Draco had cried when the Dark Lord had ordered his right hand to be amputated, cried like a weakling and they had all laughed at him, mocked him. After that he had never cried again, no matter what they had done. He had saved his tears until he had been in his bedroom, trying to heal his injuries with a wand he had stolen from the body of a mudblood the Dark Lord had kept strung up in the dining room. And when he had been locked up in the filthy cells beneath his family home, and they tortured and hurt him, he had held back his tears until he was alone. His screams he couldn’t control, but whether or not he cried? That, he had still been able to control, and so he had.