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Draco wondered why he bothered begging for his life.
He knew he would not see the mercy he sought, and yet he dredged up the last of his dignity and threw it at the feet of the man who controlled his fate.
Laying there on the dirt, covered in his own cold sweat, he had never felt filthier before. The April night was cruel, wind whipping his skin and screaming in his ears. Draco had seen the Cruciatus Curse delivered so many times before. He was familiar with the uncontrollable twitching and writhing, yet he had never felt it before that day. He thought that when his skin had been completely lacerated the year before, that would be the worst pain he would ever feel, but he knew now the naivety of the thought.
"I am disappointed in you, Draco," the Dark Lord hissed, ignoring Draco's whispered pleading. "You have settled the fate of your family... betrayed your kin and your lord... for a filthy half-blood?"
"My... my Lord," Draco gasped, his fingers outstretched. His vision was blurred. He could vaguely make out the figure of a pale tall man above him, but the details swirled upwards into a never ending night sky. The moon was gone for the night. He knew he would be able to see the stars if he could only see at all.
Something cold landed on his face. It took him several moments to realize that it was beginning to rain. It was a slow, gentle rain, but he could feel his fingers stiffening as the cold seeped towards his bones. He wondered where his parents were. He wondered how they would react when they would see his dead body — if the Dark Lord even allows them that privilege. He wondered if they would be struck with sorrow or if they would be grateful that they no longer had a son to sully their name. He wondered if they would bury him gently or burn him to ashes. He wondered if their bodies would soon join him in the tomb.
"Hendrik," the Dark Lord's harsh voice snapped.
Draco could only vaguely make out footsteps emerging from his left. A large figure loomed over him, just a bit taller than the Dark Lord, yet bigger and squarer.
"He's yours."
—
There was something about the reception area that was making Draco feel like he might explode.
Many things, actually. For one, the ticking of the clock above the Welcome Witch's desk seemed to hasten his heartbeat with each second. Despite the clamor and chaos of the room, the clock was the loudest thing in Draco's ears. Of course, the openly wounded and ill patients only added to his unease, as the St. Mungo's visitor's entrance essentially doubled as the emergency room waiting area.
