Takes place during Defiance and True Colors, but is technically canon compliant. Rated for torture. (I thought it would end up a T until I began writing. I upped the rating when I had to stop writing every few paragraphs and read or listen to something bouncy.)

"How dare you!"

Dare seems too strong a word for what you did. Cursing your aunt would be daring. Freeing Lovegood would be daring. Standing by the fireplace and muttering "I'm not sure" is the opposite of daring. And as you stand on the rug, shaking and quivering as though your bones have turned to jelly, you don't feel daring in the slightest.

"How dare you let him escape!"

Under your master's withering stare, you could collapse any minute. The night Dumbledore died, you were on the ground before the torture had even begun. You groveled and pleaded, begged for mercy that never came.

You would love to do what you did that night, if only to give your shaking knees a rest. But you've been enough of a coward today. You're going to keep standing if it kills you.

"I—I didn't call you, my lord."

"I don't care who called me, I care that I am here and Harry Potter is not!" He raises his wand. You don't want to flinch, to show the weakness you know is there, but you can't help it. "Was he even here? Or was this all a ruse to gain my favor?"

"He was here….my lord." Your voice is soft, but by some small miracle it doesn't break. "Ask Bellatrix if you don't believe me."

He turns to your aunt. "Harry Potter was here, my lord." By her smile you know you chose the wrong ally. "It was Draco's incompetence that aided his escape."

You should have known she would betray you. You should have known better. Yet, like every other choice that brought you to this moment, you realize the truth a moment too late to reverse your fortune.

You've seen that face before, the face your master is making now. Snake-eyes narrowed, thin lips twisted into a snarl, nostrils flaring as he lifts his wand. The first time he made that face, and every time since, you have begged for mercy. You have piled apology on apology and excuse on excuse, pleading with the God you've never believed in that once, just once, your master would listen and spare you the pain that never seems to end.

Today is different.

You're not pleading with him. You're not promising to chase after Potter and bring him back within the week. It's because that never works, you reason; because no matter how unintentional the error, you always pay in full. You're tired of humiliating yourself in vain. Tired of showing yourself for the coward you are.

Tired of rewarding his anger with a scream.

Everyone responds to the Cruciatus Curse differently. You know this from the curses your Aunt Bella demonstrated on victim after helpless victim. Some lie on their backs and scream at the ceiling; some roll from back to stomach to back and unleash their agony; some clutch at handfuls of the carpet and loose that piercing wail.

When the pain hits, you fall to the floor and curl into a ball. It doesn't help the pain, but this time, making yourself as small as possible helps you hold the scream inside. The more you hold it in, the more you want to cry out, but you won't you won't you won't. You won't let him hear it. You won't give him the pleasure.

He releases the curse, but the pain lingers. Your limbs shake and your eyes sting, but you won't cry. You won't raise your head, though the rough carpet scrapes your cheek. You stay where you are, curled like a cat, savoring your victory.

Your right arm flies from your face and pins itself to the floor, followed by your left and then your legs. You stifle a cry as the movement sends pain screaming through your muscles.

You know what he's doing. You know why he's doing it. You know that you are pinned to the floor like a butterfly to the wall, but you still try to tug your wrist free.

It doesn't budge.

Your heart hammers as your master's footsteps approach. You close your eyes, willing yourself not to look at his face, and squeeze a few tears loose by mistake.

"Poor, poor Draco." His voice drips venom. "Already crying, and we've barely started."

"Please." Your father's voice is barely audible, but you open your eyes and strain to see him. He stands behind the parlor sofa, grasping the back. His upside-down form gives you vertigo, so you close your eyes again. You hear your master walk a few paces toward the parlor.

"What is it, Lucius?" His feet leave the rug, and his boots thud across the wooden floor. He speaks softly in the tone you've come to fear. "What do you want?"

Your father is silent. You can't see it, but you are sure your master has tipped your father's chin with his wand.

"Pray tell me, Lucius, what it is you want me to do. Shall I show your son mercy?"

You wait, hardly daring to breathe, for an answer that doesn't come.

"Shall I show kindness to a boy who has failed me time and again, who has dared to rob me of a swift victory?" His voice rises, but only slightly. "Shall I do that, dear Malfoy?"

The grandfather clock ticks away the lengthening moments. "Do…" Your father swallows. "Do what you think best, my lord."

"Thank you." You hear his smile, then his footsteps. Your father's betrayal stung more than the Cruciatus Curse ever could, and your master knows it. He wouldn't have asked his permission otherwise.

Your mother says nothing. She is as helpless as you are.

His feet stop by your hair. You can smell the dirt on his boots, feel the brush of his robe against your head like a dementor's chill. You feel him towering above you, waiting for you to acknowledge him so the real Cruciating can begin, but you don't open your eyes.

He waits. His robes rustle; you think he's folding his arms.

You keep them closed.

He taps his foot once, twice.

You know you are winning nothing by your defiance—nothing of value, anyway. The feeling of triumph will vanish when the first curse hits. But if you lose this battle, he will win it. You refuse to open your eyes.

His robes rustle again. The standoff has ended. You clench your fists as he speaks the word.

"Crucio."

Some have compared the Cruciatus Curse to a giant's fist. It lifts you up and shakes you senseless, leaving you disoriented and in pain. That comparison couldn't be farther from the truth.

The curse turns your blood to fire. It rushes through you, searing your limbs from the inside out, licking your bones and turning your heart to water. You hold in a scream, but the fire grows hotter, and the scream is torn from your throat.

When it subsides, you look up without thinking.

His smile forms the word again.

And again.

And again.

There is no question of screaming now. You can't hold it in. There is no relief in screaming, but you can't help it; the cry tears through your throat as pain pounds through your body in wave after merciless wave.

You don't know when it passes. You know it can't be more than a few minutes, but it feels as though you've been tortured for years. The slightest movement sends pain tearing down your limb. You lie still, but the pain wraps itself around you like Nagini. Your throat burns.

A whimper sits on your tongue, but you swallow it down.

The enchantments lift, releasing your wrists and ankles.

Is he gone?

You hope—yes, even expect—he has Disapparated. You wonder, briefly, why he left so quickly, with nary a lecture or an insult. Some matter more urgent than your latest failure must have commanded his attention elsewhere.

Slowly, cautiously, you open your eyes.

Your master sneers down at you.

"Get up."

You want to cry. The tears are there, in the corners of your eyes, placed there by the Curse, but you won't let them fall. You can't. There is more torture coming, and you can't take it like a weakling.

Nor can you stand.

You lift an arm, but it falls back to the floor as though weighted. Pain shoots down your arm, curling your fingers into useless claws.

Ignoring your master's stares—and your Aunt Bella's mocking laugh—you manage to roll onto your side. The carved and polished legs of the parlor table fill your vision. You allow yourself a moment to brace before swinging your arm up and onto the short, squat table. The pain squeezes again, but somehow you manage to pull yourself to a sitting position.

"Get up, Draco."

There is a bookcase a few feet from the parlor table. You look at it, with its wonderful sturdy shelves, and calculate whether you can reach it from where you are.

The answer: Maybe.

You swing your other arm onto the table, doing it all in one motion to get the pain over with. You grit your teeth against it, waiting for it to abate somewhat so you can pull yourself up enough to give your legs a boost.

The pain almost sends you back to the floor. Almost.

You are on your feet now, bent over the parlor table and holding it for support. You shuffle toward the bookcase, willing your shaking legs not to give out. They don't, and you take another small step.

And another.

And another.

There are about six feet of empty space between the parlor table and the bookcase. You have seen this gap every day of your life and thought nothing of it. Now, it feels impassible.

You hang onto the table for a moment, preparing to stand on your own. If you take them quickly and stretch them out, you can reach the bookcase in three steps.

You straighten, leaving the table behind.

A fresh wave of pain sweeps through your legs, bringing with it a wash of dizziness. You sway, and somehow use the momentum to take your first step. On the second, your knees buckle, and you grasp for a handhold, any handhold, to break your fall.

Your hand hits a shelf, and your fingers curl around the edge. It buys you time, allows you to grasp it with your other hand, and pull yourself up. You bring your elbows onto the shelf and prop yourself up that way, silently blessing whatever Malfoy loved books enough to cover the parlor walls in cases for them.

You shake like a leaf in the wind, every inch of you crying out in pain, but you are standing.

A few strides take your master to where you stand. You stiffen, but he doesn't touch you.

"Why did you let him go?"

It's the first question that gives you pause. Why did you let Potter go?

"I…" You wipe the tears from your eyes with the back of a shaking hand, trying to buy some time. You know what you want to say: I let him go because I want him to kill you! The thought of saying it doesn't make you smile; instead, cold fear coils in your stomach. If you were to say that, you would sign your own death sentence.

He would kill you instantly.

You dismiss the idea quickly and with horror. He wouldn't kill you instantly. He'd kill you slowly. Gleefully. He'd make your parents watch you die, then kill them too. What on earth made you think otherwise?

He leans against the bookcase and folds his arms. You avoid the crimson stare.

"I…I don't…" You suck in a breath, forcing the words through your burning throat. "I don't…know…my lord."

"Come now." His tone is almost jocular, and certainly mocking. "Such a spectacular failure must have been committed with a reason in mind."

"I don't know! I swear I don't know!" The outburst sends you into a coughing fit, which hurts your stomach. You clutch it with one hand and the bookcase with the other. When it passes, you gasp for air, which sends you into another fit.

This time there is no hope of keeping your balance. Your fingers slip from the shelf. You grasp at it, but there is no regaining your grip; you fall to the floor. The coughs rack your body, and you curl on your side, waiting for them to stop.

"Are you quite finished?" he says when they do.

You cough again, and it ends in a shudder.

A sudden spell rolls you onto your back; your head hits the floor just hard enough to make you wince. The same enchantments pin your wrists and ankles down again.

The pain of the Cruciatus Curse is so impossibly mind-numbing that most wizards assume the point of contact—where the curse first touches the body—has no impact upon the ensuing torture. You know better. The point of contact can change the nature of the victim's pain. This is why, when the victim is male, most Death Eaters aim for the groin.

But the Dark Lord is different. He knows the curse better than anyone, except perhaps your aunt. He knows that there are better ways to make a victim suffer, more elegant ways to make them pay. So when he shouts the curse, it strikes your heart.

The pain begins but doesn't end there. The more your heart beats, the more your chest aches; and the more it pounds, the quicker it pours fire into your veins. You scream. You scream until your throat is numb and you keep screaming until the pain fades away and you're left shaking on the floor.

"Crucio!"

It begins in your lungs this time, a fire that wraps around them and ravages from the inside. You scream, and the fire burns hotter. You keep screaming.

"Crucio!"

Heart.

"Crucio!"

Lungs.

You lose track of the curses, of how many there are and how long he holds them. You don't notice when he lifts the enchantments binding your wrists, when he turns you onto your back and aims the curse at your spine. Your thoughts run together until there is nothing left but pain. It is all there is and all you have ever known. You can't imagine a time when the pain will stop.

But it does.

It feels like waking from a nightmare when you draw a breath and don't let it out in a scream. You remember it hasn't ended when the air hits your lungs like a blow, and you suck in less air than you wanted. You swallow a few breaths in tiny sips, letting them out in ragged gasps. You want to stop breathing, if only to make the pain end, and only instinct keeps you drawing gasp after painful gasp. You are shaking all over. You feel like you've been lit on fire and pushed through one of those Muggle clothes wringers Alecto showed your class.

Your aunt's laugh echoes through the room. "Oh, don't tell me he's had enough!"

You expect him to listen to her. You brace yourself, anticipating the next curse that will send you to hell or St. Mungo's, but it never comes. Your master's footsteps approach, but all he gives you is a boot in the ribs.

"You're worthless, Draco." His voice drips contempt. "Absolutely worthless."

A hollow pop signals his departure.

You close your eyes and breathe as best you can.

The house-elf takes you upstairs. Aunt Bella told her not to be too gentle, but your mother must have given the elf a stern look because she doesn't Apparate you to your room. She conjures a makeshift stretcher from a throw blanket and a couple of brooms; then, to comply with your aunt's orders, drags you onto it, apologizing under her breath. Your head bumps one of the brooms and the rug scrapes your face, but you hardly feel it. When you're safely on the stretcher, Tilly levitates it with a few quick spells and sends it up the stairs.

The stretcher deposits you on your bed, and Tilly rolls you onto your side. It's easier for you to breathe like this, though the movement draws another cry of pain.

"Sorry, Tilly is sorry," the elf squeaks. "Tilly knows how it feels."

And she does. When low numbers force Azkaban's warden to reduce Bella's supply of Muggleborns to torture, your aunt uses Tilly to practice her technique. Perhaps mere empathy is what makes the elf so gentle; Merlin knows she has little reason to be kind to Bella's nephew. If anything, envy should make her want to prolong your suffering. When Aunt Bella is through with her, she has a pile of rags to go to, instead of a feather bed, and unless you're there and no one is watching, she has to get there on her own.

Yet she is nothing if not gentle. She plumps up your pillows and arranges you expertly on your bed. No matter how you lie there, you know you will be in pain, yet Tilly has placed you just so, and the pain is muted ever so slightly. You can breathe more freely, at any rate. When that's done, she pulls the blankets over your shaking form. Your pain-addled brain can't comprehend her kindness, so you try to thank her, but you can't force the words through your throat.

Tilly puts a finger to your lips. "No, no, no, Mister Draco must not speak." She hasn't called you Master Draco since a few months after you took the Mark, and even then it took her a week to understand why you preferred Mister. Her eyes fill, but she blinks the tears away. "Mister Draco must give his throat a rest."

You sigh and nod, pain shooting down your neck.

The door opens and closes. Tilly takes a step back and stands with her hands clasped in front of her. "Tilly did the best she could, without disobeying Miss Bella's orders."

Your mother sets something on your nightstand. Tea, probably. "You did fine, Tilly. You may go."

Tilly casts one more worried glance in your direction, and then vanishes with a hollow pop.

The mattress dips slightly as your mother sits beside you. You expect her to speak, but all she does is stroke your hair. You flinch at first touch, but soon the gentle, repetitive motion soothes you. When you started at Hogwarts, you wished she would stop doing things like this, but now you're glad she hasn't.

Worthless.

You turn the word over in your mind. Undoubtedly, your mother would disagree with the designation. You're her son. To her you are worth all the gold in Gringotts and more besides. That's what she told you when you were small, and with how she's treated you since you took the Mark, you have to believe it.

Yet she is nothing more than your mother. Despite the old motherly claim—"I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it!"—you know she never would. You know she never could. She's not the one who holds the power of life and death over you, the way she does over Tilly.

Of course, no one in the Manor would dare call Tilly worthless. She works herself to exhaustion every day, cleaning the dozens of rooms, fetching glass after glass of Calming Draught and Dreamless Sleep for your father, serving as Bella's practice victim. You even suspect her of saving your life the night Dumbledore died, when you were in so much pain you told her to fetch whatever Dreamless Sleep there was in the cupboard downstairs. You were certain you had a full bottle—enough for an overdose—but when she returned the bottle held no more than a swallow. No, Tilly has proven her worth many times over.

You, on the other hand, have not.

You've tried. Merlin, how you've tried. You're sick of trying because you know that no matter how you try, you'll fail and pay handsomely for it.

Absolutely worthless.

Not all worthless things are destroyed, you think. Your mother's collection of Japanese fans wouldn't fetch more than a few Galleons, yet she wouldn't part with them for anything, and not even Bella will touch them, despite her promises to burn those worthless things to ashes.

The thought is oddly comforting until you realize the truth behind it: Your mother owns those fans. As their owner, she decides their fate.

The fate of worthless things is determined by their owner.

For the thousandth time, you wish you'd never taken the Mark. You wish you had run off when Aunt Bella first came to you with the Dark Lord's offer. You wish you were halfway across Europe by now, disguised as a Muggle on your trek to safer ground. If you were, you would belong to no one but yourself.

The notion seems foolish now. You don't own yourself. The Dark Lord owns you.

And you are worthless.