This time, he does not scream. Not even as he feels bones crack, skin twist, rip from his face, and the blood—

He is distracted. There is a pain in his hand that is a healing, a feeling of bones shifting, twisting, it makes him feel so sick—

"Traitors aren't innocent," the woman says, or Dorian thinks she must, for he feels he can't really hear her through the sound of his skin and bones. Deaf, but he can see through blood, that sword is still pointed at Hermione—

Dorian pushes, and surprise his advantage, and the woman stumbles and Dorian scrambles to get to his feet, scrambles to get up and get between this woman and Hermione, he can't lose Hermione, his teeth are bared and his hands go for the throat and with just one push, this woman has Dorian pressed against the tree, pressed to Hermione to pin her in place, so that he can feel that arrow.

And so that Hermione can feel the tip of the sword that has just gone through Dorian's gut. So that she can smell his blood, hear the squelch of flesh and organ, taste the poison sickness and feel that moment when Dorian stops fighting. When one little twist, a twist that just leaves a pinprick on Hermione's stomach, churns Dorian's innards in his chest.

She would also feel the sword's cold metal hilt. After all, her hand had been set on it before the blade was pushed.

"Just push a little further," a voice tells Hermione, "and spare the rest of us any more of your mistakes."

Dorian's blood is pooling at Hermione's feet.