A/N: My French is probably bad, so I'm sorry. But I'd love it if anyone who does speak French could point things out that I didn't do very well. And I'm sorry if it wasn't easy to follow what was being said if you don't speak French at all, I'm perfectly open to changing their interaction to English, just let me know. :D

Stacked with: Starry Strums, Fem Power Challenge, T3

Individual Challenge(s): Long Haul (Y); The Real MC; Slytherin MC; Eating Cake; Ethnic & Present; Old Shoes (Y); Lunar Era (Y);

Representation: International Travel; Man Hunt; Major Head Injury; Alternate Universe

Primary & Secondary Bonus Challenge(s): Ladylike; Not a Lamp; White Dress; Pear-Shaped; Demo (Spinning Plates); Demo (Call Me Dantes; Machismo; Tomorrow's Shade; Muck & Slime; Head of Perseus)

Tertiary & Generic Bonus Challenge(s): Thimble (T3)

Word Count: 4272

July 14, 1997

Reaching France had been easier than Draco had thought it was going to be. Finding the Muggle money had been the biggest challenge, and it had taken a lot longer than it would've if he used magical means, but it was immensely safer for him to travel the Muggle way. No one would recognize him, and staying away from magic for as long as he could would be better until he could figure out the specifics of the Hunter-Witches' abilities.

That was if he could find someone who knew about it, of course. He wasn't keen on the idea of studying them himself.

He'd managed to take a train to London, then to Dover, and finally took a ferry to Calais, France. It had taken a lot of Muggle money to do it, but he'd fortunately gotten lucky enough to find someone's wallet under a bench in London. Draco would've felt bad about taking all their money, but he thought they'd probably do the same if they were fleeing from the war and the Dark Lord.

He was finally in Calais, waiting at a train station where he could go to Paris, then Migennes, and finally, Bussy-en-Othe. He'd been very disappointed to find that he couldn't go straight there by train or bus, but he could take a train to Migennes, which wasn't terribly far from the Malfoy summer home. It was roughly a good 10 kilometers, though.

Draco had never gone to the Malfoy summer home by Muggle means before. He hadn't really registered just how far it was from Wiltshire. At the moment, he wasn't sure whether to appreciate magic or Muggle technology more—magic wasn't helping him get to Bussy-en-Othe at all, and without the Muggle's technology, he wouldn't have even been able to get this far. Except that magic had always done it before.

It was a confusing mix of feelings and thoughts that Draco didn't want to focus on. He told himself that wizards were still superior to the Muggles, because he could've just taken a Portkey to the summer home and this week-long trip would've been reduced to a single moment.

But even as he thought that, he found himself doubting it. He would always owe his escape from Wiltshire to the Muggles. Even though it took him hours to walk from station to station, and he'd gotten lost more times than he was ever going to admit, he was doing it. He was properly escaping the war and magic altogether.

He shifted uncomfortably on the bench he waited on, clutching the map he held as if he was afraid it was going to be blown away in a gust of wind, and winced. Clearly, he'd been thinking too much about these things, and clearly the exhaustion of all of this was finally catching up to him. It was early, much too early for Draco's tastes, and the station had just opened. He knew he looked a mess, knew he probably smelled worse than he ever had in his life, and it felt as if he could run a finger over his skin and wipe off a layer of grime.

Not that he actually could wipe dirt off his skin, but the thought made him grimace nonetheless.

He glanced at his watch—it read 6:05 am—and at the board with departure times for his train. It was all in French, which he understood little of, but thankfully, numbers were the same in French as they were in English. He had 30 minutes before his train left. He figured he'd have enough time to find a bathroom and clean himself up a bit.

He stood and his aching, swollen feet protested, which he ignored. He found his way to the bathrooms, nearly walking through the women's door in his exhaustion before he realized what he was doing. There weren't many people at the train station yet—he wasn't entirely sure why, as it should be a lot busier than that—but there were two men in the bathroom when he walked in. They were speaking in French, which made Draco nervous that he wouldn't be able to understand what they were saying, but he shook it off.

They were just a few people he wouldn't see again after this. If they spoke about him, or to him, and he didn't understand, then it didn't matter.

The two were standing at the sink, chattering about something, though apparently not doing anything else in the bathroom. Draco thought they might be taking the same train as he was. He could only catch snippets of what they were saying as he ran his right forearm under the sink, scrubbing it as well as he could with the little space he had in the small sink basins. His hands and arm felt immediately more clean now that he'd started washing it.

Next to him, the men kept on talking, and he was only able to recognize the more simple things as they spoke. He hadn't studied his French in so long, much less actually had a practical use for it. He awkwardly removed his watch and scrubbed his other arm, carefully not looking at the Dark Mark marring his otherwise smooth skin. It made him sick to see it and feel it under his hand.

"Excuse-moi, vous parlez français?" one of the men asked him abruptly. Draco sighed in relief (after he jumped a bit at being addressed)—finally, something he could understand—and he suspected that the man had slowed his speech down significantly so Draco could understand. He tried to remember the correct response, and he could only hope that he didn't look like an idiot while he stood there and tried to remember.

"Je ne parle pas bien français," he said slowly, knowing his accent would probably make it harder to understand what he was saying, but the man nodded anyway. Draco turned back to the sink with the intent of drying his arms off, but the man spoke to him again before he'd fully turned.

"Ce n'est pas mal," he replied, flashing Draco a smile, and he forced one back, not quite understanding. He was suddenly more aware of himself, and carefully turned his forearm down to try to keep the Dark Mark out of view, worried about what these Muggles might think of it.

"Je m'appelle Marc, et c'est Victor." He—Marc—gestured to his friend, and Draco blinked as he tried to straighten out what Marc was saying. It took him a moment to fully register that he'd been introduced to his friend and that they were expecting him to introduce himself.

"I'm—je m'appelle, ah, Harry," Draco lied, catching himself before he said his real name. He didn't feel comfortable enough for them to know that, but Merlin only knew why Harry was the first name that popped into his head instead. He hoped that none of them noticed him fumble over his name. If anything, he'd rather they noticed him slipping into English.

"Enchanté," Marc said, holding out his hand, which Draco almost took, before he realized his arm was still dripping wet. He laughed nervously and pulled his hand back. All of this was out of his element, and every time Marc spoke, his heart raced as he struggled to understand and respond without embarrassing himself.

"Je suis désolé," he apologized, feeling his cheeks heat up, and Marc laughed good-naturedly and said something that he could only assume meant, "That's okay." Draco felt himself relax minutely. The three of them lapsed into silence, and he was finally able to turn back to finish cleaning himself up. He leaned down and splashed water on his face and neck, feeling a little better after he did.

"Votre tatouage signifie-t-il quelque chose?" Marc asked once Draco had finished drying his face off. Draco furrowed his eyebrows, trying to figure out what Marc said, but he finally just had to decide that he didn't understand and would have to tell Marc that he didn't. He felt his cheeks heat up once again.

"Er, je suis désolé, je ne comprends pas," he said self-consciously. He hoped he'd said that he didn't understand correctly—it'd be even more embarrassing if he'd gotten that wrong too. Marc turned to his friend (Victor, if Draco remembered properly) and said something to him too fast for Draco grasp.

"How do you say in English… does your tattoo mean something?" Victor asked with a very thick French accent and slightly broken English, but Draco could understand. The blood drained from his face.

"No," he said tightly, jerking his sleeves down to cover the Dark Mark. Victor looked surprised at such a strong reaction.

"Je suis désolé," Victor said, shifting on his feet. He paused for a second before continuing, when it was clear that Draco wasn't going to accept his apology. "It is that, we saw the same tattoo before, so we wonder if it has meaning."

Draco's pulse spiked. No, no, no. They can't have followed me.

"When?" he asked, hoping that his desperation didn't slip into his voice. By the concerned look Victor and Marc shared, he wasn't very successful.

"Ah, I don't know how to say… quand nous avons arrivé à la gare," Victor said apologetically. He looked to Marc for help to translate it into English, but Draco didn't need it. When we arrived at the station.

"Merci. Excuse-moi, je m'en vais," he said quickly, hoping he'd said that he was leaving, and pulled his sleeves down all the way as he ducked out of the bathroom. He wished he knew enough French to warn them to stay away from people with the Dark Mark, but he didn't, so he could only hope that the Death Eaters wouldn't pay attention to them.

He had no idea where they were, or if they knew where he was going, but he was either going to have to change his plans or somehow shake them off. Which was difficult, considering he didn't even know which Death Eaters had followed him.

Whatever he was going to do, he was going to have to decide soon. Like, now. His train had pulled into the station and was departing in less than five minutes. He looked frantically around the station, trying to spot anyone he could recognize or someone acting suspicious.

But hardly anyone remained on the platform at that point, and everyone who did was moving to get on the train. No one seemed suspicious. Not to mention that the Death Eaters had the advantage of magic—disillusionment charms, invisibility cloaks, Polyjuice potions… it was impossible to find a way around it, not without his wand.

Draco started to panic the longer he stood there, unable to figure out what he should do. The intercom rang out, likely calling for anyone taking the train to board now. Draco shut his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. He was going to have to board the train. He didn't know where the Death Eaters were, or how many of them there were, but until he did, he was just going to have to follow his plan. The longer he was out in the Muggle world while being followed, the more danger he was in. It was safer to try and make it to the Malfoy summer home, where at least there were wards.

He climbed onto the train, sitting down in the first empty seat he saw so he could be as close to the doors as possible. It was a three hour train ride, and Draco was almost falling apart with anxiety about all the things that could happen in three hours, but he forced himself to relax. He had to believe he was going to be fine, otherwise he'd never make it.

A little ways down the train car was Victor and Marc, murmuring to each other with serious expressions on their faces. Draco swallowed, guilt worming its way into his chest and squeezing tight, forcing himself to look away from the pair. He'd been very rude to them in his haste to get out of the bathroom, which was a shame, because they seemed nice enough. They were the nicest Muggles he'd met, at least.

There were maybe 15 other people in the train car with him. All of them looked normal, which made him grip his seat tightly with fear. He might never find out who among them were Death Eaters—if they were even there at all.

Not knowing was putting him even more on edge. He wondered what three hours of this was going to do to him.

He eventually found himself relaxing bit by bit and leaning back into the seat, head resting on the wall behind him as he thought about the situation. They must've put a tracking spell on him before he'd left the Manor. He doubted that the Death Eaters had really followed him all the way out to Calais—they probably only went after him once they'd realized he'd left the country.

He shut his eyes, focusing on evening out his breath. Everything was going to be okay. He repeated that to himself over and over again, not actually thinking it would work to calm him, but it did.

Before he could stop himself, he drifted off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of blood and the Hunter's lips on the shell of his ear as he handed her his wand. They were like sandpaper against his skin, her voice like nails on a chalkboard as he begged her to just let him die this time. The Hunter laughed at him, forcing his wand back into his hand and saying, "You'll need this—if you can even figure out which end is which." He screamed as

Draco jerked awake, pulled abruptly out of his dream, and found himself on the train again. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he came back to reality, clenching his fists. He was alive—magicless, yes, but alive. A voice startled him out of his thoughts.

"Harry, are you okay?" Marc asked, his eyebrows furrowed. His accent was even thicker than Victor's. The two of them had gone over to Draco's side of the train car and sat across from him, probably sometime while he was asleep, since he hadn't heard their footsteps. Draco knew he probably thrashed around while he dreamt, or at least started murmuring things under his breath.

Draco nodded. "I'm sorry for earlier." Marc and Victor shook their heads, seeming not to mind that he'd been so rude to them. Draco didn't understand why they weren't—he would've been.

"No, no, we did not mean to offend…" Victor said, and Marc nodded along. Victor hesitated, but continued speaking after a beat, his voice so low that Draco had to lean forward to hear. "In truth, we know exactly what the tattoo means." Draco flinched—Victor's French accent was completely, utterly gone. He jumped up with the intent of getting off the train, whether or not he'd survive trying, if he could just get away from them. Victor and Marc must've been in on it the entire time, toying around with him before they brought him back to the Dark Lord.

Marc's hand wrapped around his wrist tightly, and he struggled to pull away, but the grip was unrelenting. Draco started to panic even more than he already was. He had no magic, there was no way for him to fight back—

"We were trying to warn you in the bathroom, Malfoy. We didn't expect you to get on the train anyways," Marc hissed in his ear. Draco froze.

"What?" he asked. The Muggles around them were starting to give them looks, so Draco immediately sat back down. Marc and Victor sat on either side of him, and Draco suddenly realized how small he was compared to them.

"We're here to warn you about going to Paris. They're waiting for you. We didn't think that you'd make the very poor decision to get on the train," Marc said under his breath. Draco bristled.

"How was I supposed to know they were waiting for me, you said they were already here!" he said indignantly.

"Yes, even more of a reason to turn around and run!" Victor snapped. Draco seethed to himself, mind whirring. Something about them was strangely familiar, but he just couldn't pinpoint it…

"Look, this is how it's going to go. Once we get off the train, you're going to go straight into the bathroom. At this point, Lestrange probably already knows who we are and if she doesn't, then she's going to figure out eventually that we aren't just some Muggles." Draco frowned at the mention of his aunt. Of course she would've been the one to follow him.

"Then what?" he asked. Marc and Victor shared a look with each other over Draco's head. Again, Draco was reminded of someone, but he shrugged it off. It wasn't important.

"You're going to wait in the bathroom and let Lestrange follow you in. And then Victor and I will subdue her," Marc finished. Draco stared at him.

"Subdue?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"If we can avoid killing her, that's great, but we can't promise anything," Victor said. Draco stared, horrified. Even though he knew Aunt Bella was insane, he didn't want her dead. She was his only living family.

Marc leaned over Draco and smacked his friend on the back of his head.

"We're going to stun her and Obliviate her," Marc corrected. Draco let out a breath of relief. He couldn't help but wonder who'd sent them, and how they'd known where to find him, but he knew they weren't going to answer his questions if he asked. Instead, he just kept quiet and listened to the two of them bickering about what Victor had said.

"What if she anticipates you being there?" Draco asked as soon as he realized that might be a problem. Marc shrugged and let the other man reply.

"I guess that means we'll just have to fight her harder, won't it?" Victor said. Draco modded worriedly, unsure, and Marc patted his back in an attempt to comfort him. It didn't entirely work, but the thought was there.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Draco asked. He just couldn't be comfortable knowing that they were his only defense. He supposed he always had his fists if it came down to it, but they were basically useless against magic.

"You don't," Victor said bluntly. Draco flinched, and Marc smacked Victor on the back of his head again. Victor grumbled, rubbing his head and mumbling his apologies.

"Look, Malfoy," Marc started, focusing on him again. "I doubt there's anything we can say to reassure you without telling you too much. But go ahead, ask away." Draco stared at him, frustrated; there was just something so familiar about the two of them that Draco felt like they'd met before—it occurred to him that this is what he could use to test whether or not

"Have we met before?" he asked. Victor snorted, and Marc hesitated before replying.

"Let's just say we were there for a few of your—less pleasant moments," he said. Draco flinched, realizing that it actually didn't reveal anything about who they were. He knew that he mostly only had unpleasant moments, unless you were Theo or Blaise and got to see him let his guard down.

He blinked. What if… what if they were Theo and Blaise? It clicked into place then, their interactions with each other, Victor's (Blaise's) bluntness, Marc's (Theo's) tendency to put things in a kinder way, and the fact that both Theo and Blaise were multilingual. He'd never heard them speak French, but both of them had a knack for languages, so it wouldn't have surprised him at all if they could speak it.

They sat here for only an hour after that, Blaise and Theo talking to each other over Draco's head—much to his annoyance—before the train pulled into the station. He hadn't realized he'd slept for over half of the ride, and he couldn't believe he'd let his guard down for so long when he was specifically trying not to. It was a good thing that Blaise and Theo.

Though he wouldn't let himself dwell on it, it felt nice to know that someone was watching out for him. Even though he didn't know who had sent them to warn him, he was more comfortable knowing that it was Theo and Blaise—or at least, he didn't see how they couldn't be Theo and Blaise.

When the doors opened, Draco immediately stepped onto the platform and made his way to the restroom, just as Theo had told him to do. There was a crowd of people there, much more than there'd been in Calais, and he relaxed a bit at that. It had felt wrong for a train station to be so empty.

The bathroom was empty, which left Draco wringing his hands uneasily, but he moved into a stall. At least he'd be partially hidden once Aunt Bella followed him into the bathroom. He wrung his hands, hoping that this was going to work. He didn't want to imagine what was going to happen if it didn't.

The door swung open and an instant later, Draco heard the lock click. So Aunt Bella really had been sent to find him. He shut his stinging eyes and forced down the hurt he hadn't expected—it was completely unreasonable, anyway. He sucked in a breath as Bellatrix slowly stepped further into the bathroom, her high heels clacking on the bathroom tile.

"Draco," Bellatrix called, sing-song. He briefly wondered whether or not she was going to kill him or bring him back to the Manor, and he wasn't sure which was worse.

"Am I getting warmer?" she continued, horribly playful, creeping nearer to the stall he was hiding in. He thought, probably too late, if he should've drawn his feet up so she wouldn't be able to see him right away. But no matter, he told himself, Theo and Blaise will be here any second. Any second now…

His heart froze in his chest when it occurred to him that maybe this really had been an elaborate game for the three of them, that it wasn't really Theo and Blaise at all. His whirling mind stuttered to a stop when he realized that Bellatrix had stopped walking, paused right in front of his stall. The blood drained from his face, knowing how helpless he was, wondering how bad the curse was going to be that she planned on using on him.

Suddenly, Draco was blasted back off his feet, head colliding with the wall and again with the toilet as he fell to the ground, pain bursting behind his eyes. He crumpled, the deep, throbbing pain blossoming in his head, keeping him flat on the ground. He could barely barely Bellatrix's boots as his vision blurred, directly in front of him, and the only thing separating him from her was the stall door. She laughed and crouched down into view, eyes glittering black, wand pointed straight at his face.

"Found you," she whispered. Draco shut his eyes as she opened her mouth to cast a curse, not wanting to see her as she did it.

After a few long, gruelling seconds, Draco cracked his eyes open to see if she was still there. He couldn't think straight enough to imagine another reason why she might have paused. His heart soared when he registered what he was looking at, her body in the same position as his—toppled over onto the floor, unconscious. His vision cleared slightly and he could see two pairs of feet beside Bellatrix's unconscious form, but the corners of his vision started to blacken when he tried to move.

"Malfoy, are you alright?" Draco groaned in response as he sat up, body aching terribly and head swimming. He unlocked his stall and crawled out, gripping his head, and watched as Blaise Obliviated Bellatrix. Theo knelt beside him and pulled his hands away from his head, examining him. It really was too bright in the bathroom, Draco thought.

He felt himself being pulled up from underneath his arms, but he'd closed his eyes against the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, so he couldn't quite tell who'd picked him up. All he knew was that someone was grunting from the effort of hoisting him off the floor and he wasn't sure which way was up and which way was down.

"Malfoy, we're going to apparate now, I need you to stand up on your own." Draco tried to comply, struggling to remain on his feet without his knees buckling. His neck felt hot and wet, his head throbbing worse than any headache he'd ever had.

"Victor, I need your help. Malfoy must've hit his head, he's bleeding," came one of their hurried voices, piercing through the haze steadily settling around Draco's mind.

"Merlin—hold him still, I'll seal it as best I can, and then we really have to apparate." The back of Draco's head burned for a moment—a sharp, searing pain that had his vision blackening again, and he hissed. But then another arm was under him, hoisting him up even further, and he remembered that he was shorter than both Theo and Blaise at the moment. He squeezed his eyes shut once he felt the familiar tug of apparation, clinging tightly to his friends as they apparated him out of the Muggle bathroom.

Unable to hold himself together, the world went dark as he finally surrendered to unconsciousness.