The hard road

Chapter 15

-/-/-

The bewildered looks of the other men told him that he was not the only legionnaire who had never driven. Instructors separated the class into two groups: Drivers who simply needed to fulfill the paperwork requirement, and people like himself. His group predominately came from big cities with efficient public transportation where driving was a luxury or rural backwaters where automobiles barely existed.

Luckily, they had a video explaining the signs and rules. Speed limits and the myriad of signs made no sense until he passed young boys wandering the roadsides, cars belching smoke and trucks with wheels rattling loose. It took all Draco's concentration and willpower to remain awake now that the days and nights slushed together. Two rounds of videos and then a written test. The first group of casualties craned and wrung their hands, apparently unable to read the French. This winnowing reduced the group to a churlish Drang-Zorn from Vienna who never forgave the Allies for sullying his favorite city by saddling it with Austria, a fast talking Hasslich from New York City who had an unsettling obsession with bridges, a pale-white Lowen from Finnish Russia who refused to call Leningrad St Petersberg, and himself. He wondered if the rest of them had been roped into driving so that their NCO's could drink. Whatever the reason, it got him out of three hours of floor scrubbing, hole digging, and vegetable peeling each day.

Two weeks later came a road test practical on various types of parking as well as navigating a warren of narrow Roman roads which wound through the middle of Aubagne. The instructor blanched when he told of Potter and Weasley crashing a flying car into the roof at Hogwarts. It was strange, his entire life seemed so distant and sheltered. It was like he grew up in some sort of strange fishbowl that didn't exist anywhere else. His mind drifted to his mother. Now that he was out in the muggle world, he recognized the tells that while his father cloistered in the Wizarding world, mother was more cosmopolitan than he had been raised to believe. Two thirds of her wardrobe came from muggle tailors in London, Paris, Vienna, and New York. Mother and father had lived separately for years. He stayed in the manor while she spent most of her time on The Continent. Did she drive? Ride muggle trains? Fly in airplanes?

The brown lump of a car lumbered around a turn and lurched to a stop behind a puttering moped. It would be fairly easy to charm a car to drive itself, easier to imperius someone to do it for you, but piloting the ponderous thing through thronging crowds brought a certain thrill. What would his father think? Draco Malfoy had the entire world opening for him, if only because his entire command loved getting sloshed while he drove them from bar to bar. Watching other men drink was still better than shoveling out latrines in the July heat.

-/-/-

Draco shot awake with a snort and scrubbed his eyes. Half-seven. The sun was headed toward the trees but it was still bright as noonday. Summer days were just so gloriously long here. He rummaged his inventory of healing potions and then charmed all the bottles unbreakable. Six dozen vials slid into padded sleeves and from there into an internally extended belt pouch. This one could take a direct shot from a Grimm and not spill a drop, in theory at least.

The dull ache throbbed deep in his chest. The bullet wounds had never really stopped hurting even though they had healed. The place Koszjek tried to bite him in half reminded him of such, even though there was nothing left save the ache. His shoulder clicked as he stretched the stiffness out. Apparently, the stupid bloke had left a few teeth buried in the bone, but the pain was from yesterday's hand to hand against Chevon fighting in his orange and black striped tiger wesen form. His reward was another broken shoulder. He had done all right, though, breaking the big man's jaw and collarbone. They didn't even bother going to the medic anymore, they just glugged down more potion. Sure, pain roared as his bones twisted and snapped back into position but it was worlds better than Rosencrantz yelling at them.

And never mind that all the stupid potions forced him to shave three times a day to pass inspection. Like his father, he had never been particularly hairy. Shaving twice or three times a week had been plenty outside of special occasions. Apparently the Black genes were kicking in. The stuff was everywhere now. His chest, back, arms, and legs were covered in coarse, blonde curls. Luckily it had not sprouted out of his collar like Uncle Faroan. The man was a walking bear rug all the way up to his shiny, bald pate. He looked like a dog in shorts.

He admired the thick muscles under the body hair. Draco Malfoy was no longer a bony skeleton. He now looked like an actual man. Luckily, all his uniforms were charmed to automatically resize. He had gained so much muscle from the pack mule duty that he could never possibly have fit into his original issue uniforms.

July's Werewolf crazy kicked off tonight. Truthfully, it shouldn't be all that bad given the things he learned last time. Draco's magic was thrumming and surging. His mouth was wet anticipating crucios, blasting curses, cutting curses, flames, and lightning. Sunset was coming and the imperius hung on the tip of his tongue.

But there was another aspect. Full immunity and a barrel of healing potion meant the opportunity to test his fighting on a willing opponent. Surely, if he could break the jaw of a muscular Rißfleisch, he could stand against a medium sized werewolf.

Aunt Bella was completely out of her mind by the end, but Greyback cowered around her. It shouldn't be all that bad... Assuming they didn't rip his throat out.

The night started out with the circle in the medical quarantine building discussing tonight's plans and each of their roles. It was uncanny how you could recognize every single one of the aux sans and PM's woged. Even in werewolf form, they were easy to identify. Next came the round of shots. Anti-parasitics, dewormers, various antibiotic, and the lycanthropy boosters, and then the meal. An extra-special treat they proclaimed. Every single one of them gorged. They gulped blue rare meat down, bones and all, chugged gallons of milk, juice, and protein shakes. Of course, he would have preferred his food more cooked, but blinding hunger drove everything down his gullet. He recognized each and every ingredient, except the meat. It was different in a way he couldn't put his finger on. Good, but different. He was so painfully famished that he simply didn't care. The red meat was rich and sweet with musculature similar to goat but lacking the gaminess. Organs and brain were savory with extra salt, tapernade, and herbs. The bones and marrow were heavier, like pork, but not pork. He chuckled at the dreams of crunching down on Buckbeak's wings. It clearly wasn't hippogriff, though the image of tearing chunks off of it's feathery back left his mouth slicked with drool.

The nurses were joking among themselves as they transformed into their Wesen forms. Draco occluded to beat back the itch stirring in his loins. There was something doubly feminine about the feline females that made his trousers hurt. Silky fur started at their chin and trailed inside the front of their blouses, leaving him fantasizing what lay below. The potion package must have been extra-nerve enhanced, as he could recognize each of the women by scent, and he could even smell the difference between their wesen form and kehrseite. It wasn't even difficult to place the dusty odor of long dead flesh hiding under the combination of cheap, one-dimensional peony shampoo and a baby powder anti-perspirant deodorant when Captain Rosencrantz's muggle form withered into a tangle of mummified bones and leathery skin.

His stomach knotted as the sun disappeared below the trees. Soldiers bones crackled and twisted. Silver fur, long snouts, and white fangs sprouted. Minutes later, fiery red eyes gleamed under the shimmering white moonlight. Werewolf guards and medics stretched sore bones and bounced on their toes. Rosencrantz may have been surly with the bedside manner of a hillside troll, but she was the goddess of energy potions. Every trace of fatigue evaporated with nightfall. Draco was alive and aware, fresh and itching to start tonight's exercises.

The vials and syringes were stacked in neat rows on the stainless steel tables. The hum of muggle electricity buzzed across his skin. He had mostly gotten used to it, but sometimes it set his jaws on edge, and tonight was one of those times. Rosencrantz's mummified fingers tapped away into her computer terminal and soon reams of fanfold paper streamed out of the screeching printer. Why the witch didn't simply charm a beautifully quiet pen to produce the same baffled him. He wondered if she even knew how. Ada had never learned that sort of thing. He took off on a quick run around base to escape the racket and survey tonight's situation. The lights inside the cement buildings revealed hundreds of recruits scrubbing, ironing, and folding behind thick doors bolted with multiple locks. There were always a few brave looky-loo's, but they would be dealt with as they turned up.

Around the bend was the forest. Skinny trees stood bright and green, bathed in silver which shimmered like noonday. Thick brush opened to a field were last month's wildlings trained with battle hardened chief sergeants. Four dozen red eyes flared as they vaulted twenty-foot fences, battled with lead filled batons and cattle prods, and heaved telephone poles.

They were practicing making and defending attacks against wildlings. Koszjek came in fast against Rodier but caught the corporal's wrist instead of his neck and snapped his arm in half. Rodier's quick uppercut shattered Koszjek's jaw, his knee crushed the big monster's groin, and he was loose in an instant. Rodier's broken arm snapped back into place, the baton flashed down into Koszjek's ear, creasing the monster's skull, and he was flat in the dirt. Rodier hauled the big Russian to his feet and they traded off. He made a mental note of the procedure and decided to test it out.

Draco marveled that anyone's body could take that sort of abuse and live, but then he remembered Greyback. That crazy git loved squaring off against wizards on the full moon. How many times had The Order ripped him to pieces at the cost of one or two of their own. He recovered but they stayed dead. In the end, he got stuffed into Azkaban and tortured by dementors just like Potter and everyone else. What would have happened if The Order had access to the French lycanthrope soldiers and the immunity treatments they received during training?

The asp on his arm twined through the skull's eye sockets and flashed its fangs at him. He had assumed that with Voldemort's death, it would fade, but it was still alive. Jolts shot up his spine when he mused activating it. Bloody Ministry devil worm.

Cool air kissed his skin as he hit full speed. At this pace, the burn in his side quieted his mind for a minute. Each of the staging locations was ready. The alarm blast echoed across the silent base. A chill ran down his spine, exhilaration mixed with fear. Like it or not he was now in the game.

The medical building was in sight when he caught a flash off to his left. A blue iron fist wrapped his hand an instant before the beast plowed him. He rolled and tumbled, stuffing his left arm into its mouth to keep it off his neck. Teeth ground into bone and pain flooded his body. He was punching and kicking and thrashing with all his might. His flayed arm tore loose and he swung. The magical glove hit its skull with a clank. Bones and teeth crunched and he rolled on top, punching down with all his might. It went slack and he jumped off, scrabbling back and getting onto his feet to mount a proper magical attack.

It would be up in a flash, so he summoned fiery chains. Bones crackled and popped, rearranging to form the small werewolf's mangled snout. He needed to attend to whatever was left of his throbbing arm, but it would have to wait until the beast was under his control. It rolled and he lashed out, snaring it with the glowing chains and then pounding an imperius into its skull. The beast shuddered as the spell blasted up its nose, but it stilled. Purple and white sparkles flashed over its skin. Its eyes flickered from blue to fiery red and back. He set it on the watch while he put his attention to his bloody arm.

The belt pouch was stuck shut as he fumbled one-handed. Red muscles and beige tendons wove over the gashed bones and ejected bits of broken teeth, dirt, and rocks. Pink skin oozed into the gaps. He was going to buy Rosencrantz flowers or dinner or whatever her thing was. Tonight's potions were truly something to behold. He needed to beg, borrow, or steal these recipes. A moment later, the feeling was back in his left hand. He transfigured a moth into a butterfly. His magic was flowing fine, but his hunger was mounting.

With the help of his new minion, he corralled three more small werewolves. One by one, they were subdued and followed rudimentary orders. This was a strange turn, as usually, they were at least as large as a normal man. Perhaps they were destined to be aircraft wing mechanics or they needed smaller men for some special duty. Either way, they were a whole lot more pliable than last month's cadre. Draco was marvelling at the speed his injuries healed when Rodier waved and yelled. He marched the men into the building and proceeded to smash himself nearly unconscious on the door lintel that some idiot charmed smaller.

Blood burned his eyes and stars filled his vision. His minions threatened to bolt at the distraction. He snarled at them and barked the order to stay. Their ears pulled back but they slinked back into line. White and orange magic flooded the doorframe. Rock chips and plaster crackled and twisted the as the entire wall rearranged. Whatever enchantments had been used, they weren't responding to polite magic. Brute force would have to do, so he poured the coals on. The steel door creaked and groaned. Rivets wiggled and popped as it stretched a foot higher.

Every single person in the room, werewolves included, stared until the screeching and grinding stopped. Rosencrantz stomped through the back door, cursing him. "You! What the hell do you think you are doing?"

"Mon Capitan, someone must have charmed the door smaller. I split my head open on the way in."

She eyed his bloody face and then glared at everyone. "Well? I don't care if it was the general himself! No one will be horsing around like this in my hospital! I want a name!"

No one so much as let out a peep. She scowled at the group and stomped back to her work. The hasslich nurse wandered over to deal with him. His forehead was crawling and itching by the time the potion was halfway down. His eyes followed her neck down to her green breasts and his nostrils flared. Her flesh was lumpy. She wore a perpetual scowl and smelled like onions mixed with old spice cologne, but the massive potion doses gave him a raging hard on.

His vision was definitely out of whack from the impact, as everything looked too short by a foot and the room was so ridiculously bright that it hurt. Draco groaned, scrubbed his eyes, and slugged down two more elf-sized vials. Luckily, his little werewolves were well enough behaved that he only had to snarl and threaten them once to keep them in line. It wasn't until the third one finished the first round of shots that Draco remembered that he hadn't bothered to imperius any of them except the first.

You take a win where you get one, and he didn't have time to wonder too much as six more small werewolves shot in the door. He fisted the first one, smashed it into the wall, and crushed a knee deep into its solar plexus. It was sucking for air when he barked the orders. The rest cowered after he smashed the second into the stone floor with a fiery chain across its back. Rosencrantz pointed at the scorched gash in the low ceiling and ground fingers into his chest. "My hospital? Have you gone completely stupid? Now fix that!"

Frustration rumbled through his chest, but he sent an orange web of repair magic crackling across the ceiling. Plaster and wood wove back into place, leaving it smooth and clean.

His growling stomach broke through the room's noise. Hunger pangs left him drooling at the scents of the various nurses. Even the werewolves smelled edible. They flared their red eyes at him and inched back. Were-Rodier stuffed a tiny bag lunch into his hands and then burst out laughing as he crammed the whole thing into his mouth. The orange peel was bitter and the plastic wrap was really chewy, but he didn't care. The chicken salad hors d'oeuvre, on the other hand, was an incredibly delicious appetizer that only succeeded in making him hungrier. Rodier snickered. "Too much calorie burn. Come on."

They pawned off their minions on other guards and ran off. Buildings and trees whipped by. Luckily, Rodier must have been taking it easy on him. Draco was pushing hard but he kept up. The werewolf winked and then pointed at a fence. "Food is in there."

They had been scaling fences for the last four weeks and this one wasn't particularly tall. Draco launched and hit the chain link high, slung himself over, and bounced once as he landed. LeClerc would have been proud of the dismount except that his boots squished in goat shit. The scent of cows, sheep, and livestock permeated the area. "What's this? Some sort of werewolf buffet?"

Rodier's smile beamed. "That's exactly what it is. Anything catch your fancy?"

"I'll take roast mutton with rosemary and oregano with a side of gravy and roasted potatoes if you've got some."

Rodier snorted out a laugh. "Fresh out. Could I interest you in a meat goat. We've got blue ones, spotted, and striped."

The hunger pains were driving him crosseyed. Before he knew it, he had snatched a little sheep by the scruff of its neck. Its kicking and bleating sent his pulse pounding and streams of slobber running down his chin. Tendrils of greedy magic sliced into the animal's neck. It shook once, but his hands plunged in and started tearing. Half the carcass had stuffed down his throat before he realized it was raw. Nausea welled for a second, but the rich scent drew him back in. Memories flashed of luring louse infested rats into his cell with the promise of his bloody fingers and scarfing them down raw, greasy hair, crawling parasites, and all. Before he knew it, he was sitting on the ground, licking his fingers and searching for more. Rodier gulped down the last of a goat shank, complete with hoof. "Wasn't sure if you had it in you."

From there, they joined the group for werewolf indoctrination and combat training. Apparently, he had passed some sort of crazy test, as he was the only wizard in the whole group. Luckily, Rosencrantz's magic elixr was still coursing through his veins or he would never have been able to keep up with these crazies on the moon. They ran at breakneck speeds, flashing past buildings and trees, vaulting fences and cars, and fighting. For some reason, the crush of his training partner's jaws ripping through the flesh of his arm and cracking his bones didn't hurt now that he knew what to expect. The spectacle of muscle, blood vessels, and skin weaving back into place had grown uninteresting by the third time. The key thing was to time his counter attack so he could immobilize his opponent and steal the precious seconds his body needed to recover before it was up and on him again.

His meager fighting skills were at a distinct disadvantage against skilled werewolves. Every single NCO at an E-5 rank or above had at least one black belt in some sort of fighting art. While Draco had approximately five weeks of hand to hand training, his combat magic was supercharged by the fury of tonight's exercises. He squared off twice against Koszjek, and both times, the massive werewolf had refused to fight him, citing "Shitting barbed wire and splinters for two days after the last time."

Unfortunately, that meant he got sergeant Oliviera. Unlike the others, his coat was jet black. The squat werewolf's shoulders must have been wider than he was tall. His military French was heavily tinged with Portugese. Draco tried the other language, but simply got, "This is the... French... foreign legion. No?"

Oliviera didn't waste a single second. The instant their hands met, Draco hit the dirt face first. On the ground, it was worse. The bloke was like wrestling Nagini. Draco twisted and turned but couldn't get a single hand on the tube of steel inside the camouflage uniform. Werewolves around them dropped or flailed when he fired off bolts of magic, but he just couldn't connect against the beast throwing him to and fro like a ragdoll. He got his right hand free for long enough to petrify another bystander and then Oliviera snared his wrist and extended. Pain roared as all the tendons in his shoulder and elbow tore loose. Another twist and the bones in his forearm shattered and tore through his skin. The man's legs shifted, his hip snapped and Draco went blind from the pain surging through him.

He was choking on the ground, sucking for air that didn't exist when rough hands wrenched his arms and legs straight. His eyes shot open and he was staring straight into the silver moon while his arm twisted and rearranged itself. Muscles cramped and burned as his leg turned and shifted back into position. Pops and crackles echoed when his shoulder and hip sucked back into joint, and he was up. Hours of torture couldn't have lasted more than seconds. Red eyes burned in the night, but their faces weren't full of anger. Some were curious, most were smiling. Rough hands clapped his back and dusted a cloud of grass off of his camouflage. Sergeant Oliviera took his hand and clapped his back. "You did well. A lot better than most wizards. Now, sort this back out." The beast's hand waved across to four werewolves stuck like statues, three more wrapped in barbed wire, half a dozen glassy eyed and lethargic from the imperius, one pinned to the fence by a giant, thorny vine, and the flock of bats biting and flapping at all the others.

Koszjek's fur was smoldering in half a dozen places. He growled, "I swear. Set me on fire one more time and I'll rip your arms off."

Oliviera crossed his thick arms and wagged a finger at Koszjek. "You're the one who keeps going on about the dangers of wizards. Seems like he wasn't even fighting you." Half a dozen snorts coughed out. A minute later, everybody else was sniggering.