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Feeling the air glide over him, the cold biting at his cheeks, reminds him that he is alive. It gives him respite from the turmoil of war to feel so far removed from society. The downside, because there always is a downside, is that the others can’t join him. They can’t share in the freedom of flying, unable to experience the joy of hovering above all the shite that crawls below.
Draco drops lower, bored of watching the sparks of magic flick back and forth between the bodies darting in and out of the tree line. He surveys the area in one final swooping arch and makes his way back to the coastline. Theo, the mad man, has his bare feet in the water splashing around with unbridled glee as though the temperature is not well below freezing and the middle of winter is not fast approaching. And with grace, Draco Malfoy lands on the pile of rocks that Pansy has arranged into a tower before shaking off his Animagus form and knocking the entire display over.
She hits him with a stinging jinx in the thigh. “You rat bastard Draco Malfoy! That took me all night.”
“Maybe you should find more productive ways to occupy your time.” He laughs at the scowl that mars her features.
“We can’t all transform into great birds of prey and play the role of watcher for the Dark Lord.” Blaise says, or at least Draco think it’s Blaise but it is impossible to discern wizard from wool through the number of scarfs he is wrapped in.
“No,” Theo chimes in “Some of us transform into little mice and are sent to spy in the toilets of The Order instead!”
“At least you get sent on missions.” Pansy’s bottom lip slots out into a pout.
Draco flinches. They are the runts of the Death Eaters, and everyone knows it. The children of the disgraced and destined to bear the sins of the parents, they’ve all done what is needed to survive but he knows, with complete certainty, he could never do what Pansy does. Could never take in stride what she is forced to endure. He would proudly take the Avada between his eyes than warm the beds of Wizards twice his age. Each time that Mr Parkinson loans Pansy to the highest bidder to improve his standing within the new world order, Draco adds a line to the tally he keeps in his mind and one of these days, Mr Parkinson wills reap what he sows.
Theo’s long arm wraps around Pansy’s waist, and he pulled her to feet. There is a fondness in his light eyes that he reserves for Pansy only. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“And the battle update?” Blaise asks, his dark eyes peek through the cream scarf wrapped far too tightly around his face.
“Identical to the last one.”
Theo’s shoulders tighten, Pansy’s eyes widen, and Blaise takes one scarf off. “Surely not?” They ask in unison.
“The Order are advancing steadily, and without their moral compass holding them back, they are decimating the Dark Lord’s ranks. Dolohov made a mistake in killing Kingsley.” He sighs, carding his hands through his hair, and is mildly surprised that the ends now tickle the top of his shoulders, he’ll be looking like his father soon enough. “With Mad Eye at the helm, it is pandemonium on the battle fields. What was it the old codger used to say?”
“Constant vigilance.” Pansy says, in between biting her nails. A habit that Draco hasn’t seen her do since the spring before OWLS.
“Draco!” Theo shouts, pointing erratically at the sky. “The metal birds! The metal birds.”
There isn’t enough time to remind Theo that the word he is searching for is aeroplane before the planes start dropping fire. “Run and keep running until you reach the village. Wait for me by the clock tower.”
There is no time to hear them ask him to be safe or implore him to not go flying into the danger, Draco knows he has a role, and he cannot afford the price of failing.
He flies high, as high into the sky as he can go without putting himself in the path of the planes. The woodland below is on fire, the flames burning high and thick, dark smoke begins to billow furiously from the inferno. The Death Eaters try to apparate to safety but The Order having pre-empted this has set up an anti-apparition boundary, Draco watches as scores of Death Eaters splinch themselves trying to flee. Limbs, torsos, and unattached heads are strewn across the forest. The stench of burning flesh is too much even for his falcon senses and so he flies higher, dangerously higher to where the planes are drawing circles in the sky.
The pilot of the larger plane stares at him. The strong set of his jaw is somewhat recognisable to Draco and yet the rest of his face is obscured by glasses and strange earmuffs with a stick attached to the end.
“Nighthawk to ground, over.” The pilot says, “Nighthawk to Nargles.”
Its nonsensical to Draco, an indecipherable string of words that surely means something. His wings flutter and almost stop working when he hears the response.
“Nargles to Nighthawk, over.” The falcon’s beady eyes search the plane, he even makes a lap around the metal contraption but finds only the pilot seated in there. “Nighthawk, is there a problem?”
He hasn’t heard her voice since her stay at the Manor. It’s a stretch of meaning to call her time at the Manor a stay but the word prisoner twists his heart. Something akin to relief, if Falcons can feel relief, blooms in his chest.
“Aye, there’s an odd-lookin’ bird makin’ eyes at me.”
“Seamus,” The woman’s melodic voice crackles “This line is for emergencies.”
“This is an emergency woman! You’re good with animals, tell me if the blasted thing is endangered so I know if I can kill it or not!”
“Nighthawk, you are being preposterous. Keep your eyes on the ground. Wait for my signal and prepare for phase two. Boudicca over.”
It is no surprise to hear Granger’s biting tone. She rapidly ascended the ranks of The Order after the Dark Lord came back and with Kingsley gone, the rumour mill churns out whispers that she is second in command to General Moody.
Seamus gives Draco, in his falcon form, one last scathing look before flying towards a large clearing and without fear of the fire that the planes bring, Draco resumes his role as watcher. There are less than twenty survivors, all of which are injured or on the brink of dying, and all of them are Death Eaters, there are no casualties for The Order. The Dark Lord will be furious.
She steps out of the treeline, her long hair spun like gold practically glows against the moonlight and her bare feet walk through the burning grass with abandon. She looks like an angel. He descends into the trees, as close to her as he can get, and watches. She isn’t alone but he doesn’t care to count which Weasleys are there, or to search for Potter’s specky face in the throng of people. Luna doesn’t look as gaunt nor as sickly as she did at the Manor. Her hips and jaw have filled out, a wonderous sign that she is eating, and her bright eyes have their whimsical look back.
Merlin, he is happy to see her.
His joy switches to shock with such velocity he squawks. The remaining Death Eaters are slaughtered, and the air is alive with dark magic, some of which not even Voldemort authorises his ranks to use. The battle of Uig Woods is over before it ever really started. The Order leaves, laughing and throwing playful jabs are one another, boasting over their death counts.
“Where is Seamus? He owes me 10 sickles!” An older Weasley shouts, his long red hair covering the scars that Fenrir gave him.
It is quiet when they leave. A suffocating quiet, the kind that could swallow you whole. Draco ruffles his feathers and prepares to leave when two hands with colourful painted nails reach out to him.
“You must be the birdy that scared Seamus.” Luna says, her piercing eyes send a shiver through him that is swiftly eased when she reaches out to caress his beak with a hooked finger. “But you aren’t scary, are you? No, I don’t think so. I think you remind me of someone, of a boy with hair like moonlight and a heart of gold if only people cared to look.”
Does she know? She can’t know, it’s impossible. No one outside his friends and Lord Voldemort knows that he is an Animagus. But Luna gives him a look that only Luna can give, and it scares him. It pleases him in equal measure. “Go on, I think you need to fly home. I think your master will want to see you.”
He doesn’t see the curse coming. He feels it slice his left eye and barely has time to register Luna shoot a mean curse back at Seamus who dodges it at the last second, it hits the tree behind him leaving a great gaping hole in the centre of the trunk.
“You are a mean man Seamus Finnegan!”
“Aye,” He answers “War will do that to a man, Lovegood. Now stop doting over strays and get back to base. Thing looks evil anyways” He points to the trees. “You can’t be slowing us down, it ain’t safe.”
Draco leaves, his vision impaired and hopes that he is going in the right direction. It is fright that holds him in the sky. Unable to glide in the air, he now wobbles and dips every other second as he tries to hold his balance. It’s impossible to form a coherent thought around the pain.
Blaise’s stupid bloody scarfs are what he notices first, he screeches and his small group waves at him. Their delighted smiles drop instantly. When he knows it is safe, he stops fighting gravity and lets himself fall.
Theo’s wide palms catch him, but it is Pansy’s steady hand that casts the necessary charms. His loses his grip on consciousness but comes back to himself when she beings to drag her wand against his cheek stitching his skin back together. His hand twitches. He doesn’t remember transforming back into a person.
“Open up mate, you need to drink this.” Blaise nudges a potion vial against his lips, and he swallows obediently.
He lets Theo and Blaise feed him potions and tries to ignore Pansy’s casting spell after spell on his face. She stops, wand arm dropping to her side, and leans into Theo who mops sweat from her brow. She bursts into tears at this gentle touch.
“I c-c-can’t get your vision back.” She sobs “My magic is d-depleted. Mungo’s, you n-n-need to get to Mungo’s.”
He fumbles with the empty vials and pulls memories from his mind, floating them into the containers. “Take these to the Dark Lord.” Part of him is grateful that he won’t have to see the snake-like wizard and let him riffle through his mind. He’s too weak in this state and needs time to bury the memories of Luna safely away from the Dark Lord’s wicked reach.
Blaise takes them his hand clasps Draco’s, and squeezes. “What happened?”
“The Order,” He says, “are ruthless. They slaughtered them, every single one of them. No prisoners.”
He finds it painful to speak, the muscles in his cheek twinge and creak. “They are different now, darker than I ever thought possible. Meaner and crueller. They can’t see they are turning into the monsters they are so desperate to defeat.
“It doesn’t matter who wins anymore. They might defeat the Dark Lord but after the war, they won’t recall they were ever human. That they were ever good.”