And then Draco stood gasping and swaying with pain and exhaustion in front of his father and Lucius spat out the cruciatus, and Draco sobbed once before he crumpled to the ground. Twitching, convulsing agony tore through his injured body, his teeth clacking together as he spasmed. Bit his tongue. His maimed and broken arm flopped limply about, an agony in itself. His back arched and eyes snapped wide open, staring up at the starry sky. And through the agony, all Draco could form into coherent thought was; you have to mean it; he hates me. He hates me.