Little Ant

It was one of those mornings, you know the kind. The sun was liquid, flowing over the landscape and mingling with the dew on the grass. The air was alive, dancing around him and gently lifting his robes as he stood, a black mark on the otherwise picturesque plateau.

It was his habit to arrive early and at a short distance from the meeting points. To take a few minutes to himself to ready his mind for the trauma to come. On his first raid he had apparated directly to the meeting point, excited and eager to do his duty, take his first step on the path of righteousness.

Righteousness.

A small huff of a wry laugh escaped him, painting a trail in the air, and he bent to check his weapons, his hand reaching to touch the cursed dagger in his ankle holster. Check. As his eyes lifted he saw the tiniest movement in the grass before him, a single red ant climbing a blade of grass. The insect seemed to defy gravity, its tiny legs barely making contact with the gently swaying stalk, and he watched for a moment, mesmerised.

He knew little about insects. Knew little about anything beyond death and destruction at this point. When your evenings are filled with chasing the bottom of a bottle of firewhiskey to drown the echoes of the screams you don’t have much time to pick up a book. He did know, however, that ants lived in colonies.

He used to think of the muggles as ants. Thousands of parasites, pests, huddled together, climbing over each other, a plague that spread across the country, that needed stamping out. That was why he joined the cause. His father had explained it to him, what the Dark Lord would achieve, how they would aid him. They would be strong, he said, they would be majestic, he said, they would be like phoenixes rising from the filth and ashes to a better and brighter world where magic was respected and feared. Ironic, the phoenix metaphor, given the self-titled group that had caused them so much trouble of late, but still the point stood. He had entered this war ready for the enemy to fall at their feet, awed by their brilliance and majesty.

The ant turned, seemingly abandoning its bid to reach the clouds, and headed back down towards the ground.

It was on the fifth raid that he had realised that there was no majesty. As the muggle school burned and the flames caressed the night sky he saw no victory, only destruction.

It was on the eighth raid that he had realised there was no glory. As his father died in his arms from his wounds and his ears rang with the victory shouts coming from his opposition he felt no strength, only strain.

He knew little about insects, but he knew that ants were followers. He had seen them, marching in lines, keeping their course, following the leader to the next patch of ground to be colonised, the next corpse to be devoured. He had seen them walk blindly into pain and danger, through their fallen comrades, never wavering from the line because that is where their leader took them.

Today would be his twenty-first raid. The twenty-first time he had fallen in line. The twenty-first time he had followed.

The ant reached the bottom of the blade and began a wobbly route across the stone path on which he stood. He straightened up, feeling his back twinge in protest, and looked to where the ant was headed. Back to the colony. He wondered if the ant had been trying to break free, whether it had become disillusioned with its lot and had been trying to find a new life in its climb to the sky but had become overwhelmed by the prospect of going it alone. His eyes followed it, even as he pulled the mask down over his face.

The ant was only inches from its colony when he crushed it underfoot, marching to the meeting spot, to follow once again.