Authors note: I know. I've been the absolute worst, disappearing, then reappearing for a moment, then gone again. I am sorry! I am much less stressed now that my life had evened out a bit, so I can hopefully write much more often.
Warnings: Cursing.
Disclaimer: Nothing in the world, nor the characters are mine!
Magic had seemed like a thing to be taken for granted before all this, like air. There was more than enough of it, and it was everywhere. Now, it was more like blood. He could feel it pulsing, could feel it keeping him alive, and just like blood there was only so much of it. But instead of running out, he sometimes would get to the point, though not in a while, not since Voldemort, where he felt like the magic was building up under his skin, reaching a boiling point that felt dangerous.
Now, on the steps of the manor, waiting for Voldemort to attack, to try and kill all his friends, his magic felt thick, rushing, and uncontrollable. Draco stared blankly at the stars, the tiny dots of light seemed endless.
He hadn't said good by to Potter, or any of them, they had gone while Draco and his wolves were hunting, but Draco didn't care. He felt numb, and blank, and removed as if he was viewing something from one room over, casually.
He suspected that he should feel guilty, for what had just happened, back there, in the woods, but his distant, scattered thoughts were mainly a bit melancholy. His father was gone, his childhood home destroyed, his mother dead. His school was taken over by a crazy person, and he had just sent all his friends to scatter across the countryside.
All vestiges of his old life were gone, and now, he found he missed it. He missed being mostly preoccupied with potions essays, and with his mothers Christmas parties, and with the dramatics and tiffs of his house, and quidditch, and everything that was normal. Not knowing terrible things, not having done terrible things.
He missed life before the wolf, which no matter how hard he tried, seemed like a completely different entity, in his body with him, vying for dominance. Sometimes, what the wolf wanted, blood, and the hunt, was more than what Draco wanted. And though he wasn't an old world werewolf, seperatists who would rather sever themselves for the wolf at the price of being unaware of what the wolf did to them, he didn't always feel like the picture of harmony between the wolf and himself. He wasn't at war with himself like they were, but he wasn't in cohesion, he didn't always like the vicious joy of the hunt, the love of adrenaline that drove him to some of his more erratic actions lately.
Draco sat, with his wolves, morosely philosophizing and moping about the past, and that was where they were when the attack finally came.
It came suddenly, as a loud thunder like smashing sound. The air rippled with magic, as the wards were assaulted, and Draco could practically feel the magic buckling under the power of whatever was out there. The wards were pretty strong, but nothing like Hogwarts, not around the whole castle, they weren't strong enough for that, and Draco calmly rose, presuming that soon, they would be broken through.
Suddenly all sound ceased, and like a vaccum, sucking not only the air, but the magic, and the life force from the air around them, for a moment, the world was devastatingly still. And then there were the loud snaps of apparition, and death eaters were everywhere. Draco stood, and shifted easily, his pack following his lead easily. Magic was bright, and easy to dodge for the most part in this form, and so Draco sprang forwards, sharp eyes assessing the situation before him.
Maybe 20 wizards, no wolves. This was a bit unexpected, he had expected more wolves and less wizards, assuming that children, who may have been a thorn in the dark lords side, weren't exactly a huge obstacle in most of his dastardly plans, that they wouldn't warrant fully trained wizards.
Then it struck him. He cursed mentally, coming to a sliding stop, and shifting from one canine form to his other, and threw back his big, square hyenas head, and let out his highest pitched cackle, narrow amber eyes trained on the turrets. The few spells that were firing from the heights of the castle stopped, and though Draco couldn't tell, he hoped Pan had the sense to use the portkey and get the hell out.
He'd hardly shifted back into a wolf when ropes shot out of the wizards wands, binding his legs, throwing him down gripping and pulling too tightly.
Fuck. A trap. Fuck. What did they want him for? He hoped that Potter and his lot were long gone, with Pan and them equally as far away from this trap.
His mind moved at a million miles an hour as he was levitated, trying to convey a sense of calm, for the sake of the pack. Did they want them to torture them? Did they want to kill them publically, as an example, like the muggle borns in the paper had been? Or did Voldemort just need some new fur coats?
Whatever this was, it wasn't the fight he'd bargained for, and he was pretty sure they were fucked.
The dark lords camp, where they were was a miserable place. They were in cages, like common animals, shackled with thick, dark red chains that prevented them from changing forms. Whatever this magic was, it felt oily and disgusting, coating everything.
They had no shelter, and there were no walls to muffle the sounds of the terrible place. Cole was on one side of him, in a separate cage, Oliver on the other side, also in his own cage. The rest of the pack was a little ways down, in a different row of cages, bigger ones, where they were all together. The row where Draco, Cole, and Oliver were was where the Recombinants were kept. There were four strange wolves, cowed, with hollow eyes that were listless. There was also two vampires, whose cages were at least covered, though barely, and they were more manacled than any of the wolves, and Draco ahd yet to see either of them open their eyes. There was a young banshee, a gag made of dirty rags in her mouth, in a cage that she could hardly sit up in, and last there was a small goblin child, curled up, eyes scrwed up, shut firmly to block out the world.
The others were all branded in the subsequent day and a half, and every time a searing wand tip was pressed to someone's skin, Draco could smell the thick, awful smell of fear, and of burning fur and flesh.
They were in the shadow of an old house, but the magic here was more than palpable, it was like the most humid day of the summer, the air thick with evil, a smell that made Draco's stomach turn.
For two days they were mostly ignored, to pace in their cages, and in Draco's case to wallow in guilt for getting them caught in the trap.
But then, it got worse. There was training, but more forceful than the sessions back, last summer, where people would threaten his parents, then make him perform, then allow his family to live. Now, the punishment for resisting was the crutiatus curse, and the heavy handed death eaters who barked the orders had nasty little, thin fibered whips that dug into your skin, and then ripped themselves out again when used.
This was better than having the actual Voldemort himself judge and rage at them, but being locked in a kennel with magic constraining every move was maddening.
