Of Choices and Regrets

Battle Scars-

Hearts pound continually, an average of 2.5 billion times in a life. Smoothly forcing the blood to circulate through 100,000 miles of arteries, veins, and capillaries, all of the blood in a human body moves through the small muscular heart. When the heart beats too fast it pounds on the ribcage, the strong organ pushing harder than it was ever meant to, threatening to injure the body it supports.

All around Draco, hearts screamed out, pushing against their bony jail bars. Hearts thumped loudly, as if in fear of being forgotten. Hearts gave out before their time, and hearts pounded more than they should have. The organs suddenly stopped, quickening their killer's own rhythm. Blood circulated through each living body, running quickly through each mile, bringing oxygen and adrenaline to each throbbing cell. Every time a heart was ruined, the blood sluggishly came to a standstill, causing the pained cells to slow down and finally die. Hearts pounded in every chest, filling Draco's ears with their fearful sound.

The battle continued unnoticed as Draco listened to this unearthly song of life and death. His wand was loosely held in his right hand, and both arms were resting at his side. So many bodies were sprawled on the cobblestones, and so many more people were fighting, willing to join the army of the dead.

He walked slowly toward the line of wizards. As he neared, a member of the Order took out a Death Eater and wildly scanned the battle for his next victim. The man was young, no more than 30, with long, shocking red hair, a scarred face, and a fang hanging from his ear. The hair immediately gave him away as a Weasley, although Draco did not recognize the ruined visage.

His eyes rested on Draco, and he ran forward, throwing a stunning spell at him. Draco lazily shielded, and dropped his arm again. The man sent another spell, then another. Each time, Draco simply protected himself, never once fighting back. The man's eyes, once burning with anger and hatred, began to lose their intensity, and his brow wrinkled into a confused frown. Someone shouted; the Weasley boy cocked his head, stared intensely at Draco, then turned and left.

Draco let out the breath he had been holding. He closed his eyes for a second, and then turned a little as he opened them, preparing himself for another fight. Staring back at him were smoldering, dark eyes. Blinking rapidly, Draco took in the spiky, pink hair and the heart-shaped face. He was finally face-to-face with his cousin.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but she quickly sent a spell flying toward him and he was forced to block it. Nymphadora Tonks frowned, and fired another spell. Draco blocked this one too, and the next two. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but her brow was knitted in confusion.

When Draco leapt out of the way, letting a purple spell hit the ground, she whipped her arms at him. "Why aren't you fighting?!" she yelled, thinking he was just toying with her. Instead, Draco used the pause to walk away. Tonks's mouth hung open as she watched Draco's back. When he was almost out of earshot, she recovered. "I'm watching you! I swear to Merlin, I'm going to watch your every move!" she screamed. Draco stopped and lazily turned his head. He stared at her, and then nodded, letting the corner of his mouth briefly twitch, barely moving yet enough that his cousin could notice. He turned and continued to walk, leaving his perplexed cousin to shift through all that had happened.

Draco walked along the frontline, watching other people fight their selected opponent and, in many cases, their doom. He recognized many of the fighters from both sides, and it sent pangs through his body. He saw old classmates and family friends being mowed down by the ruthless followers of the Dark Lord. Bodies were scattered and people were jumping over them nonchalantly as they tried to defeat just one more person, just live a few more seconds, just a bit more, just a little bit more.

A growl alerted Draco that he was nearing Fenrir Greyback. Everyone knew that the werewolf lived on fighting and killing. His life's goal was to infect as many children and kill as many people as possible in payment for the misery he had been put through. Everyone realized this, yet most people don't think about exactly how he fights, how he kills, and how he achieves his goal. Draco, even with all the years of knowing Fenrir, couldn't help but become frightened and mesmerized.

Fenrir did not fight with a wand, nor did he have muggle weapons. Instead, he relied on the natural weapons his kind was gifted with. His red nails cut into flesh as easily as daggers, spraying blood everywhere. Entwining his fingers in his victim's hair, he held her close to calm her thrashing and pulled her head back to display her delicate neck. He ignored her useless screams and pushed aside her flailing arms. Baring his teeth, he growled again before he lowered his head and tore out her jugular. When he was finished, he threw her mangled body aside and wildly searched for his next prey. His hair was matted, and the blood of all his victims mingled, staining his own pearly skin and dripping down his face. Letting out a loud howl, he turned and ran at the nearest man, who had his back to Fenrir. Draco could do nothing as he watched Fenrir savagely slaughter the unknown man.

Draco backed up slowly, his eyes reluctant to leave the two distorted bodies. Someone sent a spell flying at him, but he turned around and deflected it with a flick of his wrist. A second spell came closer and managed to wake him of his reverie, and his head swung as he tried to orientate himself. The line had moved back; the Death Eaters were losing. He continued to walk although his eyes were fixed on the battle. Falling over some of the first dead, Draco found himself lying on the ground looking at glazed eyes that will never see again, surrounded by hearts that will never beat again.

Draco's mind was in shock. He sat looking at the white faces, the bodies splattered with dark blood, and the eyes frightfully blank. His head slowly shook, swinging gently back and forth, as if denying what he saw. Frantically trying to get up, to get away, he found himself tripping again. His feet slid and skidded as he half-crawled, half-ran as fast as he could, his hands scraping the ground in an attempt to right himself. Disorientated, confused, and distressed, Draco fell again and stopped. He saw the dead standing before him, dancing around him, asking him why he had killed them. Moaning, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Counting to ten, Draco regained his breath and opened his eyes. The dead were as they should have been, and the street was quiet around him.

Breathing heavily, he turned and looked at the child that had so captured him only a short time before. The little girl, who had been one of the first to die, the one he had watched, the one that had given him a reason, was lying exactly as he remembered. Her hair was sprayed out behind her tiny head. Her cheeks were still rosy, and the lips were slightly parted in her scream. Her eyes were closed, and everything was as he had left it.

But no, it wasn't the same. Her hand was closed in a tight fist around a bloody wood splinter, and Draco thought he saw her chest move. Maybe it was his imagination playing tricks on him. He had just seen the dead people dance so he knew his brain wasn't completely right. He was just hoping, and he would be disappointed. He was in shock; he just didn't remember the fist; that minute shudder was too small to be real.

Yet there is was again. He put his hand on her stomach and felt her chest rise a bit, indefinitely small, barely visible. Her head turned the slightest bit toward him. Draco almost missed it, yet the motion sent a lock of brown hair sliding.

The little girl was miraculously, undeniably alive.

Draco gulped the air, wildly looking around. He had to find someone to help her. He had to make sure she lived. Still crouching on the cobblestones, Draco fretfully cleared some of the debris buying himself time to think.

He had never run in to a situation like this, and he had no idea what to do. He defiantly pushed the rest of the splinters out of his way. He bent down over her to make sure she really was breathing, and then he carefully pulled her to him. Cradling the child's weak body, Draco took one last frantic look around him. He saw that the Order of the Phoenix had pushed the Death Eaters back, and by the look of it the battle was almost over. Bodies were scattered on the once-happy streets and rich blood was splattered on the clean cobblestones. After a few ragged breaths, Draco finally saw a Death Eater turn and run a few feet before apparating. The fighting was over; he could safely leave.

Holding on to the girl for dear life, Draco lowered his head and closed his eyes. He wanted to forget about this day. He wanted to forget about the countless deaths. He wanted to be free of this wretched pain and misery. He let out a quiet sob, and then steeled himself. He had to be strong. He had to survive. He took a large gulp of air and pushed back the tears and memories. Before another thought could enter his mind, Draco apparated to his bedroom in his own safe prison, Malfoy Manor.