Running, running, running. Raphael had never liked running; he preferred other, more entertaining forms of exercise, and having to run from death was far from entertaining. His heart was pounding, both from the physicality of it and from the stress, and as they burst through the exit of the ballroom and into a foyer it was clear that Raphael was going to fall down and fall asleep the moment safety was reached.

No longer was the floor flooded with seawater, but everything was at such an angle that his head was spinning in an attempt to fix the image in his mind. The staircase was right ahead—and once they were up it, they would be safe. He stopped briefly, just long enough to make sure she was okay, and then continued. He climbed the stairs, following the glow of natural light that peeked through the broken windows up ahead. He was running on instinct—his mind empty and his legs sore, he would have sworn his soul had disconnected from his body if he hadn't been able to look down and see his two feet.

Finally—and he wasn't sure how they'd made it—they made a turn and suddenly they were outside. His eyes squinted against the sunlight, and for the first time he realized it must have been mid-morning rather than late in the afternoon. So much for a night of sleep.

"There," he breathed, pointing to the rock where dozens of passengers had congregated. They were too high up, too far away from that end of the ship to merely walk there, but Raphael had a wand. "We can - apparate, if that's alright?" No more walking. No more running. He wanted to lay down.

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