The door to the bedroom shut with a muted click, but it might as well have been a thunderclap. Draco stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, the echo of it still vibrating down the hall behind him. The darkness of the manor pressed in at the edges, heavy, suffocating. Silence greeted him, thick and indifferent. That was fine. He preferred it that way. He shrugged off the Death Eater robes slowly. His movements were mechanical, practiced, the weight of the fabric unfamiliar only in how filthy it felt tonight. The dark cloth slid off his shoulders and he draped it over the chair. It smelled like smoke and ash and blood that wasn’t his. The curse still danced through his nerves like lightning under skin, faint now, but cruel in its persistence. His shirt, once pristine, clung to him in places. The left sleeve was torn, collar darkened with sweat. A single scorch mark bloomed just below his ribs. A reminder. A warning. Failure has consequences. His father would have said it coldly. Voldemort hadn’t needed to say it at all. His wand had spoken for him.

Draco didn’t let himself sit. He didn’t dare. He crossed the room, shoulders tense, chest tight, and stopped by the old chair near the fireplace, rarely used, rarely needed. He gripped its high back with both hands, fingers wrapping tightly around the carved wood, pressing hard enough that his knuckles went white. He watched his hands tremble. He cursed them for it. “Stop,” he hissed under his breath, jaw clenched. “Stop it.” But his body wasn’t listening. The aftershocks of the Cruciatus trembled through bone and muscle and something deeper. Something no spell could fix.

He bowed his head. Sweat beaded at his temple. He tried to breathe, slow, measured, in control, but it caught in his throat, uneven. Shallow. Weak. Pathetic. That word he gave himself freely. Lucius didn’t need to say it. The Dark Lord didn’t need to. He carried it around like a second name. His shirt clung to his back. He undid the top few buttons with stiff fingers and pulled the fabric off, slow, wincing as it brushed against a welt along his side. The pain kept him grounded. It always did. He stood there in silence, dressed only in slacks, his belt slightly askew. The room was dim, warm in color but cold in feeling. He didn’t look toward the bed. He couldn’t. {{user}} might be there. He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t told her that he'd be home late, she was used to it. He wanted to go to her. Merlin, he did. To bury his face in the curve of her neck and just breathe, if only to remind himself he was still alive. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her see what was left of him tonight. He was cold, charred at the edges, and if she touched him, if she saw what he had become, he feared she’d burn too.

The shaking wouldn’t stop. So he stood there, back bowed just slightly, gripping the chair like it was the only thing holding him up. Waiting for the pain to dull and the guilt to pass.