Ame Soeur
Draco could feel blood beginning to drip from his nose as he thrashed, spine arching and twisting to a painful degree. Though it didn't stay there, shifting all over his face, running into his hair and mouth. It joined with the blood already there, from earlier when he had bitten the tip of his tongue nearly clean off.
The tang of iron grounded him in a way, giving him something to focus on when the pain clouded every other sense.
His leg was screaming, and if his wand wasn't on the desk, if he didn't have enough resolve to keep his pride, if he could think of anything past the sheer agony pouring through his body, he would have taken it and cut it off at the knee. At this point, it seemed the only way to get it to end, even if he knew in some small part of his mind that it was Voldemort's fault. That he was the one casting the spell, Draco's mind seemed unable to understand that this torture wasn't some physical malady. That he couldn't end it by separating himself from what hurt.
When he was younger, all those months ago, it was just pain. Simple and even, it was endless, causeless pain. Now, every scar, every old wound, every scratch he'd ever gotten burned, hot and cold, freezing him from the inside out and tearing him apart over and over again.
He felt new pain, and distantly registered the feeling of his own nails digging into his chest, pulling at the skin until it bled.
Draco wouldn't be able to take it for much longer. He couldn't take it now.
Just as welcome grey began to creep into his vision, and his limbs began to buzz with pleasant numbness, the spell stopped.
He hadn't even known he was screaming, until that too stopped, hoarse, throat-tearing sobs finally abating in favour of gasping, choked, bloody breaths.
That was the great lie of the cruciatus curse. Even when the spell ended, and the caster pulled away, the pain didn't leave. The human body, when under that much stress, for prolonged periods of time, didn't know how to handle not fighting for its life.
The absence was almost worse. That single moment between the anguish and nothing, it sent the brain into a free-fall, during which anything could happen.
Draco had read about it, last summer. How reactions to the cruciatus curse varied from person to person, a testament to human individuality. A combination of physiology and mental state ending in nothing but issues for curse-damage healers.
For Draco, it was seizures. New pain blooming as he convulsed, his head banging hard into the hardwood floor as his limbs contorted into shapes that should be impossible, lights flashing in his eyes.
Plush carpet, soaked in blood Draco thought might be his own, pressed against his cheek. When had he fallen? How indecorous, he could have at least had the dignity to stay standing.
How long had it been? Time seemed to melt by, sinking around him instead of flowing as it usually did. Draco didn't know how long he stayed on the floor of the study, twitching, only that at some point, Voldemort crouched next to him, stroked a hand over his hair, and left.
Black finally took over, letting Draco drift into sweet unconsciousness, but even that didn't last long.
He awakened slowly, awareness coming in pieces. First, the feeling of a hand lifting his head, next, the feeling of vertigo as he's lifted, and flashes of long stretches of hallway.
Finally, he was set on something hard, and familiar. Something about the smell and sound and feel let him fall into a more natural and true sleep, soothing the pain that still sent aftershocks through his limbs.
Waking the second time, it was because a potion is being shoved down his throat. Draco spluttered, trying to push away the black-clad arm hovering by his face, though his arms still felt hollow and numb.
"Would you stop your infernal slapping?" A familiar and annoyed voice huffed.
"Ngh." Draco replied, eloquently.
Severus sighed, his voice growing fainter as he moved away, "How long?"
Something in Draco startled at the sudden loss, and before he could register, his arm shot out to grab his godfather's robe. Severus paused, and Draco could feel a part of himself wither with sudden humiliation.
He was Lord Malfoy-Black, and here he was, clinging to Severus' robe like an infant. He quickly let go, but his godfather didn't attempt to leave again.
"How long, Draco?" He said, voice growing closer again.
Draco tried to open his eyes, but even the dim lighting of a Potion Master's room felt like ice picks to his eyelids, "Dunno'." He managed to slur out, with only minimal effort.
"What do you mean you don't know?" Severus said incredulously, "Draco, when did you go to see him?"
Truth was, Draco couldn't remember when he went to see The Dark Lord, or how long he'd been under the curse. He tried to swallow, but nausea made him clench his eyes shut.
Memory loss, the first and most obvious sign of permanent cruciatus damage. He would have bigger and bigger chunks of time slip away from him, as his mind began to protect him where his body could not. Then, he would lose feeling permanently in his limbs, as his nerves began to fry.
Draco wouldn't consider what happened after that. Couldn't.
He threw an arm over his eyes as best he could, "I don't know, Sev'r's."
Another sigh, "Very well, that's good enough, I suppose." He stepped away, the click of his heels sounding as he walked to his potions bench.
Almost unconsciously, Draco began to work through the steps Severus had taught him for a Nerve Dampening Potion, its strength and concentration would depend on how far along the damage already stretched. Giving a long term subject a strong concentration would result in flashbacks and possible seizures, as the brain struggled to separate the sensation from the original curse.
Asphodel, wiggentree, modified Draught of Living Death, stirred twice clockwise, three times counter, low heat.
Draco lost himself in the recipe, able to identify the steps from sound alone after all of the time he'd spent sitting in this very room, listening to Severus make small batches of essential potions.
He woke a third time, to a still warm potion held below his nose. This time, he drank it without fuss, letting the artificial peace spread through him before falling asleep again.
When he came-to for hopefully the last time that day, he was in his own bed, surrounded by soft sheets and feathered pillows. Sitting up, Draco ignored the lingering twinge in his chest, arm, and knee. He was still in his clothes from earlier, which he was thankful for, but when he reached a hand to his face, there was no blood.
Draco hated to think of Severus wiping his face, again it made him feel like a child. He was supposed to be above that kind of thing.
He needed a break, some kind of reprieve. Draco's routine here was getting dull, as strange as it sounded, which meant it was time.
"Mipsy." He called, a strange pang in his chest when he realised he couldn't call for Kreature safely, even though the elf would be able to hear him.
Mipsy popped into the room, bowing shallowly, "Yes, Lord Draco?"
He rubbed a hand over his eyes, "A bath, please." He still needed to clean the rest of the blood drying on his throat and chest. Draco looked, and was surprised to see his cane resting next to the bed, placed carefully against the side table.
Bathing and dressing himself was tedious so soon after the curse had lifted, lingering shocks of pain causing him to twitch oddly, but eventually those too faded, leaving Draco ready to face The Dark Lord again. Draco let himself fall back into his mask of calm, pulling composure over himself like a blanket.
Knocking on the door, he almost expected fear, but nothing came. Draco didn't feel anything more than the typical unease entering The Dark Lord's study.
"Come in."
Draco opened the door, dipping at the waist, "My lord, I've come to ask you a favour."
"Draco, I didn't expect to see you . . .up, so soon." The Dark Lord did indeed sound faintly surprised.
Maybe this could work, "I've always been quick, my lord."
"What would you ask of me?" The Dark Lord questioned, tilting his head.
"Let me visit my parents." Draco asked, flicking his eyes up quickly, before lowering them again.
The move worked, and Voldemort seemed to smile, "You hardly need my permission to see your family."
"But I ask it all the same." Draco let an exaggerated twitch jerk his left arm. It was nice that even the high and mighty Dark Lord could be swayed by such simple manipulation.
"For how long?"
"Only a few days, at most, I will be back the moment you call me, of course."
The Dark Lord studied him, and Draco held still, some irrational part of him convinced it would all fall apart the second he moved.
"Very well. You've done your duties well, I can live without your service for a few days."
"Thank you, my lord, I intended to leave this evening, if it suits you."
"So soon?" An edge entered The Dark Lord's tone, and Draco swore mentally to himself.
What could he say? His only two options were to present more weakness.
"I've made this . . . arrangement for their benefit. I'd like to see how they fare."
The Dark Lord simply looked at him for a few more moments, but eventually lifted a hand, waving him away, "Fine. You're dismissed."
"Thank you, my lord." Draco bowed, stepping backwards out of the room.
He'd done it. The hardest part was over, now, he just needed to find whatever tail The Dark Lord would inevitably send with him, and find a way to keep their mouth shut.
If he was only leaving for a few days, there was no need to pack, so Draco walked instead to the library. The Manor had portkey's to the wizarding sectors of France, Scotland, Germany, and Japan, in case they ever needed to visit a property, or had a meeting with a local potions master.
The Dark Lord had heard him tell his parents to stay at the French townhouse, but he had never specified which townhouse, and there were several on both sides of his family. In truth, Draco didn't know where his parents were, only that they were in France.
So Draco didn't bother looking over his shoulder when he grabbed the portkey, whispering a quick 'asphodel' to activate it. A quick tugging sensation, and then he was standing in the middle of an old house, white sheets covering all visible furniture, and dust floating through the air, catching the light.
Normally, Draco's father would have the house elfs come ahead of them, to prepare the house, but evidently, his parents had been smarter than that.
Draco settled himself, reaching for the part of him that was tied to the Black Family magic. He let it centre him, taking root in his heart, and temporarily filling the hole he had lived with since claiming the title of Lord Malfoy.
There was another tug, this time more similar to apperating with Kreature than anything else, and Draco was standing in the foyer of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.
There was only a moment before several things happened in quick succession.
First, Great Aunt Walburga began to scream, "Oh! Draco, my darling! You're here! Purge the house of these filthy mudbloods!"
Then, Sirius burst through the door, followed closely by Lupin and Potter, to varying degrees of surprise.
Lastly, the world seemed to narrow, as Blaise and his mother stepped into the room. And for the first time in a long while, Draco hesitated.
The blank emptiness thrumming through him, for the first time fell away completely, fracturing into a million small pieces.
" . . .Blaise?" Had Draco's voice always been that hoarse? In a second, every change he'd experienced in the past months ran through his mind, his hair, his height, his leg, his scars, all of it culminating in a new person, a different person than the boy Blaise knew.
Blaise didn't react, just moving forward until he stood directly in front of Draco.
This couldn't be real. Blaise was at Hogwarts, safe. Draco had left him, so he'd be far away from all of this. It had to be a hallucination, another cruciatus side effect. There was no way, in the nine circles of hell, that Blaise was here.
But then Blaise, Draco's north star, his fiancé, the only person who had never made Draco doubt the nature of love, fit himself into the space under Draco's chin, wrapping his arms around Draco's waist, fitting them together like they were only one person. And he was so warm, so real, so human, he seemed to melt through every wall Draco had tried to build. He fit himself right back into Draco's chest, cracking it open and making his home next to Draco's heart, like it was still the same red organ, and not just a decorative piece.
"Draco." Blaise sighed, pressing his face into the collar of Draco's robes, "You are an asshole."
Draco was so struck for a moment, so utterly taken off guard, that he didn't move, for all his seeker reflexes, for all the duelling lessons, for everything in the world, Draco couldn't react. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides, still tense in anticipation of a fight, and he continued to look straight ahead, though his vision was hazy at best.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to sob and scream and cling to Blaise, but the tears wouldn't come, and for all that Draco felt that briefly missing part of himself come back, it was all drowned out by the knowledge Draco was undeniably different now.
But Draco was weak. So, so weak, so he lowered his arms, and ignored the stares, and hugged his fiancé.