It wasn't that he had forgotten -- far from it. That part of life had been the stuff of nightmares, and he remembered it well, often late at night when he should be in the depths of sleep, as it snuck into his subconscious and he woke bathed in sweat and screaming. His jaw tightened, and he felt the itch of old wounds across his shoulder blades and down his back, every inch of the scars he still carried.
"I couldn't stop her." His voice was tight, and truth to tell, he had barely tried, afraid of what Bellatrix would do to him this time. He had been far more afraid of his aunt than he was of Voldemort. If left to his own thoughts, he was sure the Dark Lord would have killed him. But Aunt Bella... she loved him, and for his mother's sake, was determined to keep Draco alive, no matter how much joy she took in his pain along the way. "When I tried, she forced me to--"
He stopped, then. He had no idea if Hermione knew that he had been there when Bellatrix tortured her, and this alliance was so fragile, he didn't know if they had enough alcohol to counteract the confession. He took a long gulp of the whiskey, feeling the burn, ending with a quiet, "I'm sorry."