A/N: Have a double update as my way of saying sorry for the shite update times as of late xoxo
The days, to her utter lack of surprise, did not get any easier. Nor did the nights.
Taking anything out of her backpack soon became a source of paranoia for Marilyn. Anything she brought out – a tent, a blanket, a flask, a change of clothes – had her worried that she'd lose it, should she be found again and have to cut and run. Most of the time, she set up her tent for the exact amount of time needed to get the bare minimum amount of sleep, and then it returned to her bag. Even then, she slept poorly, and then returned to the freezing wintery wilderness as soon as she woke up, just because being able to actively see that no one was creeping up on her was the only thing that eased her mind. Slightly. So did practising packing her stuff up as quickly as humanly possible, just to try and commit the process to muscle memory with no hint of fumbling, regardless of how numb the cold made her hands.
The loss of the broom weighed on her mind more and more with each passing day, and then the guilt of the selfishness it took to hope that Draco really would bring her another weighed on her after that.
She was hanging on by a progressively fraying thread.
It did not help that it had been nigh on two months since she'd last seen Draco – but even in the laughable mental shape she was in now, she could hardly hold that against him. If he did not come, it was because he couldn't come. If given the choice between his taking stupid risks to come and see her, or his not seeing her for long stretches of time because conditions weren't completely and totally ideal, she'd take the second option all day every day.
If she ever lived to see a day again where things like not speaking to the lad she liked over the Christmas period even registered as something to potentially get upset about, it would be something worth serious celebrations.
December gave way to January, and then January to February – as they all tended to do – and any run-ins she had with snatchers could hardly justify being called run-ins at all. So far, she'd managed to spot the signs of them before they did her, and made herself scarce before it could come to a pursuit. But she did sorely miss her broom. Even if she didn't often use it, it was a valuable security blanket, and security was what she pined for most these days. The real enemy was the cold, for everything was constantly covered with a very persistent layer of frost – and that was when it wasn't all out snow – that showed no sign of letting up any time soon.
It was the broom she was considering, curled into a ball at the foot of a tree, bundled in her cloak, staring into space, when she felt the distinct nipping pain of the bracelet at her wrist.
How many times did she wonder if she'd felt it before now? Plenty. But each time, she'd been keenly aware of the fact that when it did happen, she never doubted that it had. This time, she did not doubt - and her heart soared. Jumping quickly to her feet, her eyes scanned about the trees all around her, waiting to finally hear a voice that was not her own.
"Marilyn? I…I've brought you another broom."
In hindsight, that should have raised her hackles. He never called her that – not like this, anyway. At most, he might've hissed an insistent 'Baxter!' through the trees, not her full first name called so loudly like this. It mattered little, though, because it would've only afforded her the benefit of a few more seconds. When she saw his face moments later, her heart sank, for it was stark white and riddled with regret. Behind him, a few darkly clothed figures stepped out from behind the trees. In an instant, Marilyn knew that everything she felt was showing on her face. Disbelief, betrayal, and utter terror. Draco watched it all, his jaw clenched hard, and then mouthed one word.
Run.
She did not need to be told twice.
Spinning into a sharp twirl that would've befitted her dancing days, she was immediately sprinting in the opposite direction, ducking and rolling out of the way of several curses that immediately flew over her head. Shock numbed whatever emotions might've gotten in the way of her retreat, the real extent of them anyway, which would no doubt bowl her over should she escape this and survive. Adrenaline did the rest – as far as fatigue and hunger went. She was running on fumes, but she would make them count.
These were Death Eaters, not snatchers – garbed in black robes and silver masks…all save for Draco. Even the thought of his name had her chest seizing, but she pushed it down. Snatchers, she'd learned, were accustomed to this terrain. To sprints after desperate people in the woods. Death Eaters, she suspected, were not.
So, every time she was faced with a choice in where to run, she chose the direction that would offer the most difficulty. Through patches where spaces between the trees were narrow and difficult to navigate, vaulting over fallen logs, leading them through patches of nettles and brambles. Whatever might give them a struggle. Yes, it also ran the risk of slowing her down, but she was dressed far more appropriately for this – and if they were struggling just to keep their feet beneath them, they'd have less chance to fire curses her way.
It worked, but barely. When she dove into the first thicket, she heard a garbled shout behind her – too close behind her for comfort – and the fire spell that followed her in hit feet away from her, and failed to ignite anything thanks to the frost everywhere. The brambles appeared to do more damage to their robes than their legs, but they still slowed them down, tangling in the lengths of black fabric while they left her tight jeans largely unscathed. Although it did cost her the cloak George had given her. If she lived, she hoped he'd forgive her. The steep downhill ditch had been riskier, and she lost her footing halfway down, rolling more than she ran – but she rolled into it and was upright in an instant, thanking the lifetime of quickly recovering from falls that lay behind her in her Beauxbatons days.
The panic almost got her, then. Not because of the fall, not because of the sharp rock that jutted out and gashed her head as she rolled, and not even because she could not dodge curses mid-roll. No, she almost lost her control on her fear because just before she'd lost her footing, a hand had just brushed her arm. Had she not fallen, it would have grabbed her.
Blood ran down the right side of her face, hot in contrast to the freezing day, as she righted herself and broke right back into a run – pulling herself up over the, more steep, but also more shallow, other side of the ditch. She was covered in water from the mucky little stream that she'd rolled into, but she could worry about that later.
Along with the fact that she'd just lost everything bar what she had on her person, after wasting god only knew how long practising how to avoid that eventuality. At least she had her wand.
When disaster hit, it was thanks to plain old bad luck rather than anything she'd done wrong, or anything they had done right. The trees stopped suddenly, leading to a clearing that spanned a good few hundred feet. There was no way she could cross it before they caught up, and no amount of zig-zagging would evade curses fired by so many pursuers.
She took a hard turn, trying to bolt right instead and praying she could get far enough before her sudden turn would give them any advantage. There was no chance to try. The sharp turn was either too sudden or too clumsy, something gave way in her knee, and she crumpled to the ground under a wave of blinding pain.
It was barely possible to think through it, much less move, but instinct had her trying to rise to her feet anyway – but she only went down again instantly, like a newborn deer. She could not run if she could not stand. The terror got very real then.
Black spots danced before her vision, and when they cleared they were instead replaced by black figures instead. All had their wands in hand. Marilyn began to shake. She pushed herself up into a sitting position on the ground, but that was the extent of what she could do. In the way of movement, at least. Beneath the mulch of the forest floor that her right hand was steeped in, she adjusted her grip on her wand.
"Stupefy!" she cried, and one of the Death Eaters went down in an instant.
That left five. Not including Draco, who she could not see. Although perhaps it was time she started including him.
Only because they thought she'd lost her wand one of her many falls. Insults she couldn't make out through the high-pitched whining in her ears were cried out, and several wands were raised.
"Cru-" one went to cry out, but another stopped them, grabbing them by the wrist.
"Expelliarmus!"
Draco's voice came from behind her, and her wand flew from her hand backwards – towards where he must've been standing.
"The Dark Lord will want the first crack at her," an excessively posh voice spoke from behind the mask.
Long blond, somewhat bedraggled, hair poked out from beneath the hood – and Marilyn knew who it was. A pair of arms wrapped around her middle from behind and a yelp interrupted the sob-slash-hyperventilations she'd previously been mired in, but Draco – and she hated how she recognised him from his hands alone – had a hard time dragging her up to her feet. Not because she was set on making it difficult, but because she could not bear her own weight.
Some small ridiculous part of herself hoped that if she could only allow him to set her on her feet, she could bolt thereafter, but the moment any weight was put on her right knee, pain of the likes she'd never felt before – not ever, and she'd been a fucking ballerina – eclipsed everything and she'd drop to the ground again. By the time he dragged her back up, the effort and the tustle it took had rucked up her jumper. His hands were freezing against her waist, and all she could do was lean back against him and sob.
"Don't bother with that, Draco. Stupefy her, and we'll take it from there."
She didn't want to die. The unparalleled pain was rivalled only by the unparalleled fear, until she was certain she'd die of a heart attack before she could be put through whatever it was He Who Must Not Be Named had planned for her. Draco held onto her with an iron grip with one hand, loosening the other so he could properly handle his wand.
How could she have been so wrong? How could all they'd been through together have counted for nothing? How could he have led them right to her door?
She had no answers to any of those questions. All she knew was that she would not beg. Not here and now, at least. If pleas would be dragged from her later, so be it, but not now. She had no choice in the tears, nor in the trembling and the whimpers, or even how the mere act of trying to breathe wracked her entire body. But she had a choice in the begging.
Gritting her teeth so hard her teeth were at risk of cracking, she closed her eyes and waited. Her backpack knocked against her thigh from where it dangled at the crook of his arm – he must've picked it up as they pursued her.
"Draco," Lucius Malfoy hissed.
For Draco had not yet acted. Behind her, he made an involuntary, strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat.
Marilyn opened her eyes right in time to see Draco's hand extend from beneath her arm and Stupefy his father.
They were Apparating before Lucius even hit the ground.
A/N: The folk who've read Little By Little will be very aware of Marilyn's knee injury in that story, and ever since I decided that this "retelling" was going to follow along all the way here, I knew I'd have to have an iteration of it somewhere in here!
Don't worry – there will be explanations from Draco's side as to how exactly we got here, and maybe a flashback or two. I just had to structure it this way for The Drama.
