1.
It rained the night Draco Malfoy made it to Louisiana. He flew high above the thunder as lightning sliced the sky. The electricity filled him with a sense of life and purpose that Hogwarts and England and Death Eaters and even Harry Potter never could.
He felt power here; the power of God or Merlin or Mother Nature or any deity ever worshipped and exalted since time, interminable. When thunder tried to hide what the lightning saw, he could feel the energy dancing through every fibre of his being.
He didn't know what had drawn him to New Orleans. It certainly wasn't the tragedy that befell the city. After all, why would he care for plebeians? Potter was the 'hero', Draco was simply a spy.
But the Americans had come to help fight in the Second Dark War and had accepted him in their ranks when the Order of the Phoenix would not. Even when they kissed, Harry Potter still kept one eye open fixedly on Draco, like a bad imitation of Mad-Eye Moody.
Did he feel he owed the Americans something? No, that certainly wasn't it: he had already saved the Vice President's son from a Death Eater-assassination attempt when he came to visit London. He had supplied them with information they used to help tip the scales to the Order's side. His treachery all but guaranteed Voldemort's fall – and that was for the benefit of the entire world.
No, Draco didn't 'owe' anyone. In fact, the Order, Britain, and the world, owed Draco. Nevertheless, years after the war, Draco had enough. He fled. Well, 'fled' is a strong word – a coward's word – and Draco was no coward. He was, quite simply, tired.
He touched down in 'Crescent City' just as the night sky cleared, but not before one final thunderous boom cracked the eerie quite. Like the arch-angel Gabriel's horn trumpeting the coming of the Four Horsemen, the thunder declared: 'Draco Malfoy has come to New Orleans.'