Ronald bursts into his hotel room, the door banging against the wall behind it, and dashes straight for the bed. He takes only a moment to assure that he wasn't followed before yanking out his suitcase and throwing open the lid.

With sharp, disjointed movements, he plucks the clothes from the floor and tosses them into the case until the room is void of his presence. After, he moves on to the bathroom and gathers up his washing items. With those in the bag as well, he pulls the zip around and closes the suitcase up.

It's only when he gets the case put beside the open door leading to the hall that he comes to a stop, realization crashing like an avalanche over his head.

"What am I doing?" He bemoans aloud. "I've very well just killed some bloke!"

Thoughts whir by in his panic. They'll send him to Azkaban for this, never mind the fact that he's a war hero. Murder is still illegal. He can't stay in England, not when they'll have the entire aurora department out searching for him.

Where would be safe, though? France? Germany? Is anywhere in Europe safe? No, he doesn't think so. It's all too close to the ministry and his crime. He'll have to move farther and keep moving. Staying in the same place won't work anymore. It's the only way for him to stay away from the aurora's.

Australia first, the America's next week, and after that...anywhere in the world.

A shiver runs down his spine but he shakes himself out of it and spins to give the room a final glance. He catches his reflection in a mirror over the bed, and comes to a sudden decision.

Ron jogs for the bathroom and flicks on the bright lights. Running one hand through his hair and reaching for his wand with the other, Ron strains to recall the proper spell. The very tip of his wand is still glowing faintly from the powerful magic it had cast only seven minutes earlier, a reminder of what he's done.

Avoiding the sight, he turns to his reflection and hums in consideration. Taking a breath, he swirls his wand and mutters the spell then watches in rapt fascination as his hair fades from the bright red to a muddy brown. Once the transformation is complete and he deems his appearance far more inconspicuous, though he'll have to deal with the freckles when he has more time, Ron looks away and switches off the light.

Snagging his cloak from a hook near the door, he throws it on and reaches for the door knob. He realizes half a moment later that the door had been open before he went into the bathroom, but by then it's too late.

His world erupts in blinding white and a boom beats at his ears until all that's left is a high pitched ringing. He's sent flying backwards, a scream ripping from his throat, and lands with a heavy thump on the floor in front of the bed. Head hitting the metal bed frame, Ron is left disoriented and defenseless on the floor.

Through the buzzing in his ears, he hears a quiet tread of footsteps coming ever closer. He can't move more than small shifts and he's about half sure something is broken around his left side, but with a struggle, he manages to gurgle out some sort of threat.

It mostly sounds like a groan, but he's going to tell anyone that asks that he made the person feel scared.

A form blocks out the light shining on his closed eyelids. Finally, he forces his eyes to cooperate and opens them to small slits. He can't quite see right, but what he does see is more than enough to explain the situation.

She looks, shockingly, to him at least, terrifyingly gorgeous.

Her hair is splayed out around her, matted and wild and damp with something that he can't quite decipher but no less beautiful. She holds her self with dignity, as she's always done, but this is different. It's more jagged, more dangerous, and filled with intent. He gets his answer as to what was making her hair wet when he catches sight of her clothes. They're stained rusty red, in splatters and in large spots. He'd gag if he could feel his lower torso.

Nothing compares to the expression on her face and her weapon, though. The warm cinnamon that her eyes used to be are now icy and dark with hatred and her lips are twisted into a smirk that would scare even the most courageous lion. Her skin is pale white, save a small smudge of crimson high on her right cheek. Despite her livid eyes, a shadow is cast over her face, like she's fighting some terrible war and she's losing. Her weapon, though, is raised and pointed right at his chest. A wand that she is far more adept at using than he could ever dream to be.

Distantly, his mind supplies the words, avenging angel.

Ron makes his limbs cooperate and gets them to shove his aching body back closer to the bed and away from her.

With no warning, she snarls, "you killed him!" The noise makes his head pound and she swims in and out of view for a moment. "You killed an innocent man in cold blood with no motive!" She takes step closer until her foot is pressing against his shin.

It didn't occur to him that he could have knocked her legs out from under her, so enraptured by her appearance that he is, but later he will wish he had done so.

"Hermione-" he starts, forming a coherent word. A swift movement of her wand and a growled Silencio has the rest of the sentence dying his throat.

"You don't deserve to speak," she hisses. "Not after what you did. You can wait here, in silence, until the authorities that I called arrive." She grins down at him, all mirth gone from the expression.

Another flick of her wand has ropes shooting out of the end and rapping around him. There's a squeal and then he's being levitated onto a chair, bond and unable to move. He almost prefers the floor to this.

"Feel thankful that I'm not the one distributing your punishment," Hermione says, leaning low over him. "Draco was my responsibility and my friend and now, because of you and I, he's dead. I've suffered my punishment, and I'd be more than willing to dole out yours, but I'm not looking to get thrown into Azkaban." It's spit out with venom and Ron would wince away if he could move.

She turns her back on him, stalking across the room and peering at the damage that her explosion had caused. With her distracted, Ron wiggles his fingers closer to his pocket. His wand is sticking halfway out and, though the ropes tighten painfully around his arms, he manages to pull it out and grasp it in hand.

"When you lose your case with the Wizengamot, like I know you will, I'll make sure you will, you'll be sent to Azkaban. I'll celebrate the day," she rambles on, not really focused on talking to him.

Ron flicks his wand, testing out his wordless magic, and it works like a charm. The pressure on his throat lessens but he says nothing aloud, knowing it would reveal his escape.

"Your family will be horrified by what you did, but they're strong," Hermione continues, but her head drops and she slumps just a little. It gives him pause, for just a moment, hearing what she had said. His mind flies to his mother, and George, and Ginny, who'd been his closest sibling for years before the war happened.

He can't linger on them now. If he does, then he'll never escape.

Doing the best that he can within his bindings, Ron swishes his wand and whispers, "petrificus totalus." He watches as she tenses up and drops to the floor, stiff as a board. Undoing the spell cast on the ropes, he stands up and goes to Hermione. Looming over her, his eyes meet hers and the full force of her rage and hurt washes over him.

Ron looks away and mutters, "wingardium leviosa." With careful movements, he gets her onto the bed and settles her down. There's no need to tie her up, not with the body bind, so he doesn't bother with restraints like she had.

"The auroras will be here soon, like you said, and they'll help you if the bind doesn't wear off. You'll be free, and so will I," Ron tells her, running a hand through his hair. The color will have to be changed again now that she's seen it, but that's a problem for another time.

He goes for the door, or what's left of it after the trap she had laid for me. Just as he's about to leave, he glances back one final time. Despite the situation and all that has happened, Ron can't help but to grin. She's strong, but he had still won. Best of her year, best of the age, and he had bested her.

And yet, looking at her now, he can feel a trace of guilt snapping at him. It's the guilt that drives him to murmur, "I'm sorry, for everything. I know you owe me nothing, but please, tell mom I'm sorry. Dad, too, he deserves an apology, and I can't give it to him face-to-face anymore.

For a moment, it looks like her fuming gaze softens. It's gone in the next second, though, and Ron wonders if it had only been his imagination.

"Goodbye, Hermione," he says.

Not bothering with the destroyed suitcase, Ron holds up his wand and turns sharply on the spot. He's gone from the room, from the entire country, and the last sight he sees of his old life is her eyes, lifeless and dull and looking as if her battle had finally been lost.

In another room in another building, a man lay still on the white sheets of the hospital bed. At his bedside sits a weeping woman, his mother. Her cries are soft and her whispered pleads fall on deaf ears. For a moment, while her warm hand clutches his cold ones, she allows a louder wail to slip out. Uncaring of her image now, or what little of it that is left, she throws herself over her son's lifeless body.

"Please," she begs in a stilted way, voice hiccuping and broken up by gasping breaths. "Please, come back to me."

On his other side stands a mediwitch, hesitant to break the mother's attention but needing to complete her job. "We'll be waiting for you outside the room, ma'am. When you're ready, come out and we'll take the body away. " The woman tiptoes from the room.

"First my husband is taken away, and then my little boy," Narcissa moans miserably, clutching the body tighter.

She presses her cheek to his, pretending that nothing has changed and when she pulls away, he will smile and call her silly for overreacting. But he doesn't, and she sinks back into her chair. He looks to only be asleep, but she knows the truth. The relaxed expression on his face is a lie, he is not peaceful.

Draco would never be peaceful, or happy, or joyful ever again. She would never get to see his rare and beautiful smile light up a room, or watch him fall deeper in love with the woman of his dreams. He will never laugh, or yell, or speak. Narcissa won't find him lost in another book or joke with him at dinner. After she leaves this room, she will never see her son's face again. At least, outside of photographs.

Fresh tears roll down as she rests her head beside his arm and stretches up to run her fingers through his soft locks. "My handsome boy," she says quietly. "Why did you stop fighting? I taught you to be strong. Why chose this day to give in? You've lived through this before, why can't you do it again?" Her voice had taken a slight scolding tone, but it disappears with a cheerless chuckle. "Look at me, talking to you like you can respond. I've gone mad." Narcissa gives a watery smile and cups his cheek, lifting her head from the bed. "I love you so very much, my dear Draco. Your father did as well, in his own odd way." She pauses, then swallows harshly. "I'll have to tell him. He shouldn't hear it from a stranger.

Narcissa puts her head back down, tired and hurting and unwilling to think past these last moments she has with her son. Only when the sun has long since set does she make herself stand and wipe her eyes. She has to be strong now, for her son.

With a final kiss pressed to his forehead, Narcissa goes to the door. Before pulling it open, she takes a slow breath and says, "goodbye, my darling boy." Then she walks out the door and closes it with a soft click behind her.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" The voice of the mediwitch from earlier brings Narcissa to a standstill.

Narcissa faces the woman and dips her head. "I'm fine, dear."

The woman shakes her head and walks closer, patting Narcissa on the shoulder. "I can see how much this hurts. He was your son, after all. But you don't have to pretend like it doesn't hurt. I, of all people, will understand." The woman smiles sadly. "My son passed away three years ago, caught by a muggle automobile while trying to cross a road with a friend. The friend didn't make it either." Her voice wavers and her eyes take on a bright sheen that breaks Narcissa's heart a little bit more. Then the woman clears her throat and squares her shoulders. "It hurts everyday, for both my husband and I. So yes, I understand very well what you're feeling.

Narcissa takes a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry. You're far too young to have experienced that kind of loss," she says.

The woman nods. "You as well. No mother is ever old enough to be ready for the death of her children." There is a beat of silence where neither knows how to continue. Then, the mediwitch sighs. "I'm terribly sorry, but there are a few procedural things we have to go over."

"It's no trouble," Narcissa assures, thankful for the distraction. "I've got nothing to go home to tonight anyhow."

"There isn't much, just the payments and then a few forms to sign-" A shrill screech breaks through the conversation.

Both women freeze, stunned by the sudden noise. Neither move or even seemed to be breathing as they wait for another sound.

"Was that..." Narcissa trails off, realization dawning on her as she turns back towards the room.

The mediwitch shakes her head wildly in disbelief. "That's impossible! It's been nearly four hours since his heart stopped. The pulse alarm must just be on the fritz." Narcissa isn't listening, because another ring from the alarm spell is piercing the air.

"My son is alive," Narcissa breathes.

It goes like this:

When Draco arrived at the hospital, his heart had temporarily stopped. For a full five minutes they could not restart it and, just when they were going to call it a loss, a jarring electric shock to his body brought back a slow but definitely present pulse. From there, it had been a mad rush to heal his wounds and make sure there was no lingering magic from the sectumsempra.

They'd healed his body, but Draco would not wake up. For a week it went on, him unconscious and seeming no closer to ever wake up. On the eighth day, his pulse disappeared again. Or so they had thought.

In actuality, it had only dropped down so slow that the spells cast on him to watch his vitals couldn't detect it. He'd been assigned dead, though he's still been alive.

Upon hearing the story, Draco had stared blankly at the wall opposite his hospital bed trying to process it all. "I was dead?" He repeats.

Narcissa, unable to wipe the gleaming smile from her face, squeezes his hand and nods. "For a little while, legally, but you came back and stayed alive the rest of the time. I knew you were my strong little fighter."

His lips tilt up in a small smile. "I suppose so." Draco thinks back to his first day at the hospital, but it makes his head spin to linger on. "What happened the day I was brought in? Did they catch that weasel for what he did?"

Face darkening minutely, Narcissa snarls, "nobody knows where he is. There is a manhunt out for him. Everyone thinks he really killed you, and I intend to keep it that way. We aren't revealing the fact that you're alive until he is caught and I am sure of your safety."

Draco's brow furrows. It takes him a moment to fully understand her words. His mind is far too foggy to be having the kind of conversation so soon after everything that's happened. "What about Hermione? Does she at least know? She, of all people, deserves to know that I'm alive.'

His mother goes silent, the smile slowly fading away. She shifts in her seat and clears her throat, unable to meet his gaze now.

"Mother," he says slowly, "what aren't you telling me?"

Narcissa purses her lips. "Draco, dear, I didn't want to tell you so soon after waking up."

"Tell me?" he echoes, stomach flipping with fear. "Tell me what?"

She sighs. "Miss Granger hasn't been seen since the day you arrived her," Narcissa tells him, voice quiet. Every word is like a knife to Draco's chest. "Traces of her were found in a hotel room just off Diagon Alley, and there was clearly some sort of struggle. The entire room was wrecked, likely from some sort of explosion is what they're saying. Past that, they have nothing. No leads, nothing to go off of."

"Are they looking for her," he asks after a beat of silence.

"Draco, they have nothing," Narcissa whispers. "She was last seen with a known murderer."

Draco gulps, and he's not entirely sure that his heart is still beating. Maybe they really will pronounce him dead this time. "What are you saying?" He knows, Merlin help him, he knows what she's going to say. He just can't believe it until it's said aloud.

"Miss Granger has been presumed dead, Draco."

Author's Note: So, is this any better than last week? You all did

Which, by the way, is coming soon. I think there are around nine or ten chapters left, maybe less if I combine two chapters into one like I did with this one and the last one. I promise that everything will be good by the end of the fic, just hang on a little while longer. I won't leave it with a bad ending or with everyone dead.

Thank you guys so much for reading, it means the world! See you next week with a new update!!