Well people, I have literally been thinking about this story/Fanfic for months!!! Yes months!!! But now I am FINALLY setting this idea loose for you guys to read. It is set right near the end of the 6th book right after Dumbledore has been killed. But I must warn you, I haven't read the end of the the 6th book yet, and have only seen the movie, so it might be a little off. Please comment! And most importantly…enjoy!!!! Disclaimer; I do not own Harry Potter. There, I said it.
Draco ran as fast as his legs could carry him. It was almost dark, his view only to be lit by the curses and jinxes whizzing through the air and he was tripping over his own feet, not to mention the rocks and fallen trees. Behind him he could hear the sound of screaming and cries of fury. In the dark an image, a horrible memory played inside his mind repeatedly. The chill of the air, the soft musty smell that lingered from years of existence and the sickening thud that made his stomach uneasy haunted him but this was not the worst of it, no, it wasn't. It was the image, the image of the bright flash of light rapidly traveling as fast as lightning, faster than Draco could do so much as think. The look of absolute terror was embedded in his memory, and he knew subconsciously it always would be. From behind him he could hear more furious screams, white hot rage that, he would never admit, were so hateful, so filled with loathing, that they frightened him. But somewhere in his mind, he knew that voice, somewhere, where he wasn't worried about running into giant tree stumps and tripping over, rocks he knew that voice. It was a voice he could hardly recognize because of the pure distaste, that he'd heard angered before but never at such an extreme as it was now. It was the voice of that of his worst enemy, Harry Potter. He was screaming at a man Draco could recognize from behind as Professor Snape. Harry's voice oozed loathing as he shout insults and spells. Draco continued to run, while straining his eyes to see where he was going; needless to say it wasn't working because he tripped over a large fallen tree. He landed on his hands, and one of his hands was cut on a jagged rock. He yelped in agony as he felt his hand become wet with blood. He muttered swear words at the rock, even though he knew it couldn't hear him, steadied himself and stood up and continued to run as he had been before. He could still barley see spells zip though the air and could see the residue, the feeble glowing residue of powerful hexes and other deadly spells. He heard someone yell a curse (not a swearword) and heard it speed through the air effortlessly. The next thing he knew, he felt unbelievable pain pulse through his entire body before feeling himself plunge down. And then everything went dark.
It was nine in the morning when the lone pair of feet crunched on autumn's dead leaves. You could tell it was nine because of the beauty that lingered in the air and the haunting silence that plagued the Forbidden Forest. The feet shuffled at a steady pace while staying nearly inaudible to anyone else. And then, without warning, they paused. The lone hiker knelt down to get a closer look at the peaceful face that had beholden them. His face looked peaceful and at ease, though his forehead was cut and his pale blonde hair was stained by his dry blood. A small, pale hand gently pushed his bangs aside to examine the damage. The cut was small, but deep and if not treated, could quickly become infected. While one hand remained on the boy's forehead, the other went to his throat to check his pulse. It was dull and slow, but it was there, and that was all that mattered. Without so much as another thought, those small and gentle hands lifted the boy into, lean but strong arms. And then, the hiker was off, taking steady and soft steps deeper off into the Forbidden Forest.
