Cursed Wings

4. Breathe

Every night since the war resulted in the same unsettling dream. Draco had tried to shield his mind from the darkness in vain, his thoughts murderous upon awaking. He now dreaded falling asleep, especially after a full moon. The first time he had been too exhausted to shrug away the slumber overtaking him. He had been left content and satisfied, his limbs still aching from the nightlong run. Yet once he had awakened, his eyes were bloodshot, his mind throbbing, images of death plaguing his morning.

The vulnerability that overtook him in the morning made him more irritable as time went by, on edge. Draco tried to hide his torment, the Malfoy pride strongly pulsing within his veins. Yet today, he was close to breaking point.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Draco recited this word like a prayer, his hands nestled in the pocket of his trousers as he stepped inside the fireplace. He focused on his breathing like it was his salvation, trying to still his racing heart from escaping his chest. His fingers were shaking, tickling sensations at the tip of his fingers as he twisted them into a fist.

The tissues within his muscles were moving, stretching and pulling tortuously, the incessant friction against his bones burning him unceremoniously.

Since Greyback had bitten him, ripping the flesh from his neck with animalistic rage, Draco's body had been adjusting to the venom, attuning him to the curse he had been taught to fear since the rise of the Dark Lord. The instant his father had found his unconscious body, swimming in a pool of blood, Draco was battling the newfound war happening inside of him, his pureblood heritage fighting away the curse, to no avail.

"Ready, son?" Asked Lucius as he joined him beside the fireplace, grasping a handful of floo powder, "you're not cowering already, are you?"

Draco focused his attention on his father, who was eyeing him defiantly. "Let's get this over with," he snapped, fists now shaking in his pockets, trying to control the anger creeping up his spine, ready to burst.

He hated every second of this. Since his father had told him of their plan, dreed had overtaken him.

It was inevitable. Draco hadn't stepped out of the somewhat comfort of the Malfoy Manor, protecting him from the outside world. He scolded himself earlier in the morning when he woke up gasping, his sweat-covered bedsheets an indication of his nervousness.

In a second his sight was blinded by emerald green flames, blurring his vision until he regained clear eyesight, the dark Ministry's wall standing ahead of him, his living room replaced by the black marble flooring and imposing structures.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Draco rolled his shoulders, resisting the urge to retrieve to the back of the bricks and let the flames engulf him once more, yet his thoughts of escaping were short-lived as he felt his father's cane on his back, beckoning him to step out of the fireplace.

With a measured and calculated glance around him, Draco extended his left leg, his eyes narrowing, facing his destination, the lift at the far end. As his right leg joined his controlled pace, Draco started counting how many steps he might need until he could be hidden from prying eyes.

After all, it was to be expected, ex-death eaters and traitors of the war showing their faces in the Ministry were bound to spark people's prying.

Ninety steps, Draco estimated, continuing his hurried walk, ignoring the voices and gasps around him. They were all directed to him and his father, no doubt. He hated it, feeling scrutinised by scum.