Three formidable men wearing dark-grey muggle uniforms were banging on Ruth's door. Draco immediately recognized the shape of the guns each of them held in their right hands. However, the other devices they carried were unlike anything he'd seen before. They were sleek, black sticks with a single, pulsing white stripe running along the entire length.

The men noticed Draco as he exited the lift.

"Go to your room, sir," barked one of them—a tall man with a vicious scar across his neck. "We're apprehending a dangerous criminal."

Draco opened his mouth, but no words came out as he continued staring at them.

"Sir, you don't want to get caught in a crossfire," said a shorter man in a softer voice. "Please, go to your room."

The third man—red-haired and red-bearded—cast Draco a suspicious look. That was enough to get him moving. He walked past them and didn't stop in front of his own door. He recalled the receptionist and her hushed conversation with another muggle man. If they had notified the authorities, it was unlikely they would have singled out Ruth, given that Draco and Ruth had checked in together. And if these muggle Aurors—or pseudo-Aurors—hadn't connected Draco's face to Ruth's other companion, he wasn't about to help them. So he passed by two more doors, stopped near someone else's room, and pretended to fiddle with the key. To his relief, the men lost interest in him and resumed breaking into Ruth's room.

What was he supposed to do now? Keep going toward the staircase and get the hell out of there? Hex these muggles and make a run for it with Ruth? Could it be that she had already left? Why did it matter to him at all? It was hard to find an optimal solution while his heart was pounding and his palms were sweating.

Then a thought crossed his mind. Stealing a vehicle couldn't possibly warrant such an ambush. Muggles were odd, but they had to understand the concept of proportionality. Unless their approach to dealing with criminals was entirely different, and even a minor crime could lead to a death sentence. Could it?

With a start, he heard the bang of a door flying off its hinges. And before he could access the rational part of his brain, he was dashing toward Ruth's room.

Ruth was there when Draco stormed into the room. Behind the three broad-shouldered men, he saw her small, frightened figure standing near the window at the far end of the room. She was holding a rectangular wooden stick—a leg broken off a chair that now lay in front of the dressing table. Her eyes widened in surprise as they met his, just before the men spun around to face him.

"Stupefy!" shouted Draco.

His spell sent the tallest man crashing to the floor at Ruth's feet. She immediately struck him on the head with the chair leg, knocking him unconscious. As Draco began to cast another Stunner at the red-haired man, his incantation was abruptly cut short when the man swung a whip, striking Draco's wrist. His wand fell to the floor with a clatter. Before Draco could even form a thought—What in Salazar's name—the whip lashed out again, wrapping around his throat. The red-haired man yanked it tight, and Draco fell to his knees, choking, his hands clawing at the constricting leather.

The man was looming over him now, pulling the whip tighter around Draco's throat. The room seemed to darken, and spin, and float away. He felt his body going slack. But just before he hit the ground, the man released his grip.

As Draco gasped for breath, a black stick with a white stripe came into his narrow line of vision. The man pressed it against Draco's back.

In an instant, Draco was jolted awake with a searing wave of agony. The stick sent intense shocks coursing through his body, each pulse a sharp, debilitating burst of pain. His muscles convulsed uncontrollably, and a raw cry escaped his dry throat. Draco tried to wrench himself away from the object, but the man did not let him.

It wasn't the Cruciatus Curse. It was a whole different avenue of pain. This pain was more visceral. It came from without, not from within. Yet, it was just as excruciating. And if anything, Draco was used to dealing with the excruciating.

Having gotten hold of the sensation, he was able to push through it and take action. With all the might he had, he lifted his hand from the ground, balled his palm into a fist and hit the red-haired man on the wrist, causing him to drop the stick—a payment in kind, if you will. The pain ceased immediately. Draco reached to his left and grabbed his wand.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

The man fell to the floor with a thud, his hands frozen mid-reach for his gun.

Merlin, Draco hated redheads.

Sounds of a struggle drew his attention. Ruth was on the floor, and the shortest of the men was on top of her, strangling her neck. His gun and stick were scattered around, along with her chair leg. Blood dripped from the man's temple. However did she manage to get him?

Draco raised his wand and flung the man off her. It was a moment too late he realized where his spell had landed the man. Right next to his damn gun.

The next very second, the man was pointing the weapon at Draco.

Ruth raised her hands.

Draco heard a bang accompanied by another, indistinguishable sound. Instinctively, his feet scrambled backwards, and his eyes flew shut.

Then, nothing happened.

Draco opened his eyes and touched his chest, examining his body for any sign of wounds. There were none.

He looked over to where the man had been standing, and saw him propped against the window, gurgling and pressing his hands to his neck in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. The gun lay at his feet. Soon after, the man collapsed to the floor as well.

Ruth still had her hands up, looking rather shocked. She and Draco exchanged wild glances.

"We'll talk about it later," he said. "Now let's go."

She nodded vigorously, a dazed look still on her face. As she picked up the gun and headed toward him, Draco summoned the cloak he had left in her armchair this morning. They ran out the door and instantly regretted it: two pairs of men in the same uniforms were approaching from both sides, having emerged from doors leading to the staircases.

Oh crap.

"Let me guess," Draco said dryly. "These people are not the police."

"Like hell they are." Ruth's words held a doomed undertone.

Fortunately, his collected, scheming Slytherin persona was back in full force, and the escape plan was ready in less than two seconds. Draco pointed his wand at the ceiling to his right and shouted, "Bombarda!"

The spell exploded with a deafening crash, tearing a large section of the ceiling apart. Debris and dust rained down, and soon a formidable barricade was obstructing the path of one of the advancing pairs of men.

In one swift motion, Draco turned—his wand outstretched and tracing a quick "M" in the air—toward the other pair just as they fired their guns.

Bullets could be deflected with magic—Ruth had demonstrated this a mere minute ago, albeit unintentionally. Barely having absorbed this knowledge, Draco was now putting it to use.

Arresto Momentum.

Several tiny metal objects slowed, enveloped in a shimmering aura, perilously close to Draco's hand. Before he could decide what to do with them, and before the men could fire again, he flicked his wand, sending the bullets back.

The men fell to the floor.

Draco froze. Neither of the bodies moved, not even an inch.

They were dead, he knew it then. He had just committed murder.

Draco, you are no assassin.

These people were dead. He had murdered them.

But that was self-defence. They wanted to kill him. There wasn't any other way. Was there?

Ruth grabbed his wrist, shaking him out of his shock. Draco flinched and looked at her, still too stunned to mind her touch, but now once again aware of the danger. Without further delay, she pulled him forward, past the lift and toward the unblocked staircase. They seemed to wordlessly agree that using the lift was not the best idea at the moment.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the faces of the dead muggles as they passed them. One had light, short hair, a thin nose, and green eyes. The other had a bald head, plump lips, and brown eyes. Both stared blankly up at the ceiling. Two small identical holes gaped in their foreheads.

Racing down the stairs beside Ruth, Draco shook his head and placed his Occlumency shields back in place. The mental images were stored away with the others. He needed a clear mind.

They exited the stairwell and found themselves in the empty main hall. The staff must have hidden or fled in response to the commotion. Good. They proceeded to run out the door, but not before Draco set the entrance camera, along with the cables, on fire.

Unsuspecting muggles were still walking the streets. A few of them turned their heads at the dishevelled pair leaving the hotel in a hurry. This time, it was Draco who pulled Ruth along, turning into a dark, narrow alleyway beside the building. It was, thank Merlin, empty. He prepared to Apparate and hesitated, his mental Remembrall glowing bright red inside his mind. What had he forgotten?

The realization hit him a second too late. From the deeper shadows of the alley, two slender figures emerged, their faces concealed by Death Eater masks.

The Trace, that's what.

There were times when "oh crap" just didn't seem to cut it.

"Malfoy?" said an incredulous voice that sounded familiar, at the same time as Draco cried, "Stupefy!"

The other Death Eater deflected the spell, and it hit Ruth instead. The Stunner slammed her sideways into the wall, her head audibly connecting with the hard bricks. She lay motionless on the ground, seemingly unconscious.

The momentary distraction nearly made Draco miss the second Stunner. He spotted it just in time to raise a shaky shield, but the half-blocked spell still managed to knock him off his feet.

Still on the dirty ground, propped up on his elbows, Draco began shouting another spell, but the first Death Eater, having quickly recovered from his surprise, Petrified him first. Draco froze mid-action, his body half-lifted, his wand awkwardly pointing forward.

What a blast.

"Do you not recognize your old friends, Malfoy?" another familiar voice asked mockingly.

The Death Eaters stepped closer, removed their masks, and revealed themselves as Marcus Flint and Lucian Bole—his former Qudditch team-mates with whom Draco had shared many happy and many sad moments. He would've gasped in astonishment had he not been Petrified. When had the two of them managed to get themselves Marked? Was the Dark Lord now branding just about anyone to compensate for the losses in his ranks?

"Long time no see," said Bole. His boyish grin failed to be as menacing as he probably intended.

"Everyone thinks you're dead, Malfoy," said Flint, flashing his large teeth. "We've been to your funeral just this morning. Check him for Imperius," he commanded Bole.

Bole obeyed and performed the spell, which glowed negative.

"So you're just a blood traitor," said Flint, sounding both dismayed and increasingly indignant. "I can't believe it. It would've been better if you were actually dead, you know, for both you and your parents."

Draco didn't want to think about it. Why had they Petrified him? Why hadn't they just hit him with an Avada on the spot?

"Such shame, they'll never live it down." Bole chuckled. "The Dark Lord only tasked us with locating the mudblood and extracting all Order-related information from her. It wasn't anything important, but we thought, well, at least we'd get to have some fun with her." Bole eyed Ruth's unconscious body, and Draco felt sick to his stomach. "But this... Just imagine, Marcus, how we'll be rewarded for bringing this dirty traitor back."

He nudged Flint with his shoulder, but Flint didn't smile back; his features were still twisted in disappointment. Just as his mouth opened to say something else, his gaze shifted upward. Draco already knew who he was looking at and didn't even know how to feel about it.

Two gunshots rang out sharply in the alleyway. Bole was struck in the shoulder, letting out a yelp and widening his eyes in shock. Marcus Flint reacted with the rapidity of a Chaser, raising his wand and casting a Killing Curse toward the source of the shots.

In the chaotic moments that followed, the alley was filled with a cacophony of sounds: the sharp cracks of gunfire, shouts of spells being cast, and the green flashes of magic streaking through the air. The rapid movement of the Death Eaters dodging bullets and the flare of flames flying overhead were impossible to follow. Draco willed himself to focus, trying to muster all his strength to cast a single Finite Incantatem, just to get out of the way and not get killed in the crossfire.

But before he managed to do that, the noise abruptly ceased. Draco couldn't turn his head to the pseudo-policemen, but he saw what was in front of him: the dead body of Lucian Bole and the injured body of Marcus Flint. Clutching his bloody thigh, Flint turned to Draco—his face contorted in pain—and asked, "Just what in Merlin's name was that?"

Upon remembering that Draco couldn't talk, Flint limped closer to him. His eyes—still uncomprehending—observed Bole's body lying in a pool of blood before turning to Draco again.

"Why couldn't you just do what you were told?" He gave a tired sigh. "I want to say I'm sorry, Malfoy, but honestly, you deserve everything that's coming."

Slytherins were known for their loyalty to one another, a trait that was particularly evident within the Quidditch team. Back at Hogwarts, Quidditch wasn't just a sport for Marcus Flint; it was his life. He poured his heart into every match and genuinely cared for his fellow team-mates. Even now, as he prepared to subject Draco to a most painful death, Draco could sense that behind this new Death Eater persona, there was still the Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team who truly mourned the loss of his young Seeker.

Flint reached out to grab Draco's Petrified body for Apparition. Unable to close his eyes, Draco braced himself for the torment ahead—days under the Cruciatus Curse, being skinned, and fed to rats. But foremost in his mind were his parents. I have failed you, he thought, forgive me.

A bang pierced the night.

Flint's body collapsed onto Draco as Draco's own body regained the ability to move—it was released from the spell. Something dripped onto his face and trickled into his mouth. Draco tasted metal. Full of horror and disgust, he pushed Flint off him and scrambled to his feet, furiously wiping his face.

There was a gaping hole in Marcus Flint's head. He, too, was now dead.

From the side, Draco heard a shuffling sound. Ruth was rising to her feet, a gun in hand. Draco stared at her.

Well, she certainly shot to kill.

"That's twice I've saved you today," she said matter-of-factly.

Go to your room, sir. We're apprehending a dangerous criminal.

Draco shook his head. "If I hadn't come to save you, you wouldn't be alive to do any of that."

"They weren't here to kill me," Ruth grumbled. "They wanted me alive."

She moved to the bodies of the fake muggle policemen and searched their pockets, taking their wallets and guns. Draco swallowed and followed her example, gathering Flint's and Bole's pouches and wands.

Ruth had saved his life. Even if it was her presence that had endangered him in the first place. Did he need to thank her?

"Your name doesn't fit you at all," was all Draco said. "I'm glad of it."

She met his gaze, and the two of them shared a mad, adrenaline-fuelled smile.

They continued into the dark alleyway, their pockets filled with the collected trophies, and the night swallowed them whole.