The Shingle Beach

It was noon – or at least the clocks said it was. The sun appeared unusually dull, as it cast its sparse rays over the long stretch of shingle beach, upon which hundreds of black cloaked figures were moving about tirelessly, erecting tents, cooking food, practicing spells and causing quite a stir of activity in general. The grey waves that lashed the shore with no real vigor gave off a funereal vibe.

As if things weren't depressing enough. So, thought Draco Malfoy, as he sat on a large flat-topped boulder, his blonde hair swaying in the cruel breeze, staring out at the vast expanse of sea. It had been an onerous morning for him. He had been awoken in the gigantic tent he shared with seventy other recruits (before the sun had even risen) by the detestable morning trumpets, and had hurriedly donned his black tunic, robe and hood. He had then rushed down to the Instruction Arena.

Draco and his fellow Death Troopers had arranged themselves into ten rows of ten, and then the Drill had begun. The morning's focus had been common army maneuvers. The entire unit had spent several hours practicing tactical moves like flanking against simulated opponents. The exercise had included fighting inferi, who had been so skillfully bewitched, they proved extremely dangerous opponents. The punishment for every missed curse or hex was an extremely accurate one from the instructor, who to Draco's consternation was none other than his father's dear old friend Rodolphus Lestrange.

That was what happened in the Instruction Arena, which constituted a tiny fraction of the total area of the camp. The camp was elliptical in shape and a ditch (twelve feet wide and nine feet deep) bordered the entire circuit. Pikes, magically bewitched to cause death in one thrust had been driven into the soil in the ditches. On the inner side was a ten foot high wall. Towered outposts had been constructed at regular intervals along the wall from where watchful Death Troopers monitored the surroundings.

Midway through the lengthy ditch that formed the northern border of the camp was a mighty gate that had been hewn out of stone. It was wide to facilitate marching troops and provided easy access to the road a few miles away. Draco had heard enough to know that that road was critical in the Dark Lord's plans. Facing the beach, at the opposite end of the camp, was another gate. This gate had been built out of plain wood and was less impressive. It led to a lonely stretch of the beach that projected out onto the sea and was where people were taken to be executed or tortured. Many times, Draco had seen Death Eaters dragging rebels towards that dreaded gate, and very rarely were those wretched souls to be seen again.

That morning's drill had concluded, and after an unsavory snack at the canteen tent, Draco had rushed to his favorite haunt – the boulder that overlooked the sea. With no one to talk to, his major occupation in his free time had been watching the ships that glided into the artificial dock (that the Dark Lord had made himself). He would watch the ships skimming in and smirk as hundreds of black-cloaked figures tumbled clumsily out onto the sand. Some of them would spew out their stomachs in clear view of everyone. Others would search for a more private place.

A Death Eater would go down to meet the new arrivals and would conduct them up the rock-coated beach, towards a canopied enclosure and curtly command them to make camp. They would be thrown raw meat and told to feed themselves. They would be granted an evening to recoup and next morning onwards, they would be drilled to the point of collapse. No weakness of any sort was tolerated.

Draco had acquainted himself with several of the new arrivals, and had observed that several of them were foreign. He had identified French and Spanish accents among others. They were those who had committed themselves to join the ranks of The Dark Horde, the latest of Voldemort's many conceptions. They were a diverse group. There were those who had always been fascinated by the Dark Arts. You could recognize them by the look of delight they sported as they learnt gory new curses. Then there were the outlaws – those who had been ousted from society – and were seeking to exact their revenge by whatever means possible.

Voldemort's Dark Horde was a many layered body. It's most elementary combatant, the Dark Trooper was what Draco was undergoing training to become. The Dark Trooper was the Dark Lord's answer to the Ministry Auror. He had personally devised a strict regime of training that was designed to convert men with reasonable ability into horrifyingly competent wielders of Dark Magic.

A Squadron of the Dark Horde consisted of fifty Troopers. It was under the command of a Trooper Captain, who was appointed on account of being the best performer during drills. Three such divisions were under the command of a Death Eater. The Death Eaters constituted Voldemort's intitial ring of supporters, who had found themselves in extremely powerful positions, with the sudden mass recruitment.

Draco had been dismayed, when rather than being appointed a Death Eater (as he had expected), he had been commanded to report to the Trooper barracks. Hadn't he proved that he possessed more caliber than several Death Eaters? What about the ingenious plan he had contrived to smuggle them into Hogwarts? The one that had resulted in Dumbledore's death?

However, he had soon realized though, that becoming a competent Trooper in itself would be one of the biggest challenges of his life. At school Draco had never managed to comprehensively teach his enemies a lesson. After being brought to this hellish beach, he had become a killing machine. Though he hadn't had any opportunity to test his new skills, he knew he was deadly. The deadly inferi he had blasted were enough proof.

Draco sensed movement and shifted his eyes to spot a figure striding up the beach towards him. He was tall and broad, with dark skin and lank brown hair. His eyeballs were colorless, giving him a spectral appearance that could shook the bravest. He would have looked like a dark, robed ghost were it not for the elegant network of tattoos that spiraled up his exposed arms. His name was Jacques. Draco knew very well that he had a violent history. He had been one of the most dreaded bank robbers of mainland Europe and had a record of several kills. He was a worthy addition to the Horde, or at least that was what Draco's instructor had said the day he had arrived.

His colorless eyes caught Draco's and he grinned demonically, revealing brown, even set teeth. A maniacal light glowed on his face, in spite of which he held himself with great composure. He raised his right arm in a gesture of peace as his eyes left Draco and scanned the beach.

'Malfoy' he said, waving his raised hand, his burnt fingers glinting in the sun. "Unit has been ordered to assemble in Instruction Arena"

Draco swore, realizing that he would be losing the precious free time he had. He slid off the boulder and straightened out to face the European killer. 'What the hell do they want?'

'I don't know' he responded, a mild smirk on his ghostly face. 'Better get moving though'

Draco dusted the sand off his black attire as beads of sweat soaked his collar line. Jacques had started off at a brisk pace towards the Arena some five hundred inland and Draco hurried to catch up with him.

'I've been hearing things about you Malfoy' said Jacques as Draco stepped into pace beside him, examining his tattoos. 'People say you killed some big shot wizard – Dumbles or something…..'

'Dumbledore' said Draco, quite flattered that word had spread around so quick. 'And I did kill the old bastard'

Jacques raised a thin eyebrow and nodded his head, impressed. His colorless eyes turned towards the sea, which was dotted with the evening shadows of incoming ships.

'I'm a little sick of the waiting, you know. I just wish the Dark Lord would give the order to invade. Can't wait to experiment with those curses we do in drill. Should be fun….'

He looked down at his tapering fingers and his mouth curled in anticipation.

'Where exactly is this place?'

'No clue myself' said Draco, feeling very frustrated at the fact. 'My mother and aunt are Death Eaters. I've tried finding out – but their lips are sealed – Damn them….' He caught his breath, waiting for Jacques to ask about his father, not sure what he was going to say – but Jacques's attention was elsewhere. Draco followed his gaze and realized that they had reached the Instruction Arena. Three Trooper Units including theirs were crowded around an elevated stage on which their instructor and Death Eater Rodolphus Lestrange stood, his black robes flying behind him grandly. The shining Dark Mark emblazoned on his chest's left side signified his position as a Death Eater. As they approached, he stuck his wand to his throat.

'Troopers, the time has come' he proclaimed. 'For several months now, you have been training hard and I have been witness to your progress. The Dark Lord is satisfied with the change his regime has wrought in you and has decreed that it is time to strike.' Lestrange's eyes gleamed with passion. This was clearly what he had been waiting for, for months.

'I know you have all exhibited exemplary discipline these past few months. You have worked diligently, and finally I can call you competent servants of the Dark Horde. Your performance in today morning's drill was very illuminating. It is now clear that Ministry forces will be no match for you…..'

'A week from now, we will move out. It is a matter of great honor that your units have been selected by the Dark Lord to be a part of the initial storming force that will pave the way for the rest of our invasion. As the remaining Troopers…..' he gestured towards the ships at sea '…..are being trained, it will be our task to secure a safe route for our forces to follow when the time is ripe…… we move in a week.'

He hopped off the stage, and the dust he kicked into the air triggered coughing fits in a few Troopers. Lestrange shook his head in disgust and set off at a brisk pace towards the main camp. As soon as he was sufficiently far off, babble of talk broke out among the Troopers.

'Finally' hissed Jacques, and he proceeded to shove several Troopers aside as he looked for a comfortable place to sit. He located a sand coated rock and marched towards it, kicking shins, bellies – anything as he made his way. 'After all these months, at last we can do some killing!'

'Damn right' said Draco, following Jacques (and being spared the necessity to clear a path) to the rock that protruded out of the sand. He felt fear along with the excitement. Despite all his training, there remained a minute possibility that……after all war always took casualties whichever side won….. 'We're going to do a lot of killing…..'

There was a sudden commotion as some Troopers spotted Lestrange heading back towards the gathering. He was jogging now, and he looked annoyed. His shoulder length hair sailed behind him along with his robes. Draco noticed that he carried a tiny scroll of parchment as he hopped onto the stage. He spat into the crowd, as he extracted his wand, and after clearing his throat said,

'Yes and – I forgot – you must be wondering who your Trooper captains are. Well Unit One will be commanded by Aetius Rompard, Unit Two by Jacques Asnani, and Unit Three by Skadi Thoradin. Captains are required to report to my tent tomorrow for further briefing…..you will in turn brief your units…..'

A cry of triumph pierced the air, assaulting Draco's ears and causing them to ache. He turned to see Jacques with his arms raised, hooting as his colorless eyes rolled in triumph. The mob was collectively stunned by this sudden outburst, but only for a moment, then bodies began rushing towards Jacques to congratulate him. Draco struggled to battle an urge to bellow out curses. He had had his eyes set on becoming Trooper Captain. He could not believe he had been shunned in favor of that common criminal.