at him wide-eyed and apologetic, her hands trembling, sweat making them clammy. The alcohol runs in rivulets over his ruined back, seeking out the channels of his wounds, and he turns his face into the pillow and yells again, stifled and wordless. The wiry muscles in his shoulders and arms flex and slide beneath the skin as he wrenches at his bonds, and Hermione swallows hard and watches him in misery.