A/N: Another short one – I'm sorry! They're just as long as they need to be. If it's any consolation, they're pretty action packed from here onwards.


It had been a long while since she last saw Draco, and by now Marilyn was fairly certain that she only had a handle on how time was passing thanks to the radio. Before he'd left, he'd warned her that bands of snatchers were travelling westwards towards the coast, and would likely happen upon her if she didn't move – and then, upon her request, he'd Apparated her up to a patch of Scotland he'd once been familiar with. The request had proven a bit of a stupid one, because the weather up here was much colder than her old stomping grounds, but at the time she was hoping that the vague proximity to Hogwarts and Hogsmeade would have the roaming 'authorities' assuming that nobody would be daft enough to hang around there. She'd hoped they'd decide it made more sense to focus on the likes of England and Wales, and that there were more than enough Magical eyes set up in Scotland on a permanent residency to mean they no longer had to bother.

The spell that shot past her head and exploded into dangerous white sparks on a tree trunk, inches from her right ear, acted as all the proof Marilyn needed that those hopes had been very fucking stupid.

So far, she'd almost lost them – the snatchers, not her ears – twice on this godforsaken chase, but both of those near-losses only served to have them snapping at her heels with that much more vigour. Her only solace was that they'd caught her trail as she'd been moving camps – and so she'd abandoned nothing, all of her supplies safely in the pack at her back. If she'd lost her supplies, she'd be soon dead whether they caught her or not. Now? Now she had a chance. What she just needed on top of that was opportunity. For them to lose sight of her just long enough so that she might hop onto her broom.

Based on how furiously they kept her in their sight, they knew that too. Next time she saw Draco, she'd throw herself down at his feet for giving her the bloody thing, because what hope would she have otherwise? Apparating required a certain amount of pause and focus, more than the broom did – neither of which she had time for now. She'd only end up splinched if she tried it. Hurdling a fallen tree, her trainers skidded against the wet leaves on the other side, but she recovered quickly (save for the way her stomach lurched), and then pushed on.

The only downside of the broom was how visible it was, still as stark white as it had been the day he'd gifted it to her. When it became obvious to her that they were aiming for it just as much as they were aiming at her, a few sparks even catching the bristles, she was forced to begin running with it held before her, shielded by her body. It did nothing to help her gait. Thankfully, her time out here hadn't seemed to catapult her into as dire physical shape as she'd feared, and she was sure those behind her were tiring more than she.

No, if it came down to endurance she'd win. But she couldn't rely on that. Not in the dark, not with the uneven terrain, not with how she was constantly forced to zig-zag out of the line of attack. A dense thicket of trees lay up ahead - she spotted them mere seconds before she'd almost ran smack-bang into them, and feinted right before diving left, feeling the heat of the hex that burst against the branches in the direction she'd pretended to run. This could be her only chance. As she ducked behind the meagre shelter the thicket offers, she dragged one leg over the broom, and then she was off without so much as a half-second spent considering her next move.

Angry shouts arose behind her the second the snatchers rounded the thicket and saw what she'd done – incoherent curses, and insults flung at each other as they blamed one another for her escape. But if she could hear them, she hadn't quite escaped yet, had she? As if the universe sensed that thought…that was when everything went to shit. As she zipped over a ravine, an errant spell clipped the back of her broom, and she went hurtling down.

Her face broke her fall. She brought her forearms up too late, and the momentum sent her into a series of nasty rolls before she even began to slow down. By the time she tumbled to a stop, she had little idea of which way was up, if anything was broken, or where her pursuers were. And there wasn't exactly much time to waste in working out the answers to those questions. Wheezing – into the rocky shore of the stream she'd just crashed into, which answered her first question – she pushed herself up on her elbows and tried desperately to shove air back into her lungs.

The backpack was still on her back, thank god, but where was the broom? Looking around desperately, she found it quickly – half poking out from beneath the narrow rocky shelf to her right. She never would've noticed it if not for the broom. Which made it the perfect hiding place. Particularly as she heard footsteps rushing this way. Scrambling in a clumsy sort of army-crawl that only emphasised all of the stings, aches, and scrapes littering her body, she shirked off the backpack and shoved it into the crevice, and then slid in after it. She had no idea if the drops she felt running down her arms were sweat or blood. All she could do was hope that if it was blood, it would be much too dark for the snatchers to see a trail of it.

Her only comfort came from the fact that the water rushing just out of arm's reach would hopefully be enough to drown out whatever ragged sounds of her breathing that she couldn't suppress. Clamping a hand over her mouth, terror gripped her when the light of wands began to flicker in the direction of her pursuers. None quite managed to penetrate the shadows of her hiding spot, though. Was that a good sign? It mattered little. She'd boxed herself in here. If they found her, there was nowhere to run. Her free hand maintained a white-knuckle grip on her wand.

Please don't let them find me. Please, please don't let them find me.

She didn't even know who she was pleading to – only that she'd never pled for anything so fiercely in all her life. Fighting against the urge to screw her eyes shut, she held her breath, and she listened. Hard.

"Did you get 'er?"

"I dunno – I couldn't see. Doesn't look like it."

In response, the first cursed and muttered something she couldn't make out.

"She's gone," another agreed.

"It was the Baxter bitch. D'you 'ave any idea the sort of money we'd be lookin' at if we'd managed it? And now she's gone. A sodding ballerina giving us the slip. Fucking embarrassing."

"She outran you, too!"

"This time. There won't be a second. Could live for a year off the sort've money they're offering for her – luxuriously, too."

"My, that's a big word for you."

"Piss off. All I'm saying is I'm not giving up on that prize so easy. Next time we won't underestimate the stupid cow."

Marilyn wasn't relieved. She didn't dare feel relief – nor much of anything for that matter, watching as the filthy, worn boots of the snatchers trudged through the stream mere feet from her face. What if it was just a gambit to get her to drop her guard? What if there was something out there that they hadn't spotted yet that would give her away? A splatter of blood, something that had tumbled from her backpack, anything.

"Nox."

The first muttered it, and the others echoed the spell, and it went dark – the night appearing utterly pitch black while her eyes adjusted. Still, she did not relax. In fact, she was certain that the moment she dared to, either a hand, or a curse, something would shoot into her hiding place and she'd be done for.

Something was crawling slowly across the gap between the waist of her jeans, and the hem of her t-shirt. She didn't allow herself to relax…although she did finally let herself close her eyes, continuing to listen painstakingly to every movement, every sniff, every mutter. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that it felt strong enough to send reverberations through the ground – like the snatchers would be able to feel it through their boots. Of course it was ridiculous, and they couldn't, but she still didn't dare breathe in anything other than slow, shallow half-breaths in and out. Her lungs already protested it, unable to keep up with the racing of her blood.

The splashing of their boots through the water grew quieter and quieter as they took their leave. Still paranoid out of her mind that it was a bluff – and clenching her jaw against the sobs trying to leap from her throat – she remained where she was, stiff with terror.

She couldn't bring herself to move until morning.