The floor is cold and hard. Draco is stranded like a beetle on its back, ready to have its wings plucked off by children with cruel faces and sharp laughter. All he can move is his head but he refuses to move it, refuses to look around at the mocking faces taking their pleasure in his terror. And it is terror, abject and complete as he wills his limbs to move and they remain limp and lifeless, splayed out over the chill marble.