Draco, braced himself against the sink, shivering with fear, cold sweat beading against his brow. He felt sick, his blonde hair hung, lank and limp against his brow, his haunted eyes looked like corrupted silver, dark shadows stained the area under his eyes, his arm hurt… it hurt. His dark mark burned.
He didn't know how he had come this far, how he had endured that thing which called himself a man.
"Voldemort" he breathed to his reflection. The name burned his tongue.
He had been forcing himself, recently, to say his name. He didn't quite know why. It seemed to give him a sort of savage pleasure, he supposed, to hear all the other followers bow and cringe and answer yes my lord and no my lord, while he alone stood in the corner and called him Voldemort to his back.
A pathetic victory.
He persevered. He continued to be the Dark Lord's pawn, to do his bidding, to torture and to be tortured, to hate and to be hated, to fear and to be feared.
He bent to that perfect brute for the sake of his father.
He did not do it because of some twisted sort of family loyalty. He would not follow Voldemort for his mother, his aunt, his cousin. He would not do it for the sake of a brother or sister, if he had one.
Only his father. Only Lucius Malfoy.
"Lucius"
That name didn't sting his tongue on the way out. It slipped out like honey, and left a sweet aftertaste behind.
Draco sucked a breath in and let go of the sink. He straightened his shirt and turned towards the exit.
"Lucius" he breathed, and it gave him strength.
Lucius felt like a coward. He was a coward, he was sure. How could he have let this happen. How could he have let Lord Voldemort get a hold of his son… how… how?!
He writhed and screamed in pain, in agony… in… in… Oh what was the point. There was no point in trying to describe an indescribable torment, the nameless anguish of the Cruciatus curse.
Nonetheless, that was what Lucius Malfoy was experiencing.
Draco, Draco, DRACO! His mind cried.
The dark lord knew how to get to Lucius. He only had to hurt Draco to hurt Lucius, and he exploited this knowledge.
Lucius could be the one to make a mistake, but it would always be Draco who was dragged in, Draco who was tortured, Draco who would scream until his was hoarse, Draco who would sob until all his tears were gone.
Lucius contorted in pain again, as tears flowed freely down his face.
Malfoy Manor was a husk, a shadow of its former glory. Ancient tapestries, priceless paintings, the most fragile pottery, had been stripped from the walls in many areas to make space for chains and rope and many more, less savoury items. It was as quiet as a graveyard most of the time. Other times the only thing to be heard was screaming.
Lucius Malfoy entered Draco's room, to find him sitting silently on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. Draco looked up as he entered and flashed him a wan smile. Lucius came to sit beside him on the bed.
He placed a chaste kiss on Draco's lips, which was gently returned. After a moment Lucius pulled away and embraced him, cradled him like he had never thought to do when they were safe, and when they had all the time in the world.
But they took comfort when they could, and they took comfort in each other.