A/N To answer the question whether Harry fell in love with Draco over the two days or whether he has always been infatuated with him. Let me try to explain. Yes, I am inclined to believe that Harry always felt drawn to Draco, a sort of feeling bordering on obsession, but he has not really been in love. Now, five years later, Harry has an orderly life and when Malfoy tumbles into it, it throws everything off. Harry realizes – perhaps now that he is older and knows Malfoy is not a Deatheater, perhaps also because Malfoy lost his parents too – that he is in love with him. So, no, he has not been love from the beginning nor has it just happened over the two days. It is a complex thing – something I have personally been through, and it is kind of hard to explain. I hope it is a little clearer though! Now, back to the story...
Harry was blinded, taking aback by the sudden, intense, illumination. But his reflexes had been honed by Auror training, and a moment later he and the others simultaneously moved closer together. Harry yelled -
'Shield up!' and all said the shielding spell that conjured up a transparent and unbreakable wall of energy around them.
A few red and green spells hit the shield and broke against it. Harry watched, with a sort of weary resignation, as over twenty Deatheaters sped into the clearing. These cloaked, hooded and masked figures huddled together, clearly holding a council.
'It was a trap,' Harry breathed, falling onto his knees. 'It was all a goddamn trap...'
'Harry, get up,' Hermione slapped him on the shoulder impatiently, 'and stop being melodramatic. What matters now is how we're going to save our butts.'
Harry nodded. They all knew that the shield would break if the Deatheaters began bombarding it with spells, but since this charm was a recent invention, Harry doubted the Deatheaters would figure this out any time soon.
'We can take on zem,' Fleur Delacour – an Auror for the French Ministry who had been transferred to work with Harry upon his (and Bill's) request – said, shrugging. 'Zey are not many.'
'No, Fleur,' Viktor replied grimly, 'we cannot be sure they do not have another twenty hiding somewhere in the bushes.'
'They don't, Viktor,' Harry said, very quietly, his hand rising to his aching scar.
'But zen -' Fleur began.
'Voldemort is here himself,' Harry cut across the part-Veela.
Her did not know how he knew this – but he just did. And he was right, too – as soon as he said this, another cloaked figure joined the Deatheaters. They parted to let him through, bowing almost to the ground as they did.
'Oh shit,' Harry managed to say, just as a flash of pale silver light erupted from Voldemort's wand and sped towards the shield. Much to Harry's astonishment, the wall shattered into sparks and disappeared. The Aurors flung themselves aside, dodging various spells and hexes that were already flying towards them.
There was chaos next. Harry's colleagues ran towards the Deatheaters, and he knew that it was against their code of honour to simply Apparate away. No, they'd fight, no matter how small their numbers were, no matter how much they were needed at the Ministry - alive. He watched, helpless, registering only bits and pieces of what he saw.
Fleur Delacour, beautiful and regal, white-blonde hair billowing behind her, her black cloak making her seen even paler, defending herself against a tall, bearded rogue.
Viktor, grim-faced, sending Expelliarmus after Expelliarmus at a hawk-like woman.
Hermione, dwarfed by Crabbe Senior's huge form, valiantly shouting something, her lip sliced and bleeding.
Daniel, a young, curly-haired Auror, falling to the ground as a Cruciatus hit him.
Only two people were not yet involved. Harry and Voldemort.
Harry watched the dark figure that almost blended in with the backdrop of the black forest with suspicion. And then Voldemort was gone. Just gone. A moment passed. Two. Three. Cold sweat broke out on Harry's forehead.
And then there were long, cold fingers around his neck, pressing hard into his windpipe, cutting out his air supply. Harry battled to get some oxygen and failed again and again.
He retrieved a spell from his memory, a spell that did not need to be spoken, and said it in his head.
'Finito Incantatem,' Voldemort sneered, lips curling into an ugly grimace.
Harry swore mentally; he had been foolish to hope that Voldemort would not be able to foresee this attempt – after all, Voldemort was an outstanding Legilimens. Harry promised himself that if he was going to come out of this alive he'd get Severus to teach him Occlumency after all.
And still, those bony fingers were clutching his neck, choking him. Before everything started to go dark, however, there was a flash of light and Voldemort spun around, leaving Harry.
Harry gulped in the suddenly wonderful air, coughing and spluttering.
Then he turned his attention to his saviour – and it was too late. Fleur, who had attempted to attack Voldemort, was on the ground, a long gash on her stomach oozing blood. She seemed very much dead.
Voldemort, meanwhile, turned his attention to Harry once more. The brunet was prepared now, however, and was able to deflect some of the spells that came his way. On the fifth Crucio, however, he lost his concentration as Viktor came tumbling into his and threw him off his feet. The Bulgarian jumped to his feet and spend off, but a wave of ed-hot pain paralysed Harry. He reeled, blinded by it, and collapsed. It felt very much as though every part of his body was on fire.
One after another, six in all, Crucios were sent his way. Voldemort stood above him, taking pleasure in causing his mortal enemy indescribable agony. Again and again Harry screamed, wishing only that Voldemort would kill him and get it over and done with.
'No, Poter, I will not,' Voldemort said, and his voice was a low hiss. 'i have something so much worse planned for you. So – much – worse.'
Harry's wand was knocked out of his hand, but he did not realize it. Voldemort's face was above him, as more and more spells collided with various parts of his body. Not Crucios anymore, but some spells that eh could not hear but caused him pain that made black dots dance before his eyes. He learned later that these were spells, old, ancient spells that had been used for magical duelling centuries ago. They were pretty much like beating someone savagely.
Presently, Harry just longed for the sweet release of death. The last emotion he felt was desperation. He knew now he could not face Voldemrot. He was not strong enough. He was completely ineffective. He could not save Draco. Then everything went black.
