Before
His mother stared at him long and hard before she actually said anything, and Draco endured it simply because he did not want to break it. He had nothing to say. What could he say, before knowing what exactly it was she knew? Or what she thought she knew? It wouldn't do to damn himself further before hearing precisely what facts and suspicions she was in possession of.
"A team of snatchers stopped by this morning. With them, they had a broom – one they found by some lake in the West Midlands."
It took every ounce of self-control that Draco was in possession of not to react. Not to even allow the slightest twitch of his face. All the same, he quickly found that he was painfully conscious of every aspect of his manner, right down to how he breathed and blinked.
Of course, the pitfall of trying to act naturally was that one always instantly forgot what acting naturally looked like. It didn't help at all that he knew exactly what his mother was talking about. He'd been the one to discard the broom there, hoping it would plant a false trail that they'd then run themselves ragged following.
"It was a rather distinctive broom, you know, even damaged as it was. White, and of fine quality. Too fine for a ballerina in training to be able to afford."
Draco quirked an eyebrow, but it appeared she wasn't in the mood for theatrics, and so did not wait for him to make her point for her.
"It looked like the one I bought for you. In your fourth year. The one that I, now that I think of it, have not seen since."
"There's more than one white broom in the Wizarding world, mother."
"Draco, do not speak to me like I'm a fool. I was there when the snatchers traipsed in and brought it before him. The fools actually thought they'd get a bounty for the thing, in lieu of bringing the Baxter girl in. I recognised it immediately. It's the one I bought for you in your fourth year. The one you asked for without explanation, and the one I have never seen you use since. In fact, I haven't seen it at all since."
Draco's lips thinned. The broom, once they'd ascertained that it truly was beyond repair, had been made to look abandoned somewhere in the English midlands. By his own hand. A false lead, he'd hoped. He'd even scorched it up a bit, hoping it would look like Marilyn had tried to dispose of the evidence before fleeing.
"You're being absurd," he shook his head.
"Am I? Fetch it then – yours. Show me."
"Mother…" he scoffed tiredly.
"Draco. The House-elves took it away to dispose of, but I'm sure they haven't done so yet. If need be, I can retrieve it, find a serial number, and compare it to the one I bought. There are records of such things."
Should he call her bluff? No. That would only be the clever thing to do if she actually was bluffing – and Narcissa Malfoy did not do that. She seldom made overt threats, but when she did, she was always willing to act upon them. Draco couldn't say he'd ever been the target of them before, though. It wasn't something he enjoyed.
In any case, he needn't have spent long dithering over a response – because his silence, and his faltering, spoke for him. As her pale eyes bore into him, his mother shut and locked his bedroom door with a wave of her wand, and then silenced the room with another.
"The Parkinson girl is an idiot, however I have only secured her silence temporarily, do not fool yourself into thinking otherwise – for while she is an idiot, she is spiteful, and that is a bad combination. Especially if she believes herself wronged by you. What she knows, the Dark Lord will soon know also."
"She would never go to him, she wouldn't have the guts."
"Not directly, no, but she would tell her parents. They would. Especially if they believed it might secure the final few feet of our downfall. Spiteful idiots raise spiteful idiots, Draco. This is not the last we have heard of this, and so I shall ask you again. Have you anything to tell me?"
Now
Marilyn had listened to his tale in silence, saved for pained hisses and murmurs that seemed more to do with her leg than what he was saying. After all, she already knew how the story ended. Draco was only filling her in on the details.
When he looked to her, he saw that she'd grown paler still, with a sheen of sweat across her brow that looked in no hurry to dissipate, despite the fact that it was bloody freezing out here. It was time to wrap things up, then.
"I…I told her a version of the truth," he sighed. "That we grew close in our fourth year, and that the broom was an attempt to woo you. That I only found out the truth of your blood status after Christmas, and that was when we fell out."
"She believed it?"
"I doubt it, but she wanted to. She had to. What would the alternative be? To face the truth?" he scoffed.
Apparently not in any state for bandying witticisms back and forth, she nodded silently.
"I told her that the attack on you and your dance partner gave me an idea – that I managed to make contact, and convince you that I'd be willing to help, all while waiting for the right moment to serve you up to the Dark Lord on a platter. To fix my family's standing with him, to…well, not to win our way right back into his good graces, but at least inch close to that territory. Only that it was taking a while, because you were on your guard and distrustful. Which was why I didn't say anything, as he's not one for empty promises."
"And she insisted you take it to the group immediately, before Pansy could."
Despite the day they'd had, he couldn't help but feel a wave of fondness at her putting the pieces together. If Pansy was, in his mother's words, a spiteful idiot, then Marilyn had proven herself time and time again to be the very opposite. Never more so than today.
She sat on the ground beside him, piles of snow packed tightly around her bad knee. A while ago he had suggested they remove her jeans to assess the damage, and because they were soaked through with snow, which no amount of magic could remedy if they continued adding to that snow, but she'd refused – citing that she didn't think they'd be able to get them back on again, thanks to the swelling. Another solution would have been to simply cut the leg of the jeans away, and then use repairo on them afterwards, but he didn't make that suggestion.
Her refusal had been less to do with what she'd voiced, he knew, and more a complete lack of desire to actually look at the knee. What could it help, so far from any possible help? And while she was still in such visible pain? No, she was hanging onto her composure by a thread. A thread of spider's web, he thought, judging by the look on her face. It was one he saw so often around Malfoy Manor these days. Pinched and pale, and entirely blank – because the second one emotion slipped through, all of them would, and that would mean death.
Every so often she would use her wand to melt the snow, heating it until steam rose from the hot water it turned into, heating the area, before gathering new snow from around her and packing cold upon it once again. Now, as had steadily grown dark around them despite the meagre fire they'd built, there was little snow on the ground left within her short reaching distance. And it hadn't made a lick of difference.
"We brought it to my father, who then brought it to the others after thinking on it for a while," he said bitterly. "He believed the tale more than my mother did, I think. Maybe because she pretended to so well. Or because he was too busy fantasising about being back in his good graces. Or because the truth would've been too terrible to face. Their son in love with…"
"A mudblood," she finished for him.
Draco sighed.
"They devised the plan. That I'd draw you out, and then they'd…descend."
All while patting him on the back and praising him for his proactive thinking – which Draco spent trying not to vomit, sick with dread and fear both. And his mother watched him the whole time. Knowingly.
"There was nothing I could have done," he added quietly, after a few moments of silence.
"There was a lot you could have done," she replied, and he tensed before she continued. "And you did it all. Today. I…ha…I wish I could say you've gotten a create prize but…"
The hand that was not gripping the ground beneath them so fiercely that he feared her nails might break lifted and gestured about them. So well-practised in building this camp, she'd managed to do so with a few waves of her wand from where she sat on the ground. The warding had fallen to Draco, who was more able to walk around and secure the perimeter properly. Only once there were no tasks left to complete did reality begin to drop down upon him, more and more, piece by piece.
For what was there left to do but wait? Wait for danger to strike yet again. Wait for something to go wrong. Wait for the war to end. Upon reflection, those three possibilities seemed to be ordered from most to least likely. He couldn't say this was worse than being at home, with the state 'home' was in these days, for while there was less comfort, the Dark Lord wasn't within shouting distance here. Nor cursing distance. But he couldn't say it was better than being at home, either.
In fact, the only way he could imagine this being worse would be if he was here alone. As she had been for months now. For a while, he thought he'd understood what that entailed. What it meant. After all, he'd watched as she'd grown thinner and paler, her frame shifting from lean and toned to angular and bony, the dark circles around her eyes only emphasising the stark white her face so often was nowadays. When he visited, when he was able to visit, it was usually a toss-up as to whether she'd be quiet and withdrawn, or if she'd talk herself hoarse, delighted and relieved at the novelty of company. But whichever one she landed on at any given time, he could tell she always loathed his departure when the time came.
She never expressed as much, and she barely showed it, but he knew her too well to expect that. Instead, it snuck through in how, once she bade him farewell, she would turn her back to him and refuse to watch him leave. And in the way something in her eyes would grow hollow when he would sigh and begin to rise, signalling he had to leave. How many times had he pushed back that moment ten, twenty, even thirty minutes? All minutes he could barely risk? Just to avoid seeing that look in her eyes?
Realising he had not yet responded to her statement, he drew her hand out from the dirt and curled his fingers about hers. Both of their hands were freezing, so there was little warmth to be found from the gesture, but it helped. And it was all he could do, considering she was much too in pain for him to start trying to offer any passionate life-affirming kisses right now. Especially not considering his teeth were chattering, and she was too busy sucking in deep, steeling breaths through her teeth.
He'd scarcely been out here one full day, and already he'd grown to understand it all the more. With every noise that sounded about them – every gust of wind that whistled through the trees, every rustle, every sound of the snow crunching beneath the feet of some animal or another, or even just the flutter of a bird's wings, he jumped and turned, staring wide-eyed around them for a hint of danger. At first he thought Marilyn hadn't noticed his apprehension, but after his fourth or fifth start, she began murmuring to him what the real cause of the noise was.
"I didn't realise you were such an outdoorswoman," he'd snorted, trying to cover his embarrassment.
And she'd just offered a pained smile and replied, "Not by choice."
They sat quietly for some time, and he eventually stopped jumping every time a twig in the fire crackled or snapped. But he still couldn't bring himself to suggest they seek the shelter of the tent. Not only because it would block out a good view of their surroundings, but also because it would mean moving her.
"Is it broken, do you think?" he broke the silence finally.
"No," she breathed. "It's not sprained, either. I…I don't think this is the sort of thing that rest and ice will help. It's…I tore something. A ligament, I think. I'm…Draco…I'm not going to get better. Not on my own. And I can't walk. Not properly. A hobble, maybe, with time and lots of support, but if it comes down to it and we have to run…if you have to run…"
He absolutely, utterly and completely unwilling to sit here and listen to the turn her thoughts were taking.
"There are two of us now," he cut in forcefully, and then winced at the volume of his own voice.
It wouldn't be heard, not with the wards, but it felt wrong. So, when she did fall silent, he continued more quietly.
"That means we can sleep in shifts tonight. I'll take the first one."
She offered no further argument.