Harry did not slam doors; the noise made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He wasn't sure why he hated it so much, only that it made him feel sheepish, like a child having a fit. Even when he slammed doors on accident, when he was in a hurry or when an open window made the door pull shut with a resounding 'thud,' he cringed and looked around apologetically, even if no one else was around to hear. To Harry, the sound of a door slamming was never a good thing, meaning something had either already gone horribly wrong, or it was about to. Either way, the sound of a door slamming always signaled to Harry that there was something to be wary of. Therefore, when the door to the Room of Requirement slammed harshly behind Harry without him so much as touching it, he knew he was in trouble.

The reaction was instant; turn, wand out, cast.

But Harry was still inhaling the breath that would have become his only defense when he was grabbed from behind, a wet rag shoved over his mouth and nose. Harry cried out as his wrist was twisted so hard it snapped, his wand slipping from his useless fingers. Tears burned Harry's eyes as he thrashed his head back and forth in an effort to identify his attacker. Through the rising sense of panic he realized that there was more than one assailant holding him, and that whoever they were, they were Disillusioned. Deprived of any magical means of escape Harry did the only other thing he could, he kicked and fought desperately against the attackers he could not see. The strong chemical stench from the rag made his eyes water and his head spin. He couldn't breathe. Harry could feel strong fingers biting into his wrists and ankles, and though he could not see where to aim he fought even harder. Each quick, shallow breath was drawing more of the potion fumes into his lungs and his hands and feet were beginning to feel numb. One of Harry's kicks came in contact with something solid where he could see nothing but air, and the wet crunch of bones breaking seemed deafening in the silence. The blow to the stomach that Harry received in return made him feel like his body was deflating, and the last thing he remembered before the potion took effect was the taste of blood in his mouth.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Draco was panicking. Running and panicking. Draco, always cool and calm with plan ready, had hot, desperate tears streaming down his face as he panted and ran up flight after flight of stairs. He did not think. He did not rationalize. He just ran.

He ran until his lungs burned and ached, and ran some more until the burning and aching stopped. He ran and did not stop until he was inside the Room of Requirement, and then he fell to his knees.

The Room was empty. Actually empty. The scrolls, the potion ingredients, the sofa; all gone. The sanctuary that Harry and Draco had built together had disappeared, and Harry along with it. All that remained was a rag, wet with blood and a acrid potion smell that permeated the room. Draco shook his head slowly, his eyes wide, blank and unseeing. No…no no no… no. He mouthed the words but no sound escaped, his breath coming in fast little pants. Draco's balance swayed and he tipped forward, bracing himself on his hands, fingers closing around the rag and squeezing so hard that frothy red liquid dripped from his fingers. He screamed. He couldn't stop screaming. He didn't know what else to do. Harry was gone. They had Harry, and Draco didn't know where they were or what they were doing or even if Harry was still alive. Harry Harry Harry. Draco had begun to shake violently, muscles twitching so uncontrollably he could no longer hold himself upright and he fell to his side in a quivering, sobbing jumble. Draco's head hit the floor and stars danced behind his eyes, temporarily blinding him. He was dizzy and his head was throbbing. Draco's eyes swam with tears, which he tried to blink away furiously.

This is my fault, he realized with a sick, sinking feeling in his chest. I gave Harry to them.

As his vision slowly began to clear, Draco noticed that from here he could see something he had not seen before. A few feet away was a drop of blood, the surface tension still holding the liquid into a tight little ball that stood up from the floor. Draco crawled closer, watching as it collapsed into a tiny red puddle on the stone. He crawled anxiously further, searching frantically until he noticed another spot, followed by a thin red smear, possibly from a shoe. Draco crawled awkwardly forward, eyes wide and glassy as he followed the thin trail to the window. Pulling himself clumsily to his feet, he stared frantically out into the night. The Room of Requirement was easily several hundred meters above the ground, the spikes and spires of numerous lower towers pointing up at him mockingly. Below that were the flat roofs of the ground floor corridors and a courtyard. Draco's eyes strained in the dark, but found no sign of anything that might be Harry. The darkness was calm, quiet and absolute. Nothing seemed out of place. Draco cursed himself. There's always something out of place. Think-look… what's different?" Draco tried desperately to remember the things his father had taught him about finding people who did not want to be found. Lucius had taught Draco many things in the years before Draco went to Hogwarts, perhaps in preparation for service to the Dark Lord, and perhaps simply for a future as a Malfoy. Draco had never been able to decide why his father felt the lessons necessary, but they still loomed in the back of his mind like painful, blood-filled nightmares, fear-drenched memories he tried to forget. They came flooding back, now, with a ease that made Draco feel ill. He remembered one afternoon in particular, and an old house elf his mother had caught stealing from the kitchen; after his father had tortured it for hours the elf had Disapparated in a foolish attempt to save its own life.

Check the dark places first. The Hunted favor the false lull of security darkness gives them. In the dark, the Hunted hide in plain sight.

Lucius' cold voice still echoed in Draco's head and he was 6 years old again, lead through the dungeons in the mansion while his father taught him to hunt on an old, dying elf. The overwhelming smell of chloroform in the room was beginning to affect Draco, his vision swimming as he swayed slightly on his feet. Panic began to edge in, but he quickly stifled it, concentrating.

Listen. What can you hear? Breathing? Foot steps? Can you hear his heart beat?

Draco could feel his ears tingling from the silence, the distant hoot of an owl the only sound, besides his own irregular breathing. He was thankful that it was late and all students were either sleeping or silent.

Do not use magic. Of all obstacles you may encounter, do not use magic in tracking. It clouds the air, disturbs the trail and reveals your own position.

Draco didn't realize he had very slowly begun to walk, his feet leading him from the room and down the hall, padding silently on the stone steps.

What do you feel? Can you feel their magic? Can you feel their steps on the ground? Can you feel their fear?

Draco jumped, as if waking from a trance. He could feel it. He could feel the hard steps of many feet. He could hear knuckles pop as they hit solid flesh. He could smell blood and dark magic. The sensation began to fade quickly, and Draco snapped his eyes back shut, trying to focus on the feelings and cling to the trail.

Where is it coming from? Feel the sounds and smells moving through the air. Feel for the vibrations.

The scent of blood grew stronger as Draco walked, eyes closed, feeling his way through the blackness. A faint, distant wail burned into Draco's ears, spiking his adrenaline and making him want to run. He didn't dare, though, for fear of losing the trail altogether. Instead he sped up as fast as he dared, bumping into a wall and stumbling down a staircase. These minor injuries meant nothing to Draco, though. He could feel it all getting stronger, the cruel laughter and Harry's desperate cries getting louder, The smell of blood and vomit, as well as the lingering smell of the potion. He was so close, he could hear the impact of a particularly harsh blow and the answering blood splatter against the floor. Draco's eyes jolted open, wand in hand. He was not prepared, though, for the sight in front of him.

The griffin statue reared high and proud as ever in its alcove, its stance both intimidating and noble as it eternally guarded its master's chambers. The stone eyes seemed to bore into Draco as he stared up at it dumbly.

Damn… I stopped too soon. Or too far. It's got to be around here somewhere. There must be a hidden room somewhere in this corridor.

Draco closed his eyes and focused as best he could, trying to lapse back into the trance-like state. He sniffed the air cautiously, strained his ears and touched the nearby wall. Everything was silent. Nothing moved or shimmered in the dark. He'd lost the trail. Draco swore, straining his ears once more.

At first, Draco was too shocked to realize that the answering cry of "Help!" had nothing to do with his tracking skills and everything to do with the fact that the only thing between Draco and rescuing Harry was a stone statue and the door to Dumbledore's office.

Draco leapt for the statue. "Ice Mice!"

Nothing.

Harry screamed again somewhere above him.

Damnit. "Lemon Drops!"

Nothing.

"Sherbet lemon. Sugar Quills. Fizzing Whizbees. Fucking Chocolate Frogs! Let me through!"

Draco sobbed as more cries and a chorus of muffled voices echoed down the staircase. falling to his knees. Draco lay flat on the floor, squirming and wriggling his way beneath the statue's wide, furled wings. The gap was small and jagged, but he pushed and squirmed resolutely through, the sound of Harry's screams making him desperate. By the time Draco reached the first step of the winding golden staircase, only his lower legs and feet were still out in the hall. He took a slow, shaky breath and angled his body up, preparing to drag himself the rest of the way through. A sharp grating sound froze him on the spot and the ground beneath him trembled; the staircase had begun to move. He tried frantically to shuffle backwards but found that no matter how quickly he moved, the steps were moving faster. Draco bit his lip and tried not to scream as his legs were dragged upwards through the tiny space, the griffin's stone wings gouging deep into his right calf. Involuntary tears stung Draco's eyes and his fingers clawed the stone steps desperately in an attempt to remain silent, lest he alert Harry's captors to his presence. He could feel hot blood soaking through his trousers and dripping down into his sock, as well as a rising sickness in his stomach. Draco began to shake as the staircase wound slowly upward, cold sweat prickling his skin. He realized he was going into shock, trying his best to breathe deeply and stanch the bleeding. His hands were shaking too badly, though, and when the came away bloody he almost passed out.

"No! Please, no… stop. Help! Help! Draco!"

Draco's eyes shot upwards towards the slowly approaching door. Harry. Harry needs me. I have to save Harry. This is all my fault. It's all my fault Harry is in trouble, and I have to help him. A spike of adrenaline and resolution shot through Draco, quelling the nausea and dizziness threatening to drown him. He quickly and quietly cast a cleansing charm on his hands and ripped off a large strip of fabric from his robe, which he bound tightly around his leg. Slowly, very slowly, he rose to his feet. One hand on the wall steadied his balance, the other hand grasped his wand. The door was getting closer. Draco took an experimental step forward, inwardly wincing at the pain but schooling his features into the cold stoicism. He could not afford to betray weakness.

The staircase groaned as it came to a halt, the sound muffled by the screams from within. Draco pointed his wand at the door and whispered a soft "Alohamora," but found to his disbelief that the door was unlocked. Steeling himself, Draco pushed the door open as quietly as he could.

Draco could do nothing more than stare in horror at the scene before him. The usually bright, cheerful room was dark, lit only by a handful of hovering candles. Through the shadows Draco noticed that the portraits of past headmasters and other important figures were all covered by tattered black cloths and the floor was littered with open books, all splattered with blood. All of these observations were secondary, though, to the image in the center of the room. Dumbledore's desk was surrounded by dark cloaked figures, all moving in a slow, steady circle. As they moved, Draco caught glimpses of pale skin smeared with blood, limbs twitching, muscles tensing and relaxing. Harry. At the head of the desk stood a tall, shrouded figure, his face cast into stark highlights and shadows by a throbbing, twisting ball of green flame slowly growing high above the arcane blood ritual taking place in the Headmaster's office.

The cloaked figures circling the desk stopped abruptly as the shrouded man at the head of the desk stepped forward. For an awful moment, Draco thought they had noticed his presence. Instead, the man looked solemnly down at Harry's prone form and wrapped both hands around a long, crooked dagger.

NO! Draco thought as the man raised the dagger over Harry's chest, but what he said was "Expelliarmus!"

As the word left his mouth, Draco thought several things simultaneously. The first was that he wished desperately that he had practiced silent incantations enough to have trusted it for this situation. The second was that he was very lucky that this was a somehow enchanted dagger, because otherwise "Expelliarmus" would have done him a fat lot of good.

As it was, Draco at least had an enchanted dagger in his hand to show for the fact that a circle of cloaked figures was quickly closing on him. Draco couldn't particularly remember actually entering the room, but the door slammed shut behind him all the same. He raised his wand and wished that his father had accompanied his hunting lesson with something that would be more appropriate here than an "Aveda Kedavra."

"Good of you to join us, Mr. Malfoy."

The crowd parted to allow the shrouded figure through. Draco's grip tightened on his wand and he raised the dagger threateningly.

"Let Harry go."

The figure chuckled in a bemused sort of way.

"Mr. Malfoy, you really think you can use my own dagger against me?"

The man raised his hand and the dagger flew from Draco's grip.

"And as for your noble request that I let Harry go I am afraid, Mr. Malfoy, that heroic sentiments do not suit you well at all."

The man stepped closer and Draco opened his mouth.

"None of that, please." And when Draco spoke, he found his voice had left him. His wand followed it very shortly, as did his ability to stand.

"However, I must say that it seems rather a pity to let the game end so quickly now you've decided to join the fun, Mr. Malfoy." The man leant over, the cloth covering the lower half of his face slipping as he bent until he was almost nose-to-nose with Draco. "After all, you have been so very kind to nurse dear Harry back to health since his unfortunate encounter earlier this year, and to provide him love, strength and protection these past months. I'm sure Harry will be… delighted… to see you." As the man raised his illuminated wand tip between them, Draco finally caught a glimpse of his face.

"P…Pro… Professor.."

The man blew the green light from the tip of his wand into Draco's face, smiling to himself as grey eyes rolled back and Draco's head fell to the floor with a satisfying thud.

"All in good time, my boy."

The man pocketed the dagger once more, and with a wave of his hand the green flame shrank and vanished into his outstretched palm. With a nod, the cloaked figures closed around Draco and took him away, leaving the man alone with Harry. He looked down into the pale, exhausted face, tenderly brushing a trail of blood from the soft cheek.

"After all, I've waited sixteen years. I can wait one more day."