The two of them walked silently toward the dining room, the heavy atmosphere thickening with each step. Draco glanced back at her before entering, his expression unreadable. Amoria's eyes sought his, desperate for some reassurance, some word to ease the tension in her chest, but none came. He inhaled deeply, offering her the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.

Draco entered first, crossing the room to stand beside his father. Severus and her father stood across from them, the Dark Lord occupying the chair where he had sat when they first met. This was the first time she had seen her father in a week, and once again, he avoided her gaze. A surge of anger and confusion swept through her. She wanted to scream, to demand where he had been and why he suddenly seemed so uninterested in her that he couldn't even make time to see her. But the words caught in her throat, and all she could do was swallow back the sobs threatening to overwhelm her.

"Sit. Now," the Dark Lord commanded, his voice like cold steel.

Amoria didn't hesitate, though her legs shook beneath her. She made her way across the room and seated herself in the chair closest to the table. Her eyes instinctively flicked to the Dark Lord, his face a study of unreadable disdain, the faintest sneer lingering on his lips. She tried to steady her breathing, but it felt as if the room was closing in on her, her chest tightening, her mind clouded with panic. The blood rushed in her ears, and for a moment, it felt as if she wasn't breathing at all.

"So," the Dark Lord drawled, his voice a silken whisper laced with malice. "Tell me… is your progress this week worth my patience, or have you merely wasted my time?"

Amoria swallowed hard, recognizing the question as more of a demand than a genuine inquiry. He already knew how her progress had gone; his demeanor radiated anger and frustration. She hadn't met his expectations, and the simmering fury beneath his words was palpable. She hesitated, the weight of the truth pressing heavily on her chest. For a fleeting moment, she considered lying—blaming Draco's crude teaching methods or Severus's unavailability—but she quickly dismissed the thought. The Dark Lord had no patience for excuses. He demanded accountability, an admission of failure.

The silence stretched between them like a taut wire, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows over the Dark Lord's gaunt face. Amoria's throat felt dry, her pulse hammering against her ribs as she forced herself to hold his gaze.

"I…" she started, but her voice faltered. She had made progress, she knew that, but deep down, she already understood it wasn't enough.

His red eyes narrowed, the flicker of his nostrils the only indication of his waning patience. "Do not waste my time, girl."

Amoria clenched her fists at her sides, pushing down the swell of fear curling in her stomach. "I've improved," she admitted carefully. "But not to the level you expect. Not yet."

Silence.

Then, a slow, deliberate tilt of his head.

"Not yet," he echoed, voice soft—too soft. "A promising claim." He took a step closer, the chill of his presence seeping into her skin. "And yet, I find myself… unconvinced."

Her breath hitched, but she willed herself not to flinch.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the faintest shift of Draco's posture—rigid, tense. He had remained still as stone since they entered, though she knew his every muscle was strung tight

The Dark Lord said nothing. His cold, unyielding eyes remained fixed on her, as though he were weighing the very essence of her soul. The silence stretched on, oppressive and unending, each second suffocating her more than the last. Amoria could feel the crushing weight of his judgment, the meticulous gears of his mind turning as he processed her words. She wanted to flee, to disappear from his piercing gaze, but her body refused to move, frozen in place by fear.

She had no idea what he would say—terrified, too, that he might say nothing at all. And in those unbearable moments, regret seeped into her heart like poison. She thought of the first day they arrived, how her father had reminded her of the importance of this mission, how she was to do whatever was required. And yet, she had failed him.

His disappointment was unmistakable, etched in the cold distance of his expression and refusal to even glance her way. She was a disappointment. The silence pressed down on her like a dark, heavy shadow, and with it came the unbearable truth of her inadequacy. It was undeniable now, suffocating her more than his words ever could.

Finally, his piercing gaze locked onto hers. She fought to still the trembling in her limbs, but she knew he could see it. His lips curled in faint displeasure as he uttered a single command.

"Stand."

Amoria stood as he conjured her chair away, the sudden disappearance making her stumble slightly. The Dark Lord rose from his seat, summoning it back toward the wall with a loud bang that echoed through the room. She jumped at the sound, her nerves fraying further.

He began to circle her slowly, each step deliberate, his gaze sweeping over her like a predator assessing its prey. Amoria forced herself to stand tall, her chin lifted in defiance, but it did nothing to steady the pounding in her chest. The reality of what was to come had already settled in her bones—there would be no mercy. The Dark Lord did not tolerate disappointment, and he certainly did not grant second chances without consequence.

She only wished he would act quickly. The waiting was worse than the punishment itself.

Her eyes flickered to Draco, desperate for something, anything at all. But his expression was unreadable, a mask of careful indifference. Still, she caught it—the faintest flicker of fear in his eyes, so brief she might have imagined it. But she hadn't.

And that terrified her more than anything.

This was Draco—a man who exuded confidence, authority, and an air of cocky self-assurance, someone who once seemed untouchable. Yet now, that carefully cultivated façade was cracking. However slight, however fleeting, she had seen it—the fear lurking just beneath the surface. And if he was afraid, then she had every reason to be.

A sharp wave of nausea rolled through her, and she tore her gaze away, fixing it firmly on the floor. The silence wrapped around her like a noose, tightening with every second that dragged by, each moment stretching into an agonizing eternity as she braced for the inevitable.

"I have come to understand," the Dark Lord mused, "that pain is the most relentless of teachers. It does not fade like pleasure, nor does it grant mercy. Pain imprints itself upon the soul—inescapable, undeniable. It shapes us, bends us to its will. And in the end, we will do anything to be free of it. That, my dear, is the essence of human nature."

He moved closer, his presence suffocating, stopping just before her. His crimson gaze bore into hers.

"Perhaps," he murmured, his lips curling into something between amusement and cruelty, "it is time you learn this lesson firsthand. Let us see if your progress improves… with the proper motivation."

The look in his eyes—cold, impassive, almost intrigued—told her everything she needed to know. Dread coiled around her lungs, choking the breath from her as her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts. She had known pain before. She had endured punishment. But this—this was different. This was not retribution. It was a lesson, and he intended to carve it into her very being.

Amoria's breath hitched, and before she could stop them, silent tears spilled down her cheeks. Her voice trembled as she whispered, "Please, my Lord… no."

Her plea hung in the air, unanswered.

The Dark Lord raised his wand, and in an instant, the world exploded into fire. A flash of red light struck her squarely, and agony consumed her, white-hot and merciless. She hit the floor with a strangled cry, her body convulsing as every nerve ignited in unbearable torment. It was unlike anything she had ever known—searing, all-consuming, relentless. She writhed, her limbs thrashing against the stone, her screams raw and desperate.

She begged. She pleaded. But the pain did not stop.

She cried for release—unconsciousness, even death—anything to make the torment end. Her body trembled, a puppet jerked by invisible strings of agony. Through her blurred vision, she caught a glimpse of the Dark Lord's face, twisted into a sadistic grin, savoring each scream that tore from her throat. His enjoyment of her suffering was clear, and it filled her with a sense of helplessness so deep, it consumed her every thought.

Her voice, once a desperate cry, faltered as her strength drained away. Her screams became hoarse whispers, a faint echo of the raw intensity that still gripped her. Yet the pain never relented—unwavering, unyielding.

Finally, the curse lifted.

Amoria lay on the cold stone floor, trembling uncontrollably. Her sobs wracked her body, deep and guttural, raw sounds she hadn't allowed herself to make in years. Shame and fear anchored her to the ground, leaving her too weak to rise. Her blurred gaze flickered upward, searching for some semblance of comfort, only to find Draco's eyes upon her. But the moment their gazes met, he quickly looked away, retreating into his mask of indifference.

Her father and Lucius, meanwhile, didn't even glance her way. Their attention remained fixed entirely on the Dark Lord, as if she were nothing more than an object of disdain.

The Dark Lord's voice sliced through the thick silence. "Remove her. We'll try again next week."

A wave of force lifted her broken body, her limbs dangling uselessly as she was carried away. Panic surged through her chest. Where were they taking her? The dungeons, surely—some dark, hidden place where those who had outlived their usefulness were kept. Those who had bled for their loyalty. The ones too deep in their service for redemption.

She fought to open her eyes, desperate to glimpse her surroundings, to understand where they were taking her. But her vision was clouded by pain, every attempt to focus met with a haze of confusion. Helpless, she gave in, resigned to the cruel reality that she was bound to the manor, trapped, and the key had long since been thrown away.

Her body felt light, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, frustrating her with every passing second. It was as if she were floating outside of herself, her physical form too distant to reach. Her ears rang with a dull, unrelenting sound as she tried to make sense of her surroundings, straining to identify where she was. The inevitability of the cold, wet stone floor beneath her kept clawing at her thoughts—soon, it would come. The heavy jail door opening. The dark, claustrophobic space where she'd be left to rot.

But when her eyes fluttered open again, it wasn't the dungeon she saw. It was her own room. Her father was there, placing her gently beneath the sheets, tucking her in with a tenderness that felt out of place. It was a gesture that should have comforted her, but instead, it sparked a flare of anger deep in her chest.

How could he? How could he stand by and let this happen to her? He had to know. They all had to know. She had been warned—not by the vague whispers of others, but by a deep, persistent feeling that she had tried to bury. A feeling she had dismissed as a silly, anxious dream, a figment of her subconscious taking the form of her long-departed mother. Whether it had truly been her mother or simply a trick of her mind, it didn't matter now.

The warning had been there, clear as day, and she had ignored it. Now, it was too late. She was in danger, deeper than she'd ever imagined. And worst of all, she had trusted them.

Amoria wanted to scream, to curse her father's name for allowing this to happen, but her body refused to obey. It was too weak, too exhausted from the pain, leaving her with nothing but a shudder of disgust at his touch. Her face twisted in revulsion as she tried to turn away, unable to bear the sight of him. Only when he stepped back, creating a space between them, did she dare to look at him again.

Her father hesitated, clearly unsettled by her reaction. His hand hovered in the air, unsure whether to reach out or withdraw entirely. After a tense moment, his fingers retracted, and his gaze softened—not with pity, but with something closer to regret, a look she hadn't seen on him in years.

Without saying a word, he turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him. And she was left in the suffocating silence of the room, the weight of everything pressing down on her.

She lay back against the bed, drained, her body still trembling from the lingering effects of the curse. Punishment had always been inevitable, but the Cruciatus curse had been something else entirely—something far worse than she could have imagined. She couldn't even tell how long it had lasted; it felt as though time had stopped altogether, leaving only the sharp, unrelenting pain in its wake.

A sudden crack broke the stillness, jerking her upright. Before she could make sense of what had happened, she collapsed back onto the bed, the room spinning around her. Dobby, the house elf, appeared at her side, a tray balanced carefully in his hands.

"Master instructed Tilly to bring Ms. Nott some soup and potions," she said, her voice soft and timid. "To make Ms. Nott feel better."

Her large, fearful eyes darted nervously around the room before she set the tray down on the bedside table with a soft clink. Another loud snap echoed in the room as she disappeared, leaving her alone once more.

The thought of eating made her stomach churn, but her gaze was drawn immediately to the potions on the tray. Her hands shook as she reached for one, her grip unsteady, causing the tray to rattle. As she held the vial, a bitter laugh bubbled up from her chest—sharp and bitter, like a snarl of irony. According to Tilly, either Lucius or Draco had sent it. How thoughtful of them to care for her now, after standing idly by while she endured an Unforgivable.

Disgust churned in her chest, blending with the lingering pain. She had expected cruelty from the Dark Lord; his malice was nothing new. But their complicit silence, their refusal to intervene even slightly, stung deeper than the curse itself. It was a betrayal she hadn't anticipated.

Still, the promise of relief tugged at her, and despite the resentment that simmered, her need outweighed her pride. She hated resorting to their potions, hated giving them the satisfaction of helping her, but her body was too broken to argue. Fumbling with the cork, she finally managed to open the vial and tipped the contents into her mouth, swallowing in a rush.

Warmth spread through her chest, soothing her body and quieting her chaotic thoughts. The relief was almost immediate, and for a moment, she felt lighter. Encouraged, she grabbed the second potion with steadier hands. This time, the vial slipped down her throat with ease, and the relief was more profound, her strength returning in slow but steady waves.

She managed to sit up, her body protesting the movement, but she forced herself to the loveseat in front of the fireplace. The fire blazed brightly, but it did little to chase away the cold that lingered deep inside her. The curse had left behind a frigid emptiness, as though a part of her had been hollowed out. Wrapping a thick throw blanket around her shoulders, she cocooned herself, but even the warmth of the blanket couldn't quell the gnawing chill inside her.

A knock at the door broke her silence, and before she could respond, Draco stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. His presence grated on her nerves immediately. She had no desire for company, especially not his. She could only imagine how pleased he must be to see her like this—vulnerable, broken, humiliated.

As he moved toward her, her irritation flared. Whether it was Draco or Lucius who had sent the potions didn't matter anymore. She had made up her mind that neither of them would receive her gratitude. She would suffer in silence, just as they had.

"If you've come to tell me, 'I told you so,' could you at least wait until tomorrow?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, eyes narrowing as she glared at him.

Ignoring her tone, Draco walked over to the loveseat and sat beside her. His proximity only heightened her irritation. She turned her gaze away from him, focusing on the fire, hoping her indifference would push him to leave.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his jaw tighten, the muscle working beneath his skin. Without saying a word, he drew his wand and conjured a bottle of firewhiskey along with two glasses. The amber liquid shimmered as he poured it, and then one of the glasses floated toward her. It hovered in front of her face, refusing to move until she reluctantly took it. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Draco didn't speak, his attention locked on the flames as he took a long sip from his own glass.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. They drank at their own pace, the warmth of the whiskey seeping through her chest, slowly fighting the chill left by the curse. She refused to acknowledge him, but despite herself, she couldn't help but notice the shift in his posture as he drank. The rigid tension in his shoulders softened, though his expression remained somber.

It was a version of Draco she didn't recognize—almost… human. She had never seen him like this before. He was always so controlled, so precise—like a soldier in constant formation. His movements were always calculated, his demeanor cold and distant, even when they shared a moment together. But now, there was an unfamiliar air of vulnerability around him, a hint of something beneath the surface.

She couldn't help but wonder if it was just a facade, if he was merely pretending. She assumed he probably wanted to relish in her struggle, to see how badly she was hurting after being cursed with an Unforgivable. The thought made her want to scream, to accuse him of the cruelty she believed he was capable of. But his silence, his stillness—it suggested otherwise. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, barely acknowledging her presence.

But the thought of discussing the curse, of reliving the pain and humiliation, made her stomach twist. So instead, she remained silent, allowing the crackle of the fire to fill the void, louder than any words could.

It felt strange, as though there must be a hidden, malicious motive behind his presence. But as she finished her second glass of firewhiskey, something unexpected happened. His quiet presence began to soothe her. The tension in the air, which had felt thick and suffocating, slowly gave way to a tentative peace. The silence between them, once unbearable, now felt almost calming.

She realized how much she had grown accustomed to solitude—how her life had been filled with a never-ending cycle of isolation. It was not just since her arrival here; it was a constant, pervasive ache that had shaped her entire existence. She had longed for connection, for companionship, for someone who would truly see her. Yet those desires always felt like luxuries she could never afford. Her life demanded sacrifice and distance. Even in a room full of people, she felt invisible, like a ghost, unimportant and unseen.

But in this moment, with Draco beside her, she didn't feel entirely alone.

Her hands trembled again, the whiskey in her glass sloshing over the rim.

"Shit," she muttered, setting the glass down to grab her wand. Before she could pull it from her robes, Draco leaned over, taking her glass from her and gently grasping her hand.

"What are you doing?" she snapped, instinctively pulling her hand back. But her voice lacked any real anger, her frustration more out of habit than anything else.

Draco's brow furrowed, and he met her gaze with an intensity that softened his usual sharpness. "Are you going to let me help, or not?"

She hesitated, searching his face. There was no mockery, no arrogance—only a quiet seriousness. His eyes, usually so guarded, were unusually soft. Amoria realized the whiskey had loosened her senses, and judging by the relaxed way he was sitting, he'd likely had far more than she had. With a wary nod, she placed her hand back in his.

Draco pulled out his wand and gently tapped it along her hand. The warmth that spread through her fingers was soothing, the tremors in her hand fading as if they were never there. His touch was neither harsh nor invasive, and for the first time, she saw a side of him that felt... human.

He handed her glass back without a word, his gaze returning to the fire. She rubbed her hands together, savoring the lingering warmth in her palms. Unsure how to thank him, she opted for silence, lifting her glass and taking another sip.

The whiskey dulled the persistent chill that still clung to her body, and before long, she poured herself another glass. The distraction, though fleeting, was unexpectedly welcome. She was exhausted from feeling angry, anxious, and weighed down by a hollow emptiness that was only filled with bitterness and contempt. Yet, Draco's small act of kindness lingered in her mind. She didn't fully understand why he had done it, but she couldn't deny that she was grateful.

Her gaze shifted toward him, and for the first time, she truly took in the sharpness of his features—his jawline, his cheekbones. He had always been handsome, but the icy mask he wore around others often overshadowed his appearance. Now, in the firelight, with his defenses lowered, he seemed both younger and more worn, as if the weight of his life had left visible marks on his face.

Her eyes moved down to his arm. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the pale grey of the Dark Mark on his left forearm. The skin around it appeared scarred and uneven, a stark contrast to the smoothness of his other arm. Without thinking, she reached out toward it.

Draco flinched instinctively, pulling away just as she did, his sleeve falling back into place. But when he met her gaze, he relaxed, exhaling softly, almost as if he had been bracing for her reaction.

"What happened to your mark?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, afraid her words might break something fragile.

For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers grazing the fabric of his sleeve as though unsure whether to expose the mark again. Then, with a deep breath, he rolled it back up, revealing the scarred skin. He stared at it, as though seeing it for the first time.

"After that night, when I—" He stopped, taking a breath before continuing. "When I killed...Dumbledore," he said, his voice tight with the weight of the memory. "I tried to burn it off. I didn't want it anymore. I didn't understand what being marked would mean, and I was terrified." His breath caught, and for a moment, he paused, gathering himself. "But no matter what I did, it stayed. Eventually, I stopped fighting it. I accepted it. And then…" His voice faltered. "I embraced it."

The words lingered in the air, thick with their gravity. For a brief moment, something shifted in his expression—relief, as if simply voicing the truth had lightened the burden a little. But the weariness quickly returned, and he looked at her, unsure, waiting for her to say something.

Amoria sat silently, her thoughts churning. Her father wore the Dark Mark proudly, but she knew the truth about it—the mark was a shackle, a constant reminder of their forced servitude. The Dark Lord's summons left no room for refusal, no matter the cost. Her eyes drifted to Draco's arm again, the faded, pale grey of his mark stark against the smoothness of his other skin. It was different from her father's unyielding black, yet it carried its own kind of weight.

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken understanding. Finally, she broke it.

"Why didn't you heal the skin?" she asked, her voice soft but careful. "I would've thought you'd have access to a healer or something." She took another sip of her drink, the whiskey burning down her throat.

Draco glanced at his arm again, his expression shifting to something closer to ease, though it was still tinged with discomfort. "At the time, I was afraid someone would see it and report me. I hid it for as long as I could—wore long sleeves, even in summer. But eventually, my mother noticed. She made me promise not to show it to anyone or talk about it, told me to keep it covered all the time, even at home. She tried to help—got me some ointment, but by the time she did, most of the damage was already done." He finished his glass in one long gulp, then rolled his sleeve back down, hiding the mark once more.

Amoria studied him, her thoughts torn. Part of her remained angry—still hurt—by how Draco had stood by while the Dark Lord cursed her. But in that moment, watching him, it was undeniable: he, too, had suffered. The hesitance in his voice, the way his eyes avoided hers, spoke volumes.

It reminded her of an animal caught in a trap, gnawing at its own leg to escape, only to realize it couldn't break free. The scars on his arm were a testament to his desperation. His decision to share that with her—vulnerable, raw—felt unsettling, yet oddly intimate.

She turned her gaze back to the fire, trying to sort through her tangled emotions. The situation felt overwhelming, too complicated to understand in one moment. Part of her wanted to comfort him, to take his hand and let him know he wasn't alone in his pain. Her fingers twitched slightly, aching to reach out, but before she could summon the courage, Draco rose from the couch.

"It's probably best I head to bed. Goodnight," he muttered, his voice low, almost reluctant, as he walked out of the room.

Amoria stared at the door long after it had closed, frustration bubbling beneath her skin. She cursed herself for hesitating, for not reaching out when she had the chance. But beyond her self-recrimination, a deeper confusion gnawed at her—why had he opened up to her? Was it trust? Or had the firewhiskey simply loosened his tongue, making him spill his secrets to the first person nearby?

His confession didn't change her opinion of him, but it carried a weight she couldn't ignore. He had been so young—too young—and afraid, marked by a burden no one should have to bear at that age. If their positions had been reversed, she might have done the same. Yet, the sheer vulnerability of his words hung heavy in the air, a dangerous thing to have shared. If someone else learned of it, it could spell disaster for him.

Exhaling shakily, she tried to stand, but the room spun violently, forcing her to collapse back onto the loveseat. With an unsteady flick of her wand, she summoned a pillow from the bed and pulled it to her chest, wrapping herself in the blanket as best she could.

Her eyes fluttered shut, but the spinning sensation in her head wouldn't ease. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she let the warmth of the fire flicker in the background, the soft crackling of the flames lulling her into an uneasy sleep.