Footsteps rang hard against the cool pavement of the London alley, because the runner was enormous. As a child, Goyle had easily been mistaken for seventeen or eighteen when he was in fact only twelve. Now he cleared seven feet easily, and even though he was incredibly in shape his overall mass drug him down as he sprinted through the night, arms pumping, cloak flailing in the wind behind him where a lighter set of footsteps were echoing. His pursuer was getting nearer, and he didn’t know if he could afford the extra second he’d need to pay to reach his wand. “Impedimenta!” Apparently not, Goyle thought, as the managed to round a corner just in time to dodge the silver beam of light that had been flying towards his back. Unlike a normal chase where you simply needed to stay out of reach, when you had a wizard after you if you let them ever even get a clear shot, you were out of the game. And Harry Potter was famed for having excellent aim. A random piece of debris tripped him up for a moment, and Goyle sent a worthless wish into the sky that he’d learned to become an anigmus so he could change and fly away, because it was becoming painfully obvious that his frantic sprint just wasn’t going to cut it for him. He needed to try something desperate, and he needed to try it now. With a pained heave, Goyle took a hard turn and slammed himself against the wall on the other side of the corner, ripping it loose from his robes. If he was lucky Potter would pass him for a brief second, and give him time to take a clear shot. A disarming spell, of course. Then he’d take him apart, piece by piece, with his bare hands. In savory anticipation, Goyle raised his wand arm up over his hand, and licked his lips, imagining the scene in his mind. His private image was cut off in a flash as someone seized his wrist and scraped his hand back impossibly hard against the brick wall, shredding his skin with the rough texture of it and forcing the wand from his hand. Stunned, Goyle only stared for a moment as the man who had his hand pinned raised a wand of his own, a wand that looked strikingly familiar. Lashing out, Goyle shoved the man backwards, knocking away the hood and taking a quick glance at the revealed face before going for his wand. And then he stopped dead. Frozen. Not by any magical sense, but by the pure shock of the situation, and of the man he was seeing. “Dr-Draco!?” he stuttered, falling back and raising his uninjured hand above his eyes as if he was blinded by some light. “You’re dead!” Draco didn’t smile, but his icy blue eyes flashed. “That’s right,” he said. “Care to join me?” There was a flash of green light that illuminated the entire alley, and then a dull thud. The alley went black again, but not so fast that Harry didn’t have to close his eyes against the radiance as he entered the alley. He surveyed the scene, and sheathed his wand, walking up to Draco with a troubled look on his face. “I’m not sure you had to do that.” Draco leaned forward and planted a light kiss on his lips, before turning to the body of his once time friend. “He was going to hurt you,” he said calmly over his shoulder. “So yes, I did.”