January

Narcissa's legs gave out, and Lucius, leaning heavily on his walking stick, couldn't stop her from collapsing to the floor. Draco rushed forwards, only to be pulled down with her. His mother cradled his face, anguish in her eyes for the first time in Draco's memory. Her thumb traced the scar that ran straight down his face. Draco only felt the cold. The warmth of her hand couldn't pass through the silver.

It haunted Draco well into the night. He lay awake in bed, Nagini pressed against him, and did everything in his power to lock away the memory of his mother breaking. As an occlumens, he knew how to hide away memories. But the constant chill from his scars prevented him from forgetting. He couldn't bury a memory when it remained present. He couldn't sleep when all he could feel were the scars covering him, constantly cold, ever-present. Voldemort had highlighted the curse. The highlight and the chill meant Draco could never forget the curse slowly destroying him.

The next morning, Draco sat at the dining table, staring at a plate he couldn't bring himself to touch. His mother sat across from him, his father to his left, and their plates were equally full. Not eating might have been an option for them, but before Draco left the table for his daily practice of doing nothing, he had to eat something.

But all he could think about was the scar running down his throat.

Voldemort wasn't searching his mind anymore. Maybe he could get away with skipping one meal, especially knowing there was a high chance it wouldn't stay down. Did he have someone reporting back to him? Did he actually care enough to bother?

The sensation rolling over his scars answered that question.

Draco fiddled with his fork, separating the fruit medley into type-groupings. Blueberries in one corner, strawberries in another, apples in the center. He missed having his ring to fidget with during moments like these.

Narcissa ate as little as Draco, but to maintain appearances, she stayed at the table. All three of them did, not that anyone was watching. Breakfast was always scheduled and they stuck to the schedule, despite no one being particularly invested in the meal itself.

Draco alternated between chewing on his thumbnail and on the tip of his fork. Narcissa cut her eyes in his direction once or twice, but her gaze never lingered. He doubted his mother would ever be able to look at him the same way again. Anyone who looked at him would only see the silver painted across his face—worse than a scar. At least the dark mark could be hidden away.

His throat remained dry even after a sip of his tea. He held onto the ridiculous notion that if he focused hard enough, he could will himself into hunger. Maintaining an appetite over the last months, nearly a year now, had been its own challenge. Now here he was, more interested in a thumbnail than the full meal prepared for him.

"I take it you've contacted Healer Morgan," Draco said, using his ring finger to click against the handle of his tea cup.

"I wrote to him yesterday," Narcissa answered.

Draco nodded.

Sleet tapped against the window. Draco watched it and internally gave in to pouting. Walking outside was one of the two activities he was still allowed. Sleet confined him indoors, left to reading books he would never be allowed to make use of.

Maybe he should cut off his arm and leave. Did his parents actually still believe in the monster they'd given their home to? They had no future here. He couldn't help them and they couldn't help him.

"It's for the best," Lucius said. As unaffected as he sounded, his plate was just as full as Draco's. "Having strangers in the house has been an ordeal."

"Morgan was hardly the issue," Draco said.

He had to eat. As long as he was here, he was playing by the dark lord's rules. Three meals a day had been a rule since he passed out in the room of hidden things. Sticking to rules had never been his forte, but they guided his days now.

"Do they–" Narcissa began. Seemingly thinking better, she stopped herself, busying her hands by pouring her third cup of tea.

Inferring what she meant to ask, Draco didn't volunteer an attempted answer.

Despite the sense of illness rising up his throat, Draco stabbed an apple slice and tried a bite. Prickling at either side of his jaw threatened oncoming sickness, and he swallowed, trying to force his body to comply. The fork already trembled in his hand. He couldn't risk a complete inability to use his hands.

He didn't get a second bite before Voldemort entered from the adjoining hall, newspaper in hand. Nagini followed close at his heels, but branched off when she spotted Draco.

"My lord," Lucius greeted, stumbling to get to his feet only to bow. He knocked into his chair and Draco reached over to steady it before the clatter caused a nuisance.

"Sit, Lucius."

When Lucius had done as commanded, Voldemort set the paper on his plate, disregarding the meal still on it. From there, he walked around to stand behind Draco's chair.

Narcissa met Draco's gaze only for a moment.

A dreadful anticipation rolled through Draco's bones. Voldemort's presence shadowed over him, and without warning, a spindly hand grabbed Draco by the neck.

He tilted Draco's head back to the point it was fully exposed and he faced the ceiling. Voldemort didn't remove his hand.

Voldemort didn't look down at Draco, but kept his gaze firmly situated on Lucius. Draco couldn't see anything other than Voldemort and the ceiling, and tried to follow his father's actions based on sound alone. The scratch of a plate being slid aside, the soft drop of the paper, pages being unfolded.

"Page four," Voldemort said. His hand was as cold as Draco's scars. "Read it aloud for us."

Lucius cleared his throat. More pages rustled. Draco blinked and considered simply keeping his eyes shut. But Voldemort had chosen his position. Draco doubted he ever acted without carefully considered intent. If he simply wanted Draco to look at him for whatever this was, he could have stood across the table.

"The Prophet reports the death of Octavius Greengrass," Lucius began, voice dropping out to near silence by the time he reached the name. There were a few seconds between his silence and Voldemort's following command to continue. "Greengrass was discovered dead at home, seemingly of natural causes. Greengrass is survived by his wife, Aviva, and two daughters, Daphne and Astoria."

For a short moment, Voldemort lowered his gaze to Draco's, red eyes firm. Of course he had known. He had known about the letter Draco sent to Neesy, about skipped meals, about almost everything Draco sought to keep buried. His grip didn't allow Draco to turn his head any other direction, and looking away first would be a grave disobedience.

When Draco shivered, he knew Voldemort felt it.

"My lord—" Lucius started.

Voldemort's eyes cut back to Lucius, silencing him before he could form any attempted defense.

"I admit a struggle," Voldemort said as Nagini wove her way around Draco's ankles. "Because certainly you and I have suffered a miscommunication. Tell me, when I told you Draco would be the last Malfoy, was I unclear?"

"No, my lord."

"And when I said I was your heir, did you assume Draco would still maintain that position?"

"No," Lucius said.

"No," Voldemort echoed. "So how then did you imagine marrying off something that no longer belongs to you?"

When Draco's jaw tensed at something , Voldemort's hand on his throat did as well.

More silence followed. Lucius's efforts to hide away Draco had been destined to fail, and Voldemort never allowed disobedience to go unpunished.

The marriage never would have happened, especially not now that Draco's face was crosscut with silver.

"You have been one of my greatest disappointments, Lucius. So many vain promises and assurances, but unable to obey when called to."

"My lord, you must know everything I—"

"Everything?"

Voldemort's free hand, which Draco hadn't realized held his wand, raised, not to take aim at Lucius, but to press the tip of the wand to Draco's cheek. Draco didn't bother trying to look at it. Draco was a prop for this threat.

He had become a prop for most things.

"I require absolute service. Here is one area disproving you."

He traced the wand along the scar, from under Draco's eye, past his lips, and down his throat.

"He's my son," Lucius said, with less conviction than Draco would have liked.

"It is only by my grace he is permitted use of your name."

Draco swallowed, his throat flexed under Voldemort's grip. The desire to pull away consumed his thoughts. Voldemort kept Draco's throat exposed and vulnerable, kept him from looking at his parents, kept him under control.

Voldemort's grip hardened, and in a jerking motion, he forced Draco to face his father. Lucius still held the paper, almost like he had forgotten to let go of it.

"Draco, tell Lucius what you think of his efforts."

Meeting his father's gaze, Draco saw his own desperation reflected back. Groveling would be the only way to move forwards from here, and he had returned home to look after his parents. He had to do what they couldn't.

He already failed. He shouldn't have let Lucius go so far.

"They were unwarranted," Draco said, and tried not to let his face give away anything. Voldemort would have been able to feel any tension. "It's an embarrassment to our family."

"Do you intend to marry?" Voldemort continued.

"No, my lord."

Draco glanced at his mother, who looked near ready to faint. Given the angle of her arm, she had reached out to hold Lucius's hand under cover of the table. He had come back to protect them. How did he fail at everything he tried?

"Perhaps you should give up his name," Voldemort mused. "He has made such a disgrace of it."

"Let me restore it, my lord," Draco said, unwilling to consider giving up something as personal as his name. Outside of his home, almost no one called him Draco. He was Malfoy. He connected to it more than he did to Draco.

"Restore it?" Voldemort mused. His wand traveled back up Draco's throat.

"To give it to you," Draco said. "All that the Malfoys are."

If Draco could have seen Voldemort, he was certain he would have seen a pleased expression. With Voldemort's wand to his throat, the threat not actually aimed at Draco, but at his parents; lip service would buy them time.

"Do you see, Lucius? When will you understand what it takes to serve?"


February

Draco stared into his wardrobe and wondered when he'd been stripped of the option of black. One of the elves, he hoped not Neesy, must have been gradually removing every black robe set he owned. It silently condemned him to stand out during the gathering tonight. Whatever the message was, Draco hadn't gotten it. What good did it do anyone if Draco walked around wearing vibrant colors? Were they death eaters or the flamboyant models from Pansy's magazines?

No, that wasn't right. No one else would show up wearing red.

Draco looked over to his right, where Voldemort worked at the desk-formerly-Draco's. That infuriating amusement looked back at him, more and more apparent the more and more hatred Draco let leak through his expression. He'd determined there was no sense in hiding the truth of his feelings. He could say all the right words; but when he met the dark lord's gaze, there was no hiding the depths of his hatred.

"You seem troubled."

"Just wondering where all my other robes have gone."

"Your robes?" Voldemort questioned. "What is yours?"

Draco inhaled. Exhaled. Told himself words were the least of his concerns. "Nothing, my lord."

Draco pulled down his go-to robe set, the navy blue with gold accents, and hoped the lighting in the room would be dim enough not to make him reflective. The aim of these gatherings had always been to blend into invisibility.

He dressed with his back to his vanity mirror. He kept his gaze fixed on a burn on the wall from a summer he'd tried to brew a memory potion without letting his parents know, and the cauldron exploded. The elves had done excellent work cleaning up the resulting mess, but one small mark had stubbornly remained. If he only looked at that spot, then there was no risk of accidentally seeing what had become of his skin. His face was nothing compared to the interlaced silver covering his chest. If he ignored them, he could sometimes still convince himself he was a person and not decor.

As he buttoned the high collar, he had to pull his hair out of the way. Tomorrow, he'd need to get his mother to trim it. It hardly felt worth the effort, but they were already hanging on by fingertips. Keeping his hair trimmed was a simple concession. Draco's existence was superficial.

Hadn't it always been?

Money and blood, power and influence. With those stripped away, what was a person left with? Draco glared at the burn on the wall and couldn't come up with an answer.

He stepped out of the bathroom while tightening the laces at his wrists. Voldemort hadn't moved from the desk, but he did spare a moment to look over Draco.

"Going down so early?" Voldemort asked.

"Unless you say otherwise, my lord," Draco said, thankfully managing to keep the bitterness confined to his eyes, rather than letting it leak into his voice.

Voldemort dismissed him with a gesture, and after grabbing his shoes, Draco bowed to the man who had taken everything from him. He left before he cracked, leaning against his closed door for a moment to catch his breath. He had done the same so many times in the past, but hiding on the other side, in the safety of what had once been his personal sanctuary.

Draco stepped into his shoes before going downstairs to find his mother ordering the elves to correctly position the wing-back chair from Lucius's office. There were no other chairs, just the one spot of honor where the dark lord would sit and survey his followers.

"Not there, Misty. Against the wall."

Narcissa stood in the center of the room, across from Father's chair, directing the house elves. Draco kept out of the way, standing on the bottom step, and watched her prepare for an evening he doubted she'd get a shred of enjoyment from. Her profile was the picture of severity and her voice entirely too strict for the circumstances.

He realized in a lull between her commands, he didn't know if she'd taken the mark. Narcissa Malfoy would never do something as uncouth as wearing short sleeves. If she ran, could the dark lord summon her back?

"Draco," she said with the air of someone being caught unawares. "Come tell me if you think these tables are even."

He did as she told him, nodding when the distances looked even enough. Once the room had filled, no one would care if a few tables were askew.

"I should have purchased that enchanted wine-pourer," she mused.

"They can handle pouring their own glasses," Draco said. The alternative was having the elves present, and given they wanted to keep their house elves, that wouldn't be advisable.

She sighed and faced him. Standing this close, she had to raise her chin to meet his eyes. His mum wasn't old, Draco thought, but this war had started to age her. She saw the signs at the edges of her eyes, between her brows, and in the slightest drop in her shoulders. The tightness in his chest gripped him momentarily. Mum was a witch; he'd see to it that she lived a full, excessively long life.

She brought up a hand and let it settle on his cheek, a thumb a hair-breadth away from one of the scars.

"Do they hurt?" she asked.

"No."

They were a cold, constant presence, but they didn't cause any pain. He'd need a jumper in summer to stave off the effects. There were worse things.

Her thumb never touched. She stroked his freshly shaved jaw, then lowered her hand. She had dressed up, Draco noticed. Solidarity for his plight, he hoped.

"Do you know if he's bringing the snake?"

Draco glanced over his shoulder absently, as if he could see through the walls and floors and into his bedroom, where Nagini was likely still asleep. He answered despite not having an actual answer, "I imagine so."

Their lord loved snakes and snake imagery. Any time he could be seen with a twenty-foot snake at his heel, he would jump on the opportunity.

Draco caught his smirk the moment his lips twitched up. Their lord didn't love anything but himself. Nagini was just another trophy, an excuse for him to flaunt his status as a parselmouth.

Narcissa considered the chair for a moment, finally deciding, "Nothing around it then. Nothing that could be knocked over."

She fretted about the room for the next half-hour, which Draco decided was remarkably impressive given the absence of furniture to arrange or food to prepare. He settled against a wall between two portraits that used to chat with him every Tuesday afternoon, but had been disenchanted when Voldemort moved in. Draco picked at his nails and considered ripping them all out while he waited. Blood would go with the aesthetic for these sort of events.

Lucius escorted the first guests inside, Bellatrix and Rodolphus, as always early to meet with the dark lord. They were the first people to see Draco's modified face, and Bellatrix latched onto him immediately. She held his face in her hands, wild gaze raking over the scars. Before Draco could stop her, she licked the length of one of them.

It was Narcissa who gave Draco back his space. She jerked Bellatrix back a step, as far as she was willing to move, and tried positioning herself between them.

"What an honor," Bellatrix whispered reverently, attention latched onto the scars that were actually a result of her lord's failure.

"Bella," Narcissa began, and had to stop her from reaching out again. Draco's back remained pressed to the wall, a reminder of the impossibility of retreat.

"Draco," Narcissa said, her attention locked onto Bellatrix. "Go make sure the elves have everything prepared."

He recognized the order for what it was: not a dismissal, but salvation from his aunt's crazed actions. Draco's shoulder bumped into the portrait's frame, shaking it, but the size and weight made it nearly immovable. He slid out of Bellatrix's reach. He kept his pace even until he was behind the safety of a door, and then rushed to the kitchen, where he bent over the sink and scrubbed his face and throat. The sink the elves used sat low to the ground, and his neck ached by the time Draco felt satisfactorily clean.

"Is Master Draco needing anything?"

"No, Poppy."

She stood beside him, wringing her hands fretfully, occasionally twitching forwards like she was stopping herself from jumping into some unknown action.

"We is being told to stay here," Poppy said.

"That's right. Don't come out tonight, no matter what."

Draco found a hand towel to dry off his face. The kitchen had gone silent watching him, half a dozen elves waiting on instruction that Draco couldn't provide them. Their sole desire was to be useful, but use had been stripped from all of them. Including Draco.

"Master Draco?"

Tobby stepped forwards. If he had intended on saying anything more, he changed his mind. His spindly hand took hold of Draco's robes, and then Poppy did the same. One by one, all the elves came forwards to put their hand on Draco. Recovering from the shock took Draco too long. Even then, no appropriate response came to him. Their home, their lives, had all been equally upended. What could any of them do?

The ever-present weight that had settled over the house turned the kind gesture into an omen. It felt like a farewell.

Draco cleared his throat and they backed away. "Keep out of the way," he said and hated the emotion in his voice. "Our guests tonight aren't forgiving."

For a passing moment, he wondered what all he currently wore could be offered to them. He blinked away that errant thought. Despite everything, they didn't want freedom. What did freedom even mean? Where would they go? What would they amount to without a sense of purpose?

Draco's fingers flitted around his hairline, checking that nothing had fallen out of place. If his face was red from the scrubbing, he couldn't see, and his reflection in a copper pot gave away nothing. He consoled himself with the knowledge people would be more concerned with the silver than any redness.

When he returned to the main hall, others had arrived. Yaxley and Crabbe, Jugson and Snyde, Draco skimmed over the faces and pointedly looked away when anyone shot him a surprised look. His face had been the topic of discussion for too long.

There was safety in his mother's side, so Draco stood with her rather than his father. He missed the events during the summer, when at least Crabbe attended. Crabbe had been drifting away from him for the last couple years and they still would have put that aside to get through these abysmal meetings. If he knew the topic for tonight, that might have helped, but Draco hadn't been told what to expect. Some nights involved sharing information, others planning, others led up to a raid.

Over the course of an hour, everyone claiming the title of Death Eater arrived, crowding into the massive room, but leaving a wide opening around the empty chair. They drank and celebrated their recent successes. They whispered of future endeavours, planned to take more and more control, not just of the Ministry, but of muggles and muggle lands.

Draco held a wine glass and didn't drink from it. To his left, his mother did the same. They watched and complemented vain successes that were described to them. The celebrations once would have enamored Draco. They described the change he had hoped for when he was younger. Muggles done away with and purebloods reigning over the remains. It was what they deserved.

The dark lord descended the stairs. Draco stared, hollow inside and blank outside. People around him bowed. How many of them would eventually learn the served a vain idea?

Draco only bowed because Narcissa rested a hand on his back, guiding him into a bow mimicking the respect he was expected to give. He had been forced into living with Voldemort for over a year. All demonstrations of respect lost meaning when he had watched the dark lord sitting through History of Magic.

Voldemort took his time taking his seat, clearly enjoying his followers' display of respect. Nagini first curled under the chair, and then Voldemort took to his seat like a throne. Could a leader rule from a throne in a castle they hadn't rightfully claimed?

Idly, Voldemort touched his wand to his throat so that when he spoke, his voice perfectly carried throughout the room. Even standing towards the far end, Draco heard him as if standing at his side.

"You have all served faithfully and have much to be proud of. Even so, we have far to go before we can claim victory."

Voldemort gave a leisurely glance around the room, and in his silence, Bellatrix knelt at his feet. He humored her by trailing a hand over her head, but then returned to his survey of the room. When his gaze neared Draco, Draco pointedly stared at his wine glass.

"Public sentiment remains out of my reach. Control of the Ministry and the Prophet is not enough."

Maybe stop murdering people in the streets , Draco thought, watching his reflection in the wine ripple.

"My lord, you control all that matters," Bellatrix said. "Don't concern yourself with the opinions of mudbloods and muggles."

Voldemort's gaze darkened. Whether she realized it or not, Bellatrix had given him an order. He waved her away, to Bellatrix, punishment on the level with a cruciatus curse. She put her head to the floor in apology, which went ignored.

"We have operated in shadow and whisper for too long," Voldemort went on. "I tire of the secrecy. Secrecy implies fault."

Murmurs echoed, and the people nearest to Draco sounded relieved. Being a part of a secret organization carried a certain appeal, but during a war, it grew exhausting. They were finally in control of lawmaking and determining what constituted wrongdoing. Anything could be named justice with the correct people in power.

Voldemort took his time in continuing. His wand remained at this throat, indicating he intended to continue speaking despite the extended silence. It gave the death eaters time to fully process what he said, but also held their interest.

"Entering the public eye requires controlling public opinion. Wormtail."

Draco hadn't seen Pettigrew in the crowd, but in a sea of black, a shorter man easily would have escaped his notice. He straightened up to skim the faces.

But Pettigrew came up from the cellar. He dragged someone after him, and the death eaters parted to allow him to walk freely to the dark lord. It took the duration of their walk for Draco to recognize the second person.

Loony Lovegood.

Why was Loony Lovegood here?

Pettigrew pushed her onto her knees in front of Voldemort's throne. Voldemort barely gave her a glance before continuing his speech.

"Xenophilius Lovegood has been writing in his little publication all about me. Lies, fear mongering, and anything he can spin to sway public sentiment. I introduce you all to his daughter."

Rather than murmurs, taunts were loudly tossed her way. Despite the insults hitting her from every side, she kept her head upright.

She had been like that at Hogwarts as well. Draco initially pegged Loony as an easy target, but she never gave fun reactions to Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle's best efforts. He could only see the back of her head, which was tilted almost inquisitively.

What was her name?

"I intend to send a message to the operator of the Quibbler. Where is Draco?"

He felt his hair tickling the back of his neck. He had waited too long to get it cut.

Narcissa took the wine glass from Draco. He looked at her, not understanding, until she gave him a gentle nudge forwards. It was only then the question registered and he processed the attention leveled on him.

He stood out, the only person aside from Loony not wearing black, and as gazes landed on him, everyone standing between Draco and the dark lord took steps back, clearing the way.

"Ah, Draco. Come."

Voldemort held out his hand, and Draco couldn't very well ignore being summoned. He swallowed down the mounting panic of the eyes locked on him, the imagined whispers bouncing around his thoughts, the accusations being levied at him without a word.

Pettigrew's silver hand had been a gift.

What had Draco done but suffered loss?

He walked around Loony—what was her name?-and bowed to Voldemort, internally screaming at the absurdity of bowing to someone who had watched him sleep for months. The murmurs behind him tapered off as Draco righted himself.

"I understand this is one of your classmates."

Draco spared Loony a glance as though he hadn't considered that. He didn't let himself linger, even as the internal scream intensified. What the fuck was her name?

"Certainly not in Slytherin."

Tittering laughs sounded, but Draco didn't bother giving them attention. He hadn't been called forwards to discuss his classmates. What had Voldemort said? He was sending a message to Loony's father?

Voldemort slid his wand down his throat, finally lowering it before he stood. He placed a hand on Draco's shoulder as he loomed, and spun him to face Loony. Slowly, leisurely, Voldemort bent down to speak in Draco's ear. "Give her a taste of our displeasure."

Heart racing, Draco wedged two fingers under the tight lacing of his sleeve to feel for his wand. His gaze locked with hers, unable to blink, and wished he could find some trace of anger or resentment or rage in her expression. If she just hated him, he could do it.

The energy of the room dripped in anticipation. Voldemort still stood behind him. Draco's face bore the expectations yoking him, and still Loony only looked at him with something akin to sadness.

In Myrtle's bath, Harry had radiated anger. He lashed out at Draco with betrayal, antagonizing him to gain a confession. Would that have been enough? If Draco had held his wand on that day, could he have cast the spell?

He knew the spell. He knew the expectation.

He didn't know her name.

Draco leveled his wand at her and she still didn't give him an ounce of hatred. Pettigrew had led her up from the cellars where Thomas McGruder had been held for the entirety of year six. How long had she been imprisoned down there, simply waiting for Draco to curse her?

" Crucio ."

He tried to mean it. He had spent years at Hogwarts trying to get any reaction from her and she never gave it to him. Her father was giving them trouble.

If not her, then it would be Draco.

Loony fell forwards, palms to the floor, hair covering her face and her cry. Even as she screamed, Draco knew it hadn't been enough. His hand tremored as he held the wand aimed at her, a testament to his experience with the curse he failed to properly cast. Draco knew the cruciatus in his bones.

Setting his jaw, he reminded himself of the consequences of failing here, in front of everyone who mattered. He publicly wore the dark lord's marks. If he failed here, it was a reflection not just on him, not just on his family, but on Voldemort himself.

He evaded Thomas's torment once.

What was her name?

" Crucio ," Draco cast again, willing it to work, willing his hatred for the man behind him to carry through to the girl who didn't deserve his wrath.

She cried.

She screamed.

It wasn't enough.

Draco's eyes welled. It blocked out everyone he knew was staring. Their expectations for him were dashed, and for some, carried out. How many people here expected him to fail?

Lucius failed and now Draco couldn't carry out a simple order. Failure ran in his blood. Fuck wealth. Fuck tradition. Fuck purity.

" Crucio. "

Loony's shallow scream condemned him. He hated her for not pretending. He hated that that hatred wasn't enough.

Voldemort reached around to lower Draco's wand, preventing further efforts and further humiliation. Draco blinked until his vision cleared, momentarily relieved no tears slipped out. But clear vision meant he could see the amusement radiating towards him from those who had never respected him, and disappointment from his family.

Their disappointment crumbled in comparison to the silence that reigned behind him.

"Perhaps, my lord, Draco isn't as displeased with the Quibbler's writings?" Macnair said.

"Or better yet, proof that children have no place in your service," Yaxley added.

A low chuckle came from behind him, and Draco closed his eyes against the darkness lurking beneath. Loony's sobs continued. They served as a reminder that Draco hadn't been able to carry out the one thing publicly asked of him.

"Was my order too much for you, Draco? Or do you have too much sympathy for little girls?"

That drew a laugh, maybe because they meant it, or maybe because the majority of the room required a break from the mounting tension.

"My lord—"

"Should you continue to address me as such, when you cannot handle a simple command?"

Stripping his ability to address the dark lord only deepened the shame. Draco felt his face burn red. He never wished to have different coloring more than he did in that moment, when his face conveyed boldly the depth of his humiliation.

"Run to your room, Draco. You are no longer welcomed here."

Draco should have begged. Should have dropped to his knees and pleaded his case. But like the child they labeled him, he took the chance to flee. No one stepped aside for him, slowing his escape through a throng of taunting. They shouldered into him, stepped in front of him to slow him down, whispered his worthlessness.

The layout of the room meant they all got to watch him rush upstairs, extending the time caught under their gazes. He didn't look back. What sense was there in looking back to survey the mess he had left behind?

When he had hidden himself behind his bedroom door, Draco threw his wand onto his bed. He wanted to scream and break things, but nothing left in this room belonged to him. What was there to break? The windows? Rip pages out of books the dark lord curated? Storm over to the trophy shelf and snap Dumbledore's wand in two?

He paced.

He searched his thoughts for the name of the girl he had just tried to torture.

Rather than scream, Draco let a low groan emerge from the back of his throat. He tore at his too long hair and undid the lacing of the absurdly formal robes he had been given no choice but to wear.

He paced.

Time passed and the time was almost worse than the impending punishment. He had his wand. He could disapparate and run.

No. The mark on his forearm tethered him to the dark lord. Draco could no sooner leave the manor than he could undo the ghastly mistakes from the past two years.

How had he gotten himself here?

Draco washed his face and didn't look at the silver branding him.

He paced.

He stared at the books, desperately searching for something to remedy the terror he was drowning under. There were no cabinets to repair. No homework to do.

Torturing Loony Lovegood had been a test he hadn't come remotely close to passing.

Hours later, when the bedroom door opened and Draco's heart entered his throat, Voldemort's red gaze locked onto him, freezing him into place just behind the sofa.

Slowly, Voldemort closed the door behind him. For a moment, he only stared.

"You nearly had me convinced you desired to be more than your blood."

Draco tried to defend himself, but didn't get beyond opening his mouth. It hadn't been so long since Voldemort held him against the wall in the dormitory, coating him in his own blood to prove a point. How many hollow promises had Draco made since that day?

"Yet in front of everyone, you are unable to follow a simple command?"

Voldemort stepped forwards. Draco's feet melded into the carpet beneath him, eyes wide as Voldemort stalked ahead. Every breath took effort. They shook and trembled and his lungs refused to fill. Maybe he should have looked down. If he radiated submission, would that save any suffering?

Draco swallowed and almost choked on it.

"What will it take for you to learn? Or are you truly only meant to be an ornament?"

Again, he tried to say anything to his own defense, and again, managed nothing more than scraping his teeth against his bottom lip.

Voldemort sighed. Draco didn't believe the sentiment behind it. It felt solely for his benefit, a show of disappointment the words had already conveyed. Draco represented the dark lord, and in front of everyone who followed him, Draco failed.

"Trinkets like you think they carry innate worth. Let us see who you are without any adornments."

With a simple spell, Voldemort vanished the expensive robes Draco had bemoaned for the last several months. He stood in the chill of the room entirely exposed, finally finding it in him to take a step back.

Voldemort closed the distance.

"You own nothing," he said, heat burning through eyes and words. "No clothing. No furniture. No wand. No name. Nothing."

Voldemort's fingers traced the silver scars, so heavy on his chest. "You only have what I grant you, Draco."

Malfoy remained conspicuously unspoken.

Draco's eyes watered for a second time, and he shook his head, unable to find words to beg for anything. Everything stopped in his throat, too great and too much to let out.

Voldemort's gaze drifted until he spotted the wand on Draco's bed. He summoned it to himself and for a horrifying moment, Draco thought he would snap it.

Instead, he carried it to his trophy shelf and set it alongside everything else he'd stolen.

"You wanted to be nothing," Voldemort said, his back still to Draco. "Now, be nothing."