Chapter Text
Draco
Hamunaptra 2013
If someone had told Draco Lucius Malfoy, pureblood-heir to one of the oldest British wizarding families, somewhere back in school that he would find himself with the wizard division of the French Foreign Legion in the depths of the Egyptian desert he would have laughed at them and then made sure they regretted that notion deeply.
Alas, whoever that poor bastard would have been, they would have been right.
In front of him were the walls of Hamunaptra, city of the dead. Shortly inhabited by his battalion. Unfortunately, not welcome by the neighbouring tribes.
Sweat was running down his back as he and his comrades ran towards the low wall to get cover from the incoming tribe on their flying carpets. Hexing them all to next Sunday. Seriously? Flying carpets?
On the inner wall of the city, much higher than the outer wall, more men positioned themselves.
Draco had had a glimpse of their attackers, recognizing the threadbare rugs, worn through by centuries of use. Which was the only reason really, why no one died on first contact. The rugs were just too slow and gave them all plenty of time to get back into camp.
Sand was puffing up as he and his comrades run and jumped behind the wall and took their position. The sand laid down on his tongue every time he took deep inhales and coated his mouth and his tailored black uniform with a beige layer. Everything here was fucking beige.
Waiting for their attackers, they raised their wands, waiting for a command.
But instead of a command, they heard a starting broom. Their heads whipped around, their eyes latching onto their commander as he launched himself into the cloudless sky. Having stolen Draco’s broom.
The Killing curse sat on the tip of Draco’s tongue.
Rage pulsed through his body.
“Looks like you’ve got a promotion.” Goyle remarked rather stupidly from his position to Draco’s right.
Draco stared him down, nostrils flaring.
Why had he thought that to be a good idea?
Right. Astoria. A botched wedding. His father’s disappointment. His mother’s tears.
“What are we supposed to do?” asked a rather whiny comrade to Draco’s left.
On a frustrated exhale Draco realized that they were all looking at him. Of course, they were. The wizarding French Foreign Legion was a pack of runaways, former criminals and essentially mercenaries. Much like Draco. But less like him in terms of – well everything else.
“Get back into position!” Draco snapped at them.
Next to him, Goyle started to tremble.
“Don’t you dare fleeing, Goyle”, Draco threatened between his teeth and on a slightly heaving breath.
“Your strength gives me strength”, came a squeaky answer. Ever since that disaster in the Room of Requirements Goyle was a spineless slug with even less courage.
Draco didn’t even suppress his disbelieving snort.
And he wasn’t the least bit surprised, when Goyle threw away his wand – that bloody fool! – and dashed towards camp, fleeing on his broom only seconds later.
Draco felt the stares of his comrades upon his former schoolmate’s departure.
“Steady!” He yelled over the trills of the Bedouins.
The men looked towards their attackers again.
Draco tried to see, if they were using any other tactic then their sheer over-power, but couldn’t find one.
He didn’t have either time nor nerve to regret having Goyle showed how to use a broom. He would deal with the consequences later.
His comrades grew nervous, many wands trembled along the corner of his eyes. The wind was whipping his hair and sand around his head.
“Now!” He shouted, as the rugs crossed the line of range most wands reached. Hexes in yellow, red, purple, blue and – green? – which fool? – shot over the sand. Back and forth. Taking out his men one by one, but barely creating a dent in the masses of carpets rolling in on them.
They couldn’t hold their position.
“Retreat!”
Upon his roar, his men took off towards the camp. Draco knew there were a few portkeys in the trunk of the former commander. From the corner of his eyes, he saw several soldiers barrelling into the commander’s tent.
So much for getting out.
Hexes flew from his wand as he made his way back behind the inner wall into the canyon filled with ruins and their camp. His men were falling all around him.
Wouldn’t he feel the sun beating down on him and the sand between his teeth, he could believe to be back at Hogwarts, at the Final Battle.
Thank Salazar for the Desert wind, the trilling yells of the Desert tribe in front of him and the flying rugs. Otherwise this might have set of another flashback.
Around him, the noises of his men quieted down. On a last effort to save himself, he turned and ran through the ancient ruins. There had to be a hidden path out. Every site they had travelled to so far had one.
The Bedouins cut him off on several corners, having just swept into the canyon and knowing the grounds way better than him.
In the end, he came to a sudden halt in front of a massive, dog-like statue. Rocks rising all around him. He was well and truly fucked.
And cornered, too, he realized as he turned, still enough of a fight left in him. Gnashing his teeth, he raised his wand again. He wouldn’t go down, without taking a few of them with him.
The men on their rugs did the same. Set on killing him in creative ways he had yet to learn. Briefly, Draco wondered, if it would be as bad as the torture conducted by Voldemort and his cronies.
Abruptly, a cold rush rolled him, his breath puffed at his lips. His eyes grew wide at that sight. The men grew restless, anxious even as the cold spread to them. When the first saw their breath clouding too, they turned their rugs, shouting, waving their arms, casting protective spells all around them.
Draco stood, frozen to the spot.
Four things he realized in that moment.
1) The tribes didn’t use wands. They were casting with their hands.
2) They used different spells than the ones he’d learned.
3) What he felt wasn’t just cold. It was Dark Magic.
4) It was so much worse than everything Voldemort could have ever created.
The last thought got him moving. He stumbled away from the statue and ran. Bloody fools all of them! What had they been searching here anyway?
Screw the French Foreign Legion! He was done with that.
The sight of the battle stopped him short. So many dead! He huffed in frustration. What now? He had to leave. But how? Apparition was too far. His broom was gone, as were the port-keys. He didn’t trust the few carpets lying around.
Draco rummaged through the camp, looking for useful things the dead and cowards had left and found only an empty water bottle and a few packets of dates. It had to be enough.
Stuffing all of it in his pockets he started his way out of the desert.
Feeling the prickles of being watched in his neck he turned to find five flying rugs above a cliff. He shot them his best glare, while squinting against the sun.