He's dead, she said, and all he could think was Good. If Walter hadn't been dead, he would have been in his final minutes, because Raphael couldn't imagine not killing him after witnessing the marks he'd left across Yaxley's skin. What kind of man tried to kill a woman? Tried to choke a woman? His brain refused to even conjure the image of someone attacking Yaxley in such a way, his eyes squeezing shut even as the thought of it crossed his mind. He took a deep breath, trying to think rationally.

Yaxley was injured—not terribly so, but her wounds ran deeper than surface wounds. Her entire body was shaking, and from where he stood he could see how red and glassy her eyes were. He wanted to tell her that this was all a bad idea, that nobody would know it was her (who would suspect it, anyways?) and that she'd be safer anywhere else. But at the same time, Raphael knew she was right: if Walter was tied as closely to the family as she claimed, and if the aurors were somewhat useful they'd be able to figure out what had happened and who was involved. They would have to rid of the body. They—not her, not him, them together. He wouldn't let her go alone, and he wouldn't know where to start.

He wrapped his fingers around her upper arm and squeezed gently, trying to catch her eye in the mirror.

"I'll help you. We'll... we'll dispose of it somewhere they won't look." Raphael wasn't a mastermind or body-hiding expert, but he had something going for him: resources. Discretion. Privilege. Nobody would think of him, and nobody would accuse a Malfoy without absolute proof—and even then, they might not. That's what his father had always said, and he believed him.

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