"You're so stupid. You should've driven all the cockroaches, bugs, and rats in the castle out to bail him out. We can deal with everything else later."
The two snakes vanished from the foot of the bed, as if swallowed by the seam between the wall and the floor. After that, Cass felt that the blows around him did not hurt quite as much. He knew it was not because those people had suddenly found their consciences, but because his body was going numb.
The blows landing on his back and side were like rain tapering off, every drop growing smaller even as it continued to fall.
His mind was crammed with thoughts. The clues as to why he could speak Parseltongue were like a ball of yarn that had been pulled apart, with no beginning or end to be found—he had learned in History that, apart from the legendary creator of the Basilisk, "Herpo the Foul," only the wizard known as the "Dark Lord" in the United Kingdom could speak Parseltongue.
And since transferring from Beauxbatons to Greece, he had never left. There was no reason for him to know those two snakes, nor any reason they should have been willing to help him.
The beating continued. The blanket had been pressed into a solid shape, and wet, congealing sounds began seeping from its edges, like juice squeezed from tightly compressed fibers. When someone changed positions, his leg was dragged partway out from under the blanket. The skin on the outside of his knee scraped across the edge of the bed, and before it could fully touch the floor, someone yanked it back again.
His vision had narrowed to a fist-sized patch in the center of his field of view. Darkness filled the edges, like a door slowly closing.