EXIT

Prologue

The sky of brightest gray seems dark
To one whose sky was ever white.
To one who never knew a spark,
Thro' all his life, of love or light,
The grayest cloud seems over-bright.

- Paul Laurence Dunbar

*

Prologue

How do you know you're still alive?

Perhaps because the biting wind, untypical for early summer, whips the rain mercilessly in your face and drops get caught in your eyelashes, blinding you, gradually numbing your skin.

Or because your leg muscles tremble after a long walk, refusing to carry you even one more step, alternately spasming and relaxing, sending waves of pain up your spine.

Maybe because your staccato-like breathing increases your heart rate, which in turn pumps more blood through your arteries. And because your pulse is louder than the pounding in your ears.

No doubt because Harry Potter has his wand trained on you, flanked by a bunch of black-robed cohorts, barely distinguishable from the night. And because his Lumos blinds you so much that you would never have recognized him if you hadn't committed his voice to your memory.

I raise my hands, calming, pacifying.

My own wand is already lying somewhere in the grass next to me, swallowed up by the darkness that surrounds me. I dropped it as Potter ordered me to. Made me vulnerable, assailable. To show him how fucking serious I am.

A whole swarm of light-spitting wand tips is aimed at me. Water runs from my hair into my eyes. I blink for both reasons.

Another command echoes over to me and I obediently sink to my knees. Immediately, the muddy, leaf-covered ground soaks both my trousers and robes, and I almost sigh with relief at the contact. My shins gratefully absorb the cooling wetness. It relaxes my burning muscles. I close my eyes for a moment.

I'm completely worn out.

I've been on the road for more than two weeks. Made my way through the British woods, on foot like a Muggle, always far from civilization, without attracting any attention, and in the protective shade of the conifers.

But I have reached my destination. The watch's velvet-black tent flaps in the wind, just as I expected from the descriptions, yet more menacing than I could have ever imagined.

Potter approaches me. There's a squelching sound as he trudges through the wet, dead leaves in his heavy combat boots. The light cone of his Lumos dances. I raise my hands a little higher and show him my bare palms in a gesture of surrender. My arms are shaking from exhaustion, but I'm not ashamed.

Do I respect Potter? At least I accept him. I trust his beliefs. Maybe I should even fear him. There are definitely enough reasons to do so.

These days, they are called rebels, and they chose that name themselves. A rather eccentric term for such a well-organized resistance movement if you ask me. With their guard posts and their bootcamps, their well-trained warriors and their smart strategists. They used to be called Aurors. Well, they don't wear blue anymore.

Why defect to them? Mh, maybe I'm a rebel too.

Potter's wand can't decide whether to threaten my head or my throat while the rain seeps ignominiously down the sleeves of my robes.

He instructs me to reveal my identity. A show of strength, or a formality? I can only guess. He doesn't really have to ask, because he knows me. I'd even bet my good right arm that he only had to take one quick look at my hair to realize who dared to disturb his night watch.

However, I have no other choice. So I tell him, hissing hoarsely through the rain into the pitch black night.

"My name is Draco Malfoy."

Seven years have passed since the Battle of Hogwarts. A few days ago, I turned twenty-five. I was already on the run then.

Now I'm here and I give you everything. Take what you want. I have nothing to lose.

The biting wind whips the rain in my face and drops get caught in my eyelashes, blinding me, gradually numbing my skin.

It's my legs that are shaking after this long walk. I've been tramping for a fortnight and they don't want to carry me one more step.

My rapid breathing increases my heart rate. And I can hear my pulse. It's louder than the pounding in my ears.

Saint Potter has his wand trained on me. The light from his wand tip blinds me so much I can't see his face, but I recognize his voice because it's etched on my memory forever.

My name is Draco Malfoy.

And I'm still alive.