CURSED [D.M]

-(46) a man in love

DRACO feels the pain rippling through him in waves, consuming him inside out. No matter how high he builds his mental walls to ease it, it still finds a crack. And it pours into that crack. It pours and pours and pours until and unless every last part of him is in pure agony. Magic is a funny thing.

"You wouldn't be going through this torment, Draco", the all too familiar hissing sound pounds in his ear as he writhes on the ground, gasping for air as the Cruciatus Curse is lifted off of him. "You just had to do as I wished."

He tries to breathe but he can't. He tries to open his eyes but he can't. He tries to lift himself up but he can't.

He tries to be a normal seventeen-year-old but he can't.

"Tch tch", Voldemort makes a sound of disappointment. "You're too weak, Draco. I doubt you'll be of any further assistance to my army."

Hearing that makes Draco want to scream. It makes him want to kick and yell and finish the shell of a man before him this very instant. Because he should be allowed to be weak. He is a kid. A mere teenager upon whom this cruel monster had placed a brutally heavy task which he failed to complete. But can he be blamed?

Apparently, to Voldemort, he can be. "You have disappointed me, Draco. Do you know what happens to people who disappoint me?", he drawls on. "It was a simple enough task."

"The one you were too afraid to do yourself, my Lord." His throat aches so bad and it's barely a whisper. It's barely one but the room is dead silent and it's already out his mouth before he can take it back. A moment later, he finds that he doesn't want to take it back no matter the repercussion. Voldemort deserved that.

Pain. It finds him again.

Pain unleashed upon him like dragonfire, burning him, drowning him, suffocating him. Every bone in him feels like it's being reduced to dust. Every vein in him implodes. It's like he is dying. But he isn't.

It etches on and on for an agonizingly long time. But then it stops. It has to stop.

He's more drained this time- more shattered. But Draco fights his eyes open. Through the fuzziness in his vision, he stares into those snake-like slitted eyes that stares back at him with sheer fury.

His eyes.

He's so glad Zilliah doesn't have his eyes.

Voldemort's voice is eerily composed as it comes, in complete contrast to his demeanor. "What did you say just now, Draco?"

And Draco wants to repeat himself. He wants to speak his mind, his heart, his soul. But then he remembers his mother and her tears. He remembers his father, who by rumor, is somewhere in this house he stands. He remembers Zilliah who is waiting for him to come back.

"Nothing, my Lord."

"I didn't hear you."

"Nothing, my Lord", he speaks in a higher voice, forcing it with everything in him.

"Louder!", Voldemort's voice pounds against the walls of the room as he swishes his wand.

A cut. Right across the left side of his jaw.

Draco feels the warm blood dripping down his neck.

"Louder, Draco", Voldemort bends down, cold and cruel eyes burning into him. "I need to hear you louder."

"I said it's nothing, my lord", he speaks as loud as he can. It takes all in him, every last bit.

Voldemort seems satisfied with it. He rises back up and slowly starts walking towards the door. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Pick yourself up, boy."