Temptation on the Warfront

22

Draco's breath leaves him in sharp, painful bursts, his body pushed to the pinnacle of exertion as his feet pound over rocks and fallen branches.

It is similar to all those months ago, when Harry Potter returned to rescue a boy he supposedly hated.

"I don't hate you... In fact I — I..."

It is different to all those months ago, because Harry Potter is not beside him, is not anywhere that Draco can see, and it drives his already frantic heartbeat into overdrive.

A spell singes the grass where Draco's foot was a second ago, and the smell of sulphur burns Draco's windpipe as he keeps going, keeps running.

His eyes sting, his throat stings, and he can hardly see past the trees blurring on either side of him. Up ahead, he swears he catches a brief flash of orange — Weasley's hair — but then there is nothing but forest, and the occasional looming figure which Draco knows is gaining on him.

He's panting, searching, his muscles aching, and in his head there is a mantra of, Harry, please be okay. And it is only this thought, the hope that Harry will come out of this safely, that enables Draco to move one leg after the other.

Harry can't feel anything other than the burning in his lungs and the paranoia in his heart, as he runs through the never-ending forest, his fear lacing around his whole body and taking root in his ankles, preventing him from slowing down.

Hermione is ahead of him, and every few seconds she too turns to throw a counter-curse behind her. But the Snatchers are unrelenting, and Harry knows that this chase is eternal, that there will be no stopping them until he or his friends fall to their knees, fall to their defeat — fall to their death.

Part of Harry thinks that he will be okay with giving in, with getting captured, if only it would mean Draco could escape untouched.

But Harry can almost feel the hot breath of his pursuers raising the hairs on the back of his neck, and he knows his hope is a fickle, flickering flame. A flame that is doused as Hermione Granger comes to a dead stop about ten metres away, turns her sweat streaked and distraught face towards Harry, and points her wand at his face.

Harry grunts, staggers and trips, as he feels his skin distort with a stinging, stretching sensation. Hard twigs and bramble dig into the heel of his hands as he heaves in chafing breaths, trying to swallow as much air as he can before he no longer has the chance — but suddenly he is no longer on the forest floor, but in a black and desolated tower, and when he speaks it is through a cold and lethal hiss, a voice that can only belong to Lord Voldemort.

"Tell me where it is..."

The prisoner, shackled and limp, wears the grin of one close to his death, and his teeth are yellow and decayed as he opens his mouth to reply, "I knew you would come one day, Tom. But surely you must know, I no longer have what you seek."

Anger, desperation — he reels it in, "Tell me who possesses it, Grindelwald."

Grindelwald laughs, his face demented as he replies, "The Elder Wand lies with him... Buried in the earth. With Dumbledore."

The laughter fades, and Harry resurfaces, drenched in fear and sweat. Hermione is on her knees beside him, and it takes Harry too long to realise she must have taken his glasses, because his vision is fuzzy, and his scar is prickling. "The Hallows exist — he's gonna have it by the end of the night." The footfalls are surrounding them, and Harry rushes out in a whisper, "You-know-who's found the Elder Wand."

Harry catches a brief glimpse of Hermione's terrified expression, before they are both wrenched to their feet.

Hermione shrieks, and Harry's blood runs with rage and hatred as he sees the hideous and lurking form of Fenrir Greyback grab Hermione by the shoulders. Her hands fly to the scarred and dirt-covered arm which has a choke-hold around her neck, and despite the sinking dread Harry feels at seeing she no longer has her wand, he knows he needs to do something — anything —