Author's Note: I love having all the time in the world to write and edit. It puts me in such a good mood… (:

This chapter is a bit short, but I hope you guys won't mind. Now that I have time, you won't have to wait long between updates (although to be honest, I've never kept you guys waiting longer than a few days, have I?)

Chapter 53

"Are you ready?"

I nod, bracing myself for the pain.

This is going to be a long night.

Hot coals pour over me, searing my flesh. I lock my legs and stand perfectly rigid as I burn alive. I clench my jaw to keep my mouth shut—any sounds out of my mouth, and he'll start calling me weak again.

Hundreds of meat hooks dig into my body and start ripping me apart in all directions, eliciting a long, unwilling cry of pain.

No, Draco. Block it. This isn't happening. Block it.

Thousands of miniature insects with needle-sharp legs are crawling all over me, sinking their sharp appendages into me as they walk across my body, eating away at me.

I'm trembling.

Swords hack at my body, and my mind conjures an image of myself—clawed, slashed, eaten, and beaten to a misshapen heap of meat and bones, with hardly any resemblance to the human I used to be.

I finally collapse, arms flailing wildly as though it'll help me block the pain. Then it all concentrates on one spot—my left wrist. It hurts so badly that I want to chop my arm off.

And then it's over.

"I am disappointed, Draco. You started off much better this time, but your weakness plagues you."

I'm gasping for air, breathing so hard that I can't even reply.

"On your feet."

I manage to control my breathing and get back up, fixing wary eyes on the Dark Lord.

"Do not resent me," he breathes. "This is for your benefit, not mine. Imagine the fearful looks in their eyes when they realize that you cannot be harmed by the Torture Curse. When you become the master of pain, they will follow you without protest."

I only nod.

"We will not be finished here, tonight, until you succeed," he says evenly. "I will work you to an inch from death if I must. So I suggest that you exercise some control over that mind of yours and rid it of weakness. Prepare yourself."

I swallow hard.

This is impossible! I'm still a little weak from spending so much effort trying to resist it last night. There's no fucking way I'll be able to do it tonight.

No—no, I have to believe that I can do it. If I'm to succeed, I have to have faith that I'll be able to achieve it. I'm a pessimist by nature, but this is no time to make things harder on myself.

"I'm ready."

"You are taking up so much of my time, Draco. This annoys me."

The inside of my mouth feels like sandpaper, and I cough once. I open my eyes and see Voldemort's bare feet on the stone floor, several feet away from me.

"Get up, boy," he says impatiently.

I lift my arms and brace my palms on the ground in an attempt to push myself up. My arms tremble with the effort, and after a brief struggle, I collapse again.

"Pathetic."

A force lifts me up to my feet, and I droop. All of the muscles in my body seem to have gone soft. I feel like every nerve ending is frayed, and even my bones are turning to jelly.

How long has it been? How many minutes? How many hours? A human being can only take so much torture.

"I can't," I mutter.

My voice is hoarse.

"Do not force me to conclude that you are useless," he hisses. "You know what fate befalls those who have outlived their usefulness."

"Kill me, then," I rasp, somehow sure that he won't actually kill me. "I can't… can't do it."

Then, for what feels like the millionth time, I'm set on fire. I'm kept on my feet by Voldemort's spell, but my body is limp. I try to draw some strength to block the pain, but I honestly don't know why I bother. I clearly have no strength left in me.

A giant butcher knife starts cutting me up, dicing me into tiny little squares.

Numerous carnivorous worms slither on and beneath the surface of my skin, eating me away.

I'm beyond the point of fainting from the pain and exhaustion, but I've been kept agonizingly lucid by some curse that I haven't had the privilege of learning yet, probably the same curse that was used on Wood.

Fuck.

The pain fades, leaving behind the same throbbing ache all over my body, the ache that intensifies after each experience of the spell.

"You aren't even trying anymore," Voldemort says. "Is your spirit so easily crushed? Pathetic weakling."

I don't even have the energy left to respond.

"You can stay here until you recover," he says, sneering. "If you recover, that is. I will keep your wand."

With that, he disappears.

As the effects of his spells begin to fade off, I start coughing violently. Dizziness makes my head spin, and the force that was holding me on my feet dissipates.

The stone floor rushes up toward me.

The bed beneath me is extremely hard and uncomfortable. And I feel really sore. I must have fallen in an awkward position. I feel like I hardly even have the strength to lift my arms.

My eyes open, and I take in the familiar ceiling.

Oh, it's not a bed. It's the floor. Right.

I have to get out of here.

There's a nasty, metallic taste in my mouth. Looking to the side, I see a pool of blood right by my head. I spit out whatever blood is left in my mouth.

This simply cannot be in my head. That lying bastard.

I try to sit up, but even that is too much. I guess the pain and the blood could be due to overexertion.

Have I just gone and gotten myself killed?

Overexertion is a very, very slow way to die. I've been taught all about it. Eventually you have no energy left to do anything. Your body wastes away, bit by bit.

I try to speak, but all that comes out is a strange rasping noise.

If I just had some water…

I try again and manage to get out Naree's name.

He appears a moment later, and his eyes widen as he takes in my state.

"Master! Master, what's happened?"

"Get me home," I whisper. My voice is all but gone.

"Right away, sir."

He grasps my forearm, and with a crack, we arrive at our destination.

It's dark, and a jet of red light flies at us. Naree blocks it, and the lights turn on.

"Oh my god—Draco!"

Fuck… that's Granger.

"I meant the Manor," I whisper to Naree.

"I am sorry, Master—right away!" the elf cries.

He grabs onto my arm again, and a moment later, I'm in my bedroom at the Manor.

"Miss Granger!" Naree squeaks. "You shouldn't be here!"

A sudden alertness grips me as I realize that Hermione Granger has just stepped into the Malfoy Manor. But she came with me, technically—she won't have been detected by the wards.

"Get—out—" I rasp at her.

I'm levitated onto the bed, and I hear Naree whispering for Granger to leave.

"He's not in his right mind," she says. "Go on, Naree. Get back to your work. I'll take care of him."

"Out—now—"

Why doesn't she see the gravity of the situation? If Aunt Bella chose to walk in and check on me right now…

"He's talking to you, Naree," Granger says. "You should probably go. Warn me if anyone's coming."

I hear a crack that signals Naree's departure. Fucking gullible elf. I'll have to rethink letting him take Granger's orders.

"Are you trying—to get us—both killed?"

"Don't be stubborn," she says.

She gets the covers out from beneath me and pulls them over me.

Naree returns with a glass of water for me, and I thank Merlin that he's so observant. Granger insists on helping me with it, and Naree leaves again.

After drinking, my throat feels much better, and my voice recovers enough so that I can speak again.

"Don't be stupid," I hiss at her. "Get out of here."

"If I leave, I'm taking you with me," she says firmly.

"Fine. Take me. You can't stay here."

She frowns at me.

"What are you waiting for?"

She grips my arm, and in a moment, we're back at my cottage. She places me in my bed, and as she tucks me in, I can smell her scent on the pillows—it's clear that she was just sleeping here.

Drowsiness seems to be overcoming me very quickly. Too quickly for death. I won't be dead for a while, if it's overexertion that I'm to die of.

"Take me outside," I mutter.

Her brow furrows. "No."

I want to tell her that I'll sleep on the couch, but I'm already so sleepy that I don't know if the words actually come out of my mouth. She's speaking, but her words blend together into an incomprehensible stream of the soothing sound that is her voice. Combined with that wonderful scent surrounding me…

If this is my last moment alive, I'll die a happy man.