Angst
I can’t be sure.
The words turned and turned in his mind.
They’d both come out of it alive. Draco could barely believe it, curled up on bed, body aching with every movement. The Dark Lord had been very calm when he’d heard the Death Eaters’ recount of Harry Potter and his friends’ escape; had asked to see Draco in a perfectly collected tone.
He’d just as calmly pointed his wand at Draco and Crucio’d him until he was hoarse from screaming.
I can’t be sure.
No, Draco hadn’t been sure. He hadn’t been sure they’d survive the encounter; hadn’t been sure he’d survive the blood-chilling fear seeping into his bones, freezing him in place, suffocating him.
He was sure of one thing, though. If Harry didn’t win this war, there was no way he’d be able to carry on. If Voldemort reigned, it would be the end of him, either by the Dark Lord’s wand or by his own.
He pointed his mother’s wand at himself—the feeling of it awkward in his hand, the core of it reticent to fully accepting his magic. “Silencio!” he cast, and once he was sure not a sound was coming out of him, he buried his face in his pillow and sobbed until his own terror was clouded by numbness.