Blood splattered onto his hands below him. Draco's hands pressed flat to the floor, barely holding him up. He'd bit through his lip at some point.
With a gentle touch under his chin, Voldemort lifted Draco's gaze to him. Draco's neck strained, breathing heavily while unable to rise from his position on all fours. His jaw trembled, a lingering effect of having been held under the cruciatus for so long. He knew the dark lord could feel it. The tremors were out of his control.
"Half a year in and you still fail me."
Long fingers stroked Draco's hair back out of his face. Strands clung to his temples. How long had he been left under? Sweat rolled down his face and neck.
"Another week gone and nothing. You have brought me no information. You have made no progress on the cabinet."
Voldemort lifted his wand, his actual one, which always made the curse hit more strongly, and Draco cowered from it. He waited for the impact, to be left back under while every nerve lit and contracted.
Instead of pain, his lower lip tingled. Draco panted, still tasting copper.
"Should anyone else have been fortunate enough to have been born into your privilege, they would have made something of themself."
Draco nodded in the vain hope agreeing would put an end to the pain. Acid rose in his throat, and Draco swallowed it down, desperate not to sick over the floor in the dorm room. He knew there would be more pain to follow if he did.
"What is the point of keeping you if you fail so frequently?"
Draco dropped his head again, and stared at his blood on the floor.
All his efforts were for nothing. Keeping the potions brewing hadn't been enough. An eight-hour brew hadn't been enough. Getting O's on two sets of homework had meant nothing. Playing the part in front of his housemates meant nothing. Giving all his excess energy to the cabinet amounted to nothing.
When the cabinet was restored, certainly Voldemort would kill Draco along with Dumbledore. He already stated Draco wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts.
This year would be his last.
Given that Potter would never approach him when others were around, Draco left Potions alone on a Wednesday afternoon. He had little doubt Voldemort would follow, but hoped it would at least be from a distance. If he wanted the prophecy, Draco needed the time alone.
He needed the time alone regardless.
He debated waiting in the Great Hall, knowing there would be snacks left out for students between classes. It was the best chance to eat without Voldemort monitoring every bite. But if Voldemort had been right about Potter knowing, Draco didn't want to eat in front of him either.
Outside, the snow had let up, but still piled around the courtyard and on the stone railings. The tip of his nose went cold with the first gust of wind, but Draco braced himself as he walked down to the bridge. The air would be coldest there. No one else would bother him.
Only Potter.
He left his wand in his arm holster. The cold battered at him, but at least shivering masked the tremors in his hands. The horror stories he had grown up telling of people left under the cruciatus too long rang through his thoughts. He had sat with the others in the common room, joking about the halfbloods and muggleborns left mindless after the torture.
He had brought this on himself.
Staring out into the valley, Draco watched a heavy fog roll through the rocks and over the river streaming from the Black Lake. The wind rattled the trees, leaving them barren of snow. The howl of the wind thick with snow tunneled to him, and Draco blinked away snowflakes when they clung to his eyelashes.
Despite the terrible weather, Draco closed his eyes and took deep breaths. The frigid air helped to clear his mind. He still felt the weight of a gaze on him, and chose not to search for the source.
Draco ran his hands over the railing before peering over the edge. If he were to fall off the bridge, how long would it take for him to land? He dragged his shaking hand down the railing, slowly making his way to overlook the deepest part of the valley below.
He'd fallen from his broom once, years ago. The drop left him with both arms broken, and as a punishment for his carelessness, Lucius made him wait three days before healing. Those three days had felt like a month, and Draco had argued the unfairness of spending any portion of his summer injured while healing could happen overnight.
Staring down at the valley floor, he didn't think there would be any healing from that fall.
With the strength of the gale, Draco didn't hear footsteps until Potter had gotten close. He had come outside knowing Potter would follow, but still found himself surprised to see him approach. He supposed part of him still refused to accept Potter's investment in monitoring him this year. It was different than years prior. Draco wished he knew why.
"No warming charm?" Potter asked. He sidled up beside Draco and cast the charm around them both. The warmth instantly brought heat to Draco's cheeks. The wind cut through, but the spell dampened the chill.
"The intention was fresh air," Draco said.
"Fresh doesn't mean frigid."
Potter matched his posture, elbows on the railing, facing out to the surrounding landscape. For a moment, neither of them said anything.
"No yelling at me to leave you alone this time?"
"What good has that done me?"
"You could just be forthright."
"I don't owe you answers."
Potter sighed, and despite the charm, his breath still fogged. Draco glanced over and realized Potter had been looking at him, although, his glasses were hazy.
"What?" Draco said.
"I've been thinking."
"Must be a strain."
Potter clenched his hands to fists. "It isn't exactly fair that I've been expecting you to be honest when I haven't been."
"You don't owe me anything either."
"That's not exactly true."
Draco reminded himself once again that he had come out here specifically to speak with Potter. He couldn't lash out, as he desperately wanted to, over Potter dragging out his point. Uncovering the prophecy had become just as significant as the rest of the tasks he had been given. Dealing with Potter was an unfortunate side effect of it.
When Draco didn't respond, Potter pressed on. "I might've snuck into hospital while you were there."
Of everything Potter might have said, Draco never fathomed that would be his response. Again, it should have been. Voldemort pointed out that Potter knew about him struggling to eat, but it barely felt important. The hospital cover story had been a lie.
"I found the pamphlet under your bed."
How had Potter gotten that close without Draco knowing? How did he always worm his way into situations that had nothing to do with him?
"How?" Draco asked.
"How?"
"How did you get in without me knowing?"
"It's not really the point," Potter said. "I thought you'd be—"
"What? Angry you know? Of course you do. You've been pelting me with fruit for the last two months."
Potter's shoulders sagged. Relief at having admitted the truth? Disappointment that Draco didn't respond differently?
"I can't help but feel I'm responsible," he said.
"Arrogant as always."
"What?"
"The sheer arrogance that assuming I don't—" can't "—eat because of you," Draco said. "Unlike the rest of the continent, my life doesn't revolve around you."
Storming away wasn't an option. Draco had to stay and let Potter talk. He had to somehow direct this conversation to the prophecy. Every moment of his day had to be directed towards one of his assigned goals, and if he went inside with no information, the tremors in his hands might never be allowed to fade.
"I haven't been making things easy."
"Harassing me over leaving Quidditch is annoying, but like a gnat buzzing."
"I meant last year," Potter said.
Draco saw the opening. He turned to put his hip against the railing, crossing his arms to hide the shaking. Potter remained as he was, but head angled to watch Draco.
"You mean getting my father arrested."
"Your father got himself arrested," Potter said. "But essentially. And all that it led to."
"A person doesn't get themself arrested," Draco said erroneously. He needed the argument to guide the conversation.
"He broke into the Ministry and attacked us."
"Didn't you also break into the Ministry?"
"Given the—" Potter stopped. Dropped his head. Took several deep breaths that clouded the air around him.
"Given what?" Draco said. "You snuck into Umbridge's office to firecall Dumbledore, lied to her to lead her out, had your little army attack us, then ran to break into the Ministry. What exactly am I missing?"
"If that's your interpretation, everything."
"Enlighten me," Draco said. "Why was it acceptable for you to break in, but not my father?"
"Your father wasn't arrested for breaking in."
"And you're skirting the point again. Didn't you come out here to prattle about honesty?"
"You can't possibly understand what all honesty entails."
"Then why are you here?"
"To check in on you!" Potter snapped. He finally stood upright, spinning on Draco. He paired it with a step forwards, putting them barely a breath away. "To offer you help."
"You got my father arrested," Draco repeated, reaiming the discussion. "Why would I trust you?"
The wind picked up, and Draco felt it ruining the styling of his hair. The strongest hair potions couldn't have kept his hair from whipping around his eyes. At least it couldn't possibly look worse than Potter's.
"Your father broke into the Ministry to get the prophecy about me," Potter said. "He lured me there with Voldemort's help."
"What, he firecalled you in Umbridge's office?"
"I was firecalling anyone I could think of to get them to help. No one answered," Potter said. "I would have let someone else deal with it. It's what I'd done before."
"Before?" Draco said, trying to sound exasperated despite his growing interest. There were thousands of rumors about events Potter had been involved in over the last several years. Getting the actual story was rare.
"Earlier in the year, I'd heard that Arthur Weasley was attacked in the Ministry. It was true. The night you all dragged us into Umbridge's office, I'd just heard the same about Sirius."
"Sirius Black?"
Potter nodded. "Different story. But I needed to get someone there before he was hurt further. But it turned out, that was a lie."
"Who told you these things? My father sent you an owl?"
The frustration mounted in the downturn of Potter's mouth. Draco caught it, then looked away at once. He wouldn't dare let Potter think he was staring at his mouth. Voldemort had once been dissuaded by seeing Potter's subtle glance down, and Draco couldn't accept the inverse.
"I saw it in a vision," Potter said. His voice was tight. It wasn't something he wanted to share.
"Don't tell me you're vying for Trewlaney's position."
Potter's glasses didn't mask the roll of his eyes. "I'm not a Seer. Voldemort—" how could he say his name so casually? "—pushed the vision through."
Draco shook his head. He had to uncross his arms to push his hair out of his eyes, even knowing that the wind would displace it the next time it blew through the bridge. He lowered the hand before Potter could notice the tremors.
"Legilimency requires eye contact," Draco said.
"I don't know how he did it, but he did." Potter paused to look out over the valley again, but closed his eyes when the wind returned. "He can get in my head, sometimes."
The confession came as a whisper nearly lost to the wind. It wouldn't be new information to Voldemort, but certainly, Potter didn't want to admit to it.
He had been honest about the reason for coming out here. Honesty on honesty, and Draco couldn't wrap his mind around it. They had never managed a normal conversation before this year. They weren't friends. They were barely acquaintances. Why did Potter care enough to be open with him?
The strength of the next gust of wind nearly knocked Draco a step forwards. He wrapped an arm around the nearest beam to catch himself.
"The dark lord lured you to the Ministry, by accessing your mind and implanting a false vision of Sirius Black being injured?" Draco said, simply to make sure he had all the groundwork correct. It couldn't have been a more ridiculous question. Every detail resounded as being out of place.
"Don't call him a lord," Potter said, stubbornly setting his jaw. "He's not a lord. He's just a person."
"Not everyone can throw the name around so casually."
"I know you're Marked."
Every detail of this entire conversation caught Draco off guard. He thankfully responded by freezing, holding Potter's gaze, processing. After their run-in in the library, Draco inferred that Potter knew. He hadn't anticipated Potter voicing it.
"Then why are you out here?" Draco said.
"Because I know you don't want to be."
"You've always thought you knew everything."
"No," Potter said. "I believe you wanted it. But I believe that's changed."
"What, another vision?" Draco said, taunting to give himself time to process and form a moderately appropriate response.
"Yes."
Again, Draco froze.
"What?"
"Over the winter hol. He took your ring."
Draco clenched his fist, missing the weight of the Malfoy crest. It had been given to him when he turned thirteen, and for years, he refused to remove it. It had belonged to his grandfather, one of two rings passed down through generations. It had been a prized possession.
Now it rested on the shelf in his bedroom. That shelf once held photographs and awards, but since Voldemort took over the space, it held Voldemort's trophies.
The loss of the ring overshadowed the truth of Potter's statement. Voldemort had access to his mind. Potter had seen Draco cowering, with Nagini curled around his feet.
"What all did you see?" Draco asked.
"Not much after that. He gave you an assignment. I didn't hear what."
Draco gave up decorum and scratched at the back of his neck. The conversation had gotten away from him, and he didn't know how Voldemort would react during the nightly invasion of his thoughts. Had he intentionally connected to Potter's mind? What purpose would that have served?
"Given that all you've been spouting for five years is pureblood supremacy," Potter continued, "I don't imagine his views line up with yours anymore."
"Why are you out here?" Draco asked. "If you apparently know everything, why haven't you run off to Dumbledore?"
"When has anyone believed me when I complained about you?"
Draco put his back to the valley, leaned against one of the bridge's support pillars, and sank down until he sat on the frozen walkway. It put him out of reach of Potter's warming charm, and the cold air constricted his chest. He tried to right his mind. He tried to control his breathing.
When had everything slipped away from him?
Potter sat beside him, bringing the charm downwards.
"What assignment did he give you?"
Draco let his head fall back against the pillar. He stared up at the ceiling, where the opposite support met the wooden slats.
Potter knew too much.
Draco didn't know what he could reveal. How much could he truly hide when Voldemort tore through his mind?
"He wants to know the prophecy."
Potter actually snorted. "Of course he does. Your father couldn't get it, so he sends you after it."
"I take it that's what Father was sent to the Ministry for," Draco said, supplying the missing piece of the earlier topic.
"Only Voldemort or I could retrieve it," Potter said. "Voldemort showed up later and had to reveal himself anyway. It would have been so much simpler for him to just go get it himself."
"There were so many rumors about whether the prophecy existed," Draco said.
"It does. But you'll have to break the bad news to him."
Draco rolled his head to the side, meeting Potter's gaze straight on. "What?"
"It's nonsense. He won't gain anything by knowing it."
"That can't be true."
"It is. The prophecy describes what's essentially me: the one with the power to vanquish the dark lord approaches, born as the seventh month dies, to parents who have thrice defied him. The dark lord will mark him as an equal." There, Potter paused to tap the scar on his forehead, revealed by the wind sweeping his hair away. "That's all there is to it. Run along and tell him. It doesn't matter."
Getting the prophecy couldn't have been that simple. Draco didn't know if he could believe him, but then again, Potter had approached under the guise of honesty.
Was it a guise? Potter had admitted to the visions when he clearly hadn't wanted to.
"If that's the prophecy, why would you tell me?" Draco asked. "Why give him what he wants?"
"Because then he'll be done with you."
The space between them seemed to collapse. Their shoulders nearly brushed. The wind carried Potter's breath to Draco. Neither broke their shared gaze.
"I'm still Marked," Draco said on an exhale.
"I've known a few people who've gone on after having taken it."
"I'm going to have to tell him."
"Please do," Potter said. "If I'd known Sirius would die over it, I wouldn't have bothered keeping it from him."
"Sirius was trying to kill you," Draco said.
"He was my godfather," Potter said. "Framed for crimes Peter Pettigrew did."
Draco met Pettigrew only once, and hadn't been impressed. He apparently deserved respect for having returned the dark lord to physical form, but aside from that, he hadn't seemed of any real use. He hung around at the side of discussions, butting in where he wasn't wanted or required.
"I couldn't handle so many people misunderstanding my circumstances," Draco said.
It had been his reality for half a year, and he was barely hanging on.
"You started the occlumency rumor."
"I'm actually an occlumens," Draco said. "It's hardly a lie."
"I realize pelting you with fruit wasn't exactly appropriate," Potter said. "You almost always ate what I threw at you."
"I like sweets."
"I know."
"But you're right. It's a wildly inappropriate response to learning someone has an eating disorder."
If Draco actually believed he had one, he would have been offended.
"Is that why you sat facing away from me this year?"
"I told you. I'd been trying to avoid conflict."
"Conflict meaning me."
"A lot of good that did."
They sat in silence, both of them turning to stare ahead, although it was difficult to see more than the railing ahead of them. The varied patterns on the stonework held their attention, an easier subject than each other. Nothing between them had ever been easy, and although Draco claimed to want to avoid conflict, he had no desire to move.
"Don't go back home," Potter said. "Don't go back to him."
Voldemort would be watching them now. The force of his gaze never left, even when Draco couldn't see him. If Hogwarts wasn't safe, nowhere could be.
"Why do you care?"
"Because we're teenagers being forced into a war," Potter said. "I'm doomed to face it, but you don't have to."
"How noble."
"You have the prophecy. You'll give it to him and move on."
"Is that an order?" Draco drawled.
"It's a way out."
Potter didn't know the full story. There wasn't a way out for Draco. Malfoy ring or not, his name ensured he would be stuck in the war as well. But rather than any position of authority, the only future he saw for himself was keeping his head down and praying Voldemort would let Draco move out of his bedroom.
"Where would I even go?"
"I could arrange something."
"You're very certain of yourself."
"Being the Chosen One gives me some sway."
"Does it?" Draco said. "You just said adults didn't listen to you."
"About you. They've tired of our bickering."
Potter stretched out his legs. His stained trainers stood out against his uniform robes, too casual and too filthy. A simple spell could have cleaned off the worst of the grime. Leaving them in such a state had to have been an intentional choice.
"I am too," Potter went on.
"Fighting on every front gets tiring," Draco agreed.
"Is there a reason you haven't cast a warming charm? You're turning pink."
"Everything makes me turn pink."
He was insufferably pale. When he was younger, his mother had fawned over his appearance, and Draco had believed her. Paleness meant purity. It meant the Malfoy family had perfectly created their bloodline. Nearly white hair, grey eyes, skin so pale his veins shone through: all of which meant something to purebloods.
But now, Draco only found the faults. If he missed a few hours of sleep, everyone could see it under his eyes. Every blemish glowed. There was no hiding a blush. Half an hour in indirect sun would burn him.
His parents had been searching out a blonde pureblood for him to marry since he could remember, but finding a girl who wasn't a relation and met their standards of appearance apparently had given them trouble. Draco didn't mind it. Back when he had nothing better to do than daydream of his future, he had begun to think he'd find someone with darker coloring, give any future children a decent chance at genetics.
"Being fair," Potter said, and shouldered Draco, "You're always upfront about exactly what you're thinking."
"My thoughts are incredibly important."
"Potter Stinks wasn't your best work."
"The charms on those pins certainly were," Draco said. "What would you rather I'd written?"
"Potter Cheats, Down with Potter, Parselmouth Potter?"
"You've considered it?"
"They were ridiculous."
"You're still bitter."
"You aren't exactly nice, Malfoy."
"No one is making you sit there."
"What, no reminiscing about old times?" Potter said, and somehow managed to make it sound friendly.
"Should we talk about you attacking me in front of the school last year?"
"You insulted my mother."
"So you insult mine back. You don't send someone to hospital over it."
Draco hadn't heard the end of that. People still taunted him, usually the older students in his house, over letting Potter and a Weasley get the upper hand over him, and so publicly.
"We have magic," Potter said, as though that made it normal. "You couldn't have been in there long."
"You fractured my cheekbone."
Before Draco could react, Potter reached out, grabbing Draco by the jaw with his freezing and calloused hands, and brought his face over. Startled, Draco allowed it, if only to see where Potter intended to go with the absurd gesture.
He turned Draco's face side to side, and then released him.
"Looks fine."
"So you can injure someone so long as they have access to magic?"
"I can injure someone who insults my dead mother. Magic be damned," Potter said. "You're welcome to insult me at any moment."
"Berk."
Potter smirked. "See? No fists for that one."
Draco didn't bother turning away from Potter again. They were sitting close, discussing Draco's service to Voldemort, and the arm with the Dark Mark rested between them. Potter knew. Potter always knew too much.
"Explain to me why you're bothering with all this," Draco said.
"If you tell me you want to serve him, I'll walk away now," Potter said.
"And go straight to the authorities."
"Of course."
"Not much incentive to tell the truth."
"Is it the truth?"
Draco moved his arm into his lap, absently touching the Mark where it was hidden under his loose sleeve. He had wanted it. He had been proud to receive it, despite the pain of it burning into his skin. Only the inner circle was given the Mark.
He thought it had meant acceptance.
It was actually just so Voldemort could summon Draco if needed this year. He hadn't yet, but the possibility hung over him.
"I think we'd be better off pretending the other doesn't exist for the rest of the year."
"You've been ignoring me. Have you forgotten I exist?"
"On occasion."
He had been outside for too long. The cauldrons of Polyjuice needed attention, and he had a sheet of Arithmancy sums to calculate. Voldemort would want answers, and he would search through every moment of this conversation to get them first-hand. He couldn't hide a single moment. There could be no gaps in the memory. If Draco attempted to hide anything he or Potter said, Voldemort would know.
And Draco would be left under the cruciatus again. He wouldn't escape it regardless, given Potter's knowledge and Draco's inability to refute his desire to leave.
It was playing along, he told himself, telling himself with repetition, he could believe it. If he believed it, would it make any difference?
Potter began picking at a thumbnail, leaving his wand resting on his thighs. It kept his gaze down. Draco started to pick up on Potter's inability to look someone in the eyes when addressing an uncomfortable topic, so he braced for it.
"Are you doing any better?"
"With what?"
"Your health."
Draco almost forgot Potter's initial reason for coming out into the cold. He constantly forgot about the supposed eating disorder. It wasn't real. It was more to pretend. He didn't actually have a true issue.
"I'm fine," Draco said. "I was fine before."
Maybe he should have owned up to the lie. It had been the apparent reason for Potter's withdrawing harassment.
"You were in hospital," Potter said, as though he didn't know.
"You still haven't explained why you care," Draco said, desperate to change the subject and end the discussion. He didn't need Potter's pity.
"Do you think I'm expecting something out of this?"
"Anyone would."
"Some people don't do the right thing to get something in exchange. You don't have to follow your father's example."
Mentioning Lucius opened up Draco's avenue of escape. He got to his feet, straightening his robes, and glared down at Potter. Potter, irritatingly, remained seated, and stared back up with a knowing, yet exasperated expression.
"Don't pretend you know me," Draco said. "Stop forcing your assumptions on me."
He hadn't made it three steps away before Potter called after him, "So am I telling Dumbledore you're Marked?"
Draco inclined his head back to answer, "Like you said, it isn't like they believe you."
And he carried on.
When Voldemort pinned Draco's bare arm to the wall, it became the only part of him not shaking. Voldemort touched his wand to the Mark, and the pain erupting from it equaled the cruciatus. It roiled under his skin, worse than the initial branding. Sparks flew behind his clenched-shut eyes, and desperation dripped down his face and onto his shirt.
"Do you believe Harry Potter will offer you salvation?" Voldemort asked. He wore McGruder's face, but was still no less imposing. Draco refused to struggle and make his situation worse. He remained frozen in the midst of the pain and fire, waiting, praying, mentally begging for an end.
"No," he said, and found that even his voice shook.
"Harry Potter will die, as will anyone who opposes me."
"Yes," Draco said, choking out the word. "I know."
Voldemort removed the wand and Draco slid to the floor, cradling his arm to his chest. The heat in his face held his focus for only a moment, long enough for him to consider how pathetic he must have looked. The thought faded as quickly as it'd come; Voldemort knew Draco's mind. Being visibly red and teary wouldn't change his opinion.
"He would not have handed over the full prophecy so easily," Voldemort said. "He has lied to you."
Draco didn't ask why Potter would lie. He didn't need to volunteer any information. He could have refused, to remain unwilling to give Voldemort any scrap of information.
Because then he'll be done with you.
Potter's optimism couldn't allow for the truth.
"His interest in you cannot be encouraged."
Draco rested back against the wall. Even sitting, he struggled to keep up his full weight. His body shook, and having gone from the cruciatus curse to activating the Mark, his strength had left him. He couldn't sleep. He had to take rounds with Pansy soon, and then complete two sets of homework.
He didn't know how he would be able to write with the trembling in his hands.
Voldemort did not kneel to get to Draco's level. He did not bend. He reached with his wand, using it to force Draco's gaze to him.
The shaking in his jaw transferred to the wand.
"You did not deny my Mark."
"No, my lord."
"Should he speak of it to anyone, they will pull you from Hogwarts."
"He won't," Draco said, more confident than he might should have been. "Too stubborn."
Draco provided Potter with a mystery this year, and until Potter fully figured him out, he wouldn't allow Draco to be sent to Azkaban.
Did they send minors to Azkaban?
"You speak as though you know him."
I'm not the one in his head, Draco traitorously thought.
Holding eye contact, he knew the dark lord overheard. He was pulled to his feet in a solid movement, two firm hands on his bare arm. Thomas was his height. It didn't make facing him any easier.
"You believe there is anything outside of my control?"
"You wanted the prophecy," Draco said. "He h-had to believe me."
"So you convinced yourself?"
"No, my lord—"
"You would take his offer to run?" Voldemort said. "Have you forgotten your oath? Where would you run where I could not find you?"
The mark on his arm activated again, and Draco dropped his head, gritting his teeth through the rupturing pain. The Mark tried to summon him, but he was already here. There was nowhere to go to escape the pain. He put his forehead against Voldemort's hand, hoping it conveyed him begging for the end.
Faintly, he heard his wand vibrate on his bedside table. The alarm indicated the time for his rounds with Pansy, but the pain and trembling hadn't subsided. Voldemort's grip remained. The Mark burned deeper.
"You swore your lifetime to me. Do not forget."
Voldemort released Draco, allowing him to fall back to the floor. He hugged his arm to his chest, panting while the last of his tears dripped out. He couldn't face Pansy like this. She would send him straight to hospital.
"Go," Voldemort said. "Maintain appearances."
His hand shook too badly to roll down his sleeve, and Draco left it as he stood, doddering and clinging to the wall. He stumbled to the bed to put back on his outer robe.
Blood pulsed in his ears.
Water lapped against the window.
Voldemort stepped forwards to straighten Draco's robes for him. He righted the prefect badge on his collar. Brushed away the tear tracks.
"You must learn to keep yourself in check," Voldemort said. "Dishevelment does not suit you."
Draco nearly broke again. He swallowed heavily, trying to take the rising sobs with it. What little he managed at supper threatened to come up, and the noise of the lake slapping the window upset his stomach further. He couldn't break down more. Not now.
"Pansy will be searching for you."
Draco clenched his hands and tried to let his robes hang down to cover them. All he had to do was walk the corridors. Pansy would handle the talking and taking points.
"Pull yourself together, Draco. Or will you fall apart as your father did?"
His father had nearly been left in Azkaban. If he had been arrested alone, he would likely still be imprisoned. Without the worth Voldemort assigned to Draco, he would be reduced to the current state of Thomas McGruder.
"My lord."
Voldemort returned to his typical seat beside the always roaring fire, and took up his book again. The dismissal should have sent Draco on his way, but he had to compose himself first. Pansy's shrewd eye would pick out every defect in his appearance. He couldn't give her more ammunition.
He waited only long enough for his breath to even out.
