A/N: The site would not allow me to reply to reviews this time around – so I'm very sorry that the chapter previews didn't go out! Hopefully it's fixed by the time this one goes out.
The reality of her situation truly sank down into Marilyn's bones when she found herself in the middle of a Welsh forest. With the tent set up, her meagre "bare necessities" carefully arranged inside, and her breakfast from her carefully rationed stock of porridge oats choked down, there was little other to do than adjust to the new way of things. And she began that adjustment by falling apart.
It wasn't until that moment that it - all of it, everything that had happened before, her new way of life - began to actually feel real. That this life on the run, where to fail would mean to die, was not just a hypothetical future outcome, but now something that she both needed to do, and to survive. Who wouldn't have a little cry when the reality of that finally hit them? She'd recovered quickly, she didn't have much choice about that. She could hardly pay attention to her surroundings if she was busy sobbing and wailing into her hands.
The first week was the worst. She wasn't used to, well, any of it. Every noise became a threat in her mind when she had no ideas which ones were ambience, which ones should be expected, and which ones heralded folk creeping about in the night, in the dark, who would like little more than to murder her here and now. Or to turn her over to their Dark Lord for a lovely prize. With that in mind, she put up all of her wards three times in a row, just in case she somehow blanked out and hadn't actually done them the first two times she thought she had. Then she ended up checking that they were still in place every time she so much as stirred to roll over when she slept. Not that she was sleeping particularly well.
But…she adjusted. As much as one could-slash-should adjust to the constant threat of mortal peril. After all, she knew growing too comfortable, growing complacent, would sign her death sentence as readily as any actual Death Eaters might. She maintained a healthy level of fear without letting it turn her into a useless neurotic mess - a skill no doubt bolstered by a lifetime of forcing herself out onto a stage - and she tried to tackle dilemmas with a combination of careful thought and gut instinct.
She adjusted to the pale, peaceful mornings where everything was so silent and serene that it was hard to believe she was truly on the run from any real danger. She adjusted to the drizzle, and the fact that no amount of magical trickery seemed enough to ward off the chill, nor the damp. She even managed to adjust to the nights when the weather grew grim, and she had no choice but to go out into the blustery wind and the torrential rain, knowing that such conditions robbed her of her ears and left her reliant on her eyes only.
And even in the peaceful moments there were dilemmas. How long should she remain in one spot? How much moving around was likely to send her hurtling into the path of the snatchers (as Potterwatch said they were calling themselves) who mightn't even be looking for her, and how much staying put would make her a sitting duck? There had to be a happy medium between the two, but where the hell was that, exactly? When could she risk travelling by broom, and when could she not? If visibility was too good, she'd be easily spotted. Too bad, and she'd crash the bloody thing and break her neck. Could she risk breaking into that Muggle cottage she'd happened across in order to grab one or two items she needed? If she did, and if the Muggles reported it to the police, was that the sort of thing the Death Eaters would take as a sign that a mudblood on the run was in the area?
What if this war stretched on for years? Did she have years of this in her? Maybe. If she had no choice. But it was a very tenuous maybe.
What if they didn't win the war?
That was the question she allowed herself to consider least. In comparison to that, the paranoia buzzing around her head surrounding the bracelet made for rosy thinking indeed.
It took one week for the solitude of her situation to grow stifling, and four for it to grow borderline unbearable. She'd never much been the type to constantly need somebody, anybody, around her to chatter pointless shite with - and usually the quiet after a day of gruelling rehearsals surrounded by every other dancer at WIB was truly a balm - but this was different. It was relentless, without end nor rest, and she couldn't so much as send a text or exchange passing pleasantries with anybody. Soon, the heart-shaped charm dangling at her wrist became a solace; a small chance that she would see another living soul at some point or another. One that wasn't trying to kill, imprison, or enslave her.
There were many times, even just in that first month, that she was envious of the people who weren't on the run alone. The ones who could take turns keeping watch, who could distract one another from the situation at hand, or ease the burdens of that situation. The ones who might notice things she missed. But she'd missed nothing yet, and she tried to take comfort in the fact that adding people to the mix also made the risk greater. With tensions higher than ever, she didn't doubt that people all over Britain who shared in her situation were currently falling into terrible arguments about where they should go next, how the food should be rationed, and whose turn it was to take watch. There was a cold, rueful sort of comfort in the fact that if anybody's mistakes were going to get her killed, they would be her own.
She just had to hope that keeping the tracking charm on the bracelet wouldn't be one of them. As much as it provided comfort during the days when she was dying for someone, anyone, to talk to, it also fuelled her fear when she was standing in the middle of her campsite, in the pissing rain, in the dark, squinting keenly between the trees for any hint of the snatchers. Not because she didn't trust Draco, but because she knew how badly it could fuck her over if anybody else found out about it. The Death Eaters had boundless ways of prying information out of their own. Veritaserum, Legilimency, good ol' torture. If they suspected him of anything, it would be a short trip from suspicion to her door. So long as she kept the bracelet on.
It spoke to just how much she'd begun to pine for human contact that she kept it on. Even if it was almost a relief that he didn't turn up - one, two, three, four weeks in. If he'd been showing up every other day, toting a bottle of wine and ready to give her all of the hot gossip, he'd have hardly understood the gravity of all of this. And if anybody understood the gravity of all of this, it was Draco.
Although by week five, when she was no longer even embarrassed by how much she now talked to herself, she almost wished he'd be a bit more irresponsible. But even just the vague prospect of a hypothetical visit gave her something to look forward to, and she was pretty sure that it was worth the paranoia. And then, in mid-September, when she was dragged from an attempt at some mindful stretching by the little metal heart searing into her skin, she knew the paranoia was worth it because her heart felt just about ready to claw its way up out of her throat so that it might soar through the sky.
A wave of her wand had her little mini campsite tidying itself up a bit - the bed inside the magical tent made itself, the metal dish she'd been using as a bowl rid itself of the remnants of her dinner, and the clothing that had been strewn about folded itself into a neat pile by her backpack. As an extra touch, she threw another log onto the campfire, and then paused, running a hand over her face, and then her hair.
There was nothing she could do for her appearance. Not really. Her hair saw more stray creepy crawlies than it did hairspray or conditioning treatments these days, and the best she could ever really do was a messy ponytail. Her trainers were more brown than white because she'd gotten sick of cleaning them with magic only for them to be filthy again five minutes later, and the last halfway nice thing she'd worn was the dress at Fleur Delacour's wedding. Even the cloak from Fred and George was relegated to her bag half of the time, just too damn noticeable for her to justify wearing when the whole point was to be undercover.
Ten minutes went by - just long enough for her to start wondering if she'd imagined the little warning sign - and then she heard the sound of footfalls crunching through the leaves nearby. Despite the fact that she knew her wards would keep her invisible, the urge to duck behind the nearest tree was still strong. Instead, though, she settled for gripping her wand and keeping perfectly still.
Draco's silhouette was perfectly recogniseable to her these days, even when cloaked in black - his height, the sharp angle of his shoulders, the purposeful strides, the long-fingered pale hands that poked out from the confines of the cloak, one of which grasped a brown leather satchel. All the same, and despite the relief slowly spreading through her insides like she'd just sipped at a hot cup of tea, she kept still, taking measure of the situation. It didn't hurt to be cautious.
Every few steps, he would pause and look around, and then continue walking. If he had any clue at all that she was there, he gave no indication of it despite the fact that he was well within sight of the glow of her fire and the tent that the trees did nothing to hide. Her wards worked, then.
Sighing his annoyance, he slowed to a halt, hesitated, and then hissed in a whisper.
"...Em? Are you there?"
Referring to her as 'M' was new. But it made sense - if he was happened across here, it would be even more difficult to explain if he was found to be wandering and shrieking the name of a known liability. She waited until he drew nearer (by which point he looked just about ready to give up) before she darted from the confines of the wards, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him backwards. Had anybody strayed through the barrier on their own, they'd have found nothing at all, but because she'd been the one to pull him through it, her camp was revealed to him almost instantly.
Draco recovered quickly, too, having scrambled to fight against her for only a split second before finding his footing (literally and figuratively) and shifting quickly to curiosity instead, regarding the campsite with something resembling curiosity.
"You couldn't tell it was here?" she guessed - and hoped.
"Not for the most part - I smelled…something."
Ah, the material of romantic reunions everywhere. Marilyn breathed a laugh, and the corners of Draco's lips twitched upwards as he seemed to realise the implication of what he'd said.
"Deodorant, probably," she said quietly "I know some spells that'll do the trick instead, but it just makes me feel fresher."
"Best to abandon it," he said "Greyback is on one of the snatching squads. He's got the nose of a dog to match the manners."
He made no move to begin inspecting his surroundings, not to even make some sort of snarky comment. The bag remained clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Something was wrong. After the tired smile slipped from his face, it was more evident to Marilyn. He was twitchy, and he wouldn't meet her eye.
"What is it?" she asked, dread lacing her voice "Draco, what's happened?"
Guiding her with his free hand at the small of her back, he urged her towards the folding chair by the fire. When Marilyn paused to duplicate it with a jabbing motion of her wand so he could sit too, he didn't even pause to bemoan the lack of comfort, nor the fact that it was canvas and metal rather than, oh, fine leather and goose feathers or whatever. In fact, he barely cast a distasteful look at the chair at all as he sat down and immediately turned to face her.
"You're worrying me," she said.
No reassurance that she shouldn't be worried came. Instead, his lips thinned and he directed his gaze to the fire.
"There's…something you need to know," he said.
"What?"
"I'm not sure how to tell you."
"Will saying it a certain way make it less bad?"
He sighed "No."
"Then just say it."
When he finally lifted his gaze to look at her, his eyes were as wary as she'd ever seen them. Then, slowly, he unfurled his fingers and reached out his hand across the small gap between the chairs. Marilyn accepted it, eyes fixed on his face. He couldn't quite seem to decide whether to look at her, or look at the fire, his eyes darting back and forth a few times before he finally inhaled deeply and fixed them on her.
"They…they found your mother, Marilyn. They interrogated her for information on you. And then they…well. They're not in the habit of taking Muggles prisoner. She's gone."
A/N: Okay – a note on this chapter. It's a very transitional one. It was just the only way I could segue into Marilyn being on the run without writing weeks of the mundane details of her camping while nothing is (yet) happening. Of course, all of that made it very tricky to write because I was trying to summarise a lot of things without glossing over anything, while also not being an absolute bore. I hope I did a good job! It was a tricky one to write - but luckily for us (and unluckily for Marilyn) she's not just going to spend this war in uninterrupted rustic peace.
I'm also sorry for the cliffhanger! The next chapter should be up much quicker than this one was, though.
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