Marilyn stared doubtfully at the cabin before them.

Although cabin was a meagre word for it. It was more of a chalet, really – the sort rich folk would sit in, drinking stupidly expensive mulled wine, wrapped in furs after a day of skiing.

"Are you sure about this?"

"No, I brought us here to get killed," he replied flatly.

There was more of a bite, perhaps, to his words than he first intended – for his lips thinned and he sighed.

"I'm confident in my reasoning. It'll be fine. We won't stay for too long, and…truth be told, Baxter, I'm not sure how well you'll do if we stay outside."

Was he really talking about her, or was he referring to himself? He'd lasted just shy of one full week out in the wilderness before he'd brought this idea to her. And, whether it was her own pain and fatigue talking, or whether his reasoning really was sound, Marilyn had to concede that it wasn't the worst of all of their plans. Not least because some of their decisions in the past had been marvellously idiotic.

Draco's father had wished for him to attend Durmstrang, she already knew that, but his mother was ardently against it because of the distance. Lucius had conceded (something that was difficult for her to imagine), and he'd gone to Hogwarts instead. Obviously. Even then, though, it seemed that the distance from Wiltshire to the Scottish Highlands had proven difficult still, and as a Christmas gift to Narcissa, during Draco's first year, her husband bought her this.

Unlike many of the gifts given among people of their standing, this was not one that she had been inclined to show off. Indeed, it was for her, and it seemed the Malfoy inner circle – all three of them – were the only ones he knew of it. Something about it being embarrassing if it was known she truly couldn't bear being separated by the not-quite-gargantuan length of the United Kingdom from her darling son.

"The alarms won't go off if it's me going inside. It recognises Malfoy blood, and since you're with me, you should be fine. And even if it did – my mother would be the one alerted. Given that he would…well, given that my being caught would not be something I would survive, I don't think she'd be much inclined to go spreading the news."

"And if someone happens across it and sees lights on inside?"

"We'll set up our own alarms, keep our wands on us, and the bag within arm's reach. The moment one is triggered, we flee."

Marilyn lingered, her good leg already aching thanks to how it had to bear all of her weight.

"What if the alarm goes off, and your mother comes to investigate?"

Was that what he wanted, she wondered? A reunion with his mother? To make sure she was alive? If so, she feared she couldn't fault him for it. But it was a hell of a risk. There was no ignoring that, either.

"What exactly might she do?" she knew her expectations were creeping close to the mark, thanks to the impatience emerging in his tone. "Drag me back to Malfoy Manor? It would be a death sentence, Marilyn. She wouldn't choose that for a bit of favour from him. Not when it's my life on the line. This – here, on the run, with you – is the only safe place for me now. I saw to that rather well."

Still, she hesitated. Fine as it was, the shape of the chalet loomed, dark and shadowy over them in the night. It had been…a week. It was difficult to say whether the pain had faded, or if it's just grown used to it. Constantly, it was there – without any chance of forgetting about it, or even gaining a minute or two of distraction.

All that ever really did cut through it was fear. That cold, biting jolt of panic when they thought they'd found signs of other human life. Even then, the pain crashed back in again a fraction of a second later, since her thoughts then naturally turned to the fact that she could not run. She'd mastered the art of the unassisted hobble – so long as it never spanned more than six feet – but that wouldn't be enough if the snatchers found them. And Draco's presence here probably bumped her right up He Who Shall Not Be Named's wanted list.

And she could see why, to Draco, this place would signify refuge and safety. He hadn't been out here as long as she had, long enough to turn signs of civilization and life that wasn't a tent and a crappy little campfire into signs of risk and danger.

He wasn't used to it yet, and if she was being honest she could tell he didn't really want to grow used to it. Who would? They were out here thanks to necessity, not from some mad fetish for reenacting Rambo. It was cold, they were blowing through their food supplies, and they didn't have a single clue as to what the next hour would bring, never mind the next day, or the next week. Planning ahead to that extent felt like tempting fate. Additionally, while the presence of another did share the load a bit, it also amplified the tensions.

Draco would gripe, or he would ask questions that – in her agonised state – struck her as annoying or foolish, right up until she snapped back and then she'd only feel guilty. All while worrying, in the back of her mind, when the final straw would come. When he'd decide that she wasn't worth all he'd just given up. All he'd just risked.

And she was so, so cold.

Wedging her hands beneath her arms, she turned awkwardly and looked towards the woods they'd just emerged from. She couldn't pretend they were a much more tempting prospect. In fact, she couldn't even pretend she'd be able to turn and head for them, even with two working legs. Not when the promise of warmth and shelter, even if only for an hour, was in sight.

And if it came down to staking their lives on Narcissa Malfoy's desire to see her son alive, she thought they could at least trust that.

Her resignation must've shown on her face before she had to find a way to give voice to it, for Draco's shoulders eased, his face lost its pinched quality, and he nodded his thanks. Sincerely.

"You'll have to help me up the stairs," she nodded towards them.

The 'cabin' had been built on rocky, uneven terrain, and so rested on thick wooden stilts to keep it all level, with upwards of ten stairs leading up towards front-facing deck.

"I'll do you one better," he said.

What followed wasn't quite him sweeping her off her feet, considering her condition was much too fragile to allow for that, but it was close enough. She sucked in air through her teeth as the lift bent her knee much too quickly, her fingers clutching at his shoulder, but once she was up, her good leg was awash with relief at the lack of strain.

Draco made for the stairs.

"Are you sure nobody knows about this place?"

"I'm certain. With the way they've all occupied our home, we didn't exactly seek to provide them with a list of all of our properties. Nothing can be done about the ones we regularly entertained in, but why share secrets none are aware of?"

While Marilyn wouldn't go as far as to say that it was almost like fate had known they'd need this refuge. If she really wanted to stretch the bounds of her optimism, she'd say that she'd wait to reach that conclusion for once they were inside and still alive. But mostly, she wasn't sure if she believed much in fate anymore. Back when it seemed a much more linear line – from her magic being revealed, to school, to the stage, she would have. Now it was trickier.

With every step Draco ascended, and every pace towards the glass-panelled front doors thereafter, she was torn between feeling sick with dread that the next step would spell disaster, and light with relief that the previous one had not.

It took a bit of jostling to get the front door open, for it seemed safer that he should be the one to actually open it, but they did manage it – and when he carried her inside, the great expansive hearth lit itself, and she felt his sigh of relief more than she heard it.

"I think we're all right," he said slowly, setting her carefully down.

With a wave of her wand, Marilyn drew all of the curtains in the room, and only then did she allow herself to take it all in.

It must've spoken volumes as to the grandeur of Draco's home – because if she had a place like this, she'd never damn well leave. Rather than rustic and rough-hewn, the exposed wooden interior was all polished and gleaming, the light of the fire catching it and adding extra warmth to the room, only aided by the plush dark leather sofas, heavy velvet drapes and fur rugs. There were, thankfully, no portraits on the walls. That would've really put them up shit creek, no paddle in sight. But she expected the seniormost Malfoy's secrecy regarding this residence extended to painted relations, too.

Draco stood before the fire, his want pointed directly at it as he murmured constantly beneath his breath. Placing a ward upon it, she realised, so that none could enter that way. When he was done, the flames flickered purple for a moment, and then returned to normal. Even so, Marilyn remained rooted to the spot, ignoring how the quad of her good leg burned from the burden she placed upon it – mostly still unconvinced that one wrong step wouldn't have all of the Malfoy's magical might raining down upon them, followed swiftly by their glorious and demented leader. Or aunt, for that matter.

Only when he turned and extended his free hand towards her did she hobble forth. Wordlessly, he took on her weight so she could slowly lower herself to the soft, furry rug before the fire, hissing while she did so, straightening her injured leg before in front of her, and then he sank down at her side. There was no biting wind to cut through the warmth this fire offered, nor to detract from the warmth Draco offered in turn as he sat, facing her with his long legs extended behind her.

He looked as tired as she felt. The dark circles that had already long taken up shop below his eyes had darkened further still, and what parts of his hair were not wavy stuck up at odd angles.

"I'm afraid I've been a real horror out there."

Marilyn blinked in surprise at the admission, and found him watching her with a sort of bluntness that only pure exhaustion and mortal fear could bring on.

"I've seen you worse for flimsier reasons," she rebutted softly. "And I've hardly been the most patient survival teacher."

It was almost funny, how their bad moods could fade just in the amount of time it took to shut out a stray breeze. Only almost, though – because she knew that it would only take that short few seconds for the ire to set in again, and that hour would be upon them sooner rather than later.

"You've been warmer and fuzzier than McGonagall was, back in the day – and she didn't have your excuse," he nodded towards her knee. "How is it?"

"Bad."

What was the point of lying? He knew her well enough to see through it by now – he knew her more than anybody, really. If she could see through whatever ulterior motives he might have in coming here, he'd be more than capable of spotting a brave face, should she try to don it. And she didn't have the energy.

Any doubt as to whether she should've tried anyway was dispelled when he lifted a hand and cupped the side of her face, encouraging her to turn her head towards him. His nose was freezing as it brushed hers, but the shadows in his eyes softened a little as he held her there for a moment – their lips not quite touching, but a hair's breadth from a kiss.

Marilyn closed the gap. She suspected he needed her to. It had been days since his confession, and words were not his forte – not ones of love, anyway – and with how high tensions had run since then…he could hardly be blamed if he felt vulnerable now.

She kissed him – uncaring for how their lips were chapped, or the way his nose was like ice when it brushed her cheek, instead only concerned with what she was pouring into it, and receiving in kind. Apologies for the short tempers over the last few days. Relief, that they'd found a refuge, however temporary it might be, and at being together again. Love. The sheer amount of love that shone through with every brush of his lips, every swipe of his tongue, every caress as one hand worked its way into her hair, while the fingertips of the other trailed across her jaw, down her neck, and then back up again.

There'd been no room for this, out there. This closeness. In any sense of the word. Yes, at least they could keep each other company, but it wasn't the same. They couldn't sleep at the same time, and they couldn't even risk the possibility of accidentally falling asleep at the same time. She'd curl up and nap in the tent while he was outside, and then they'd swap places – the closest they could really get to one another being to huddle in the warmth the other had left behind in the sleeping bag for a few hours.

Light conversation was beyond the realm of possibility, neither of them capable of it, and what did that leave? Hashing out the heavy issues, talking themselves in circles when the answers were out of reach? When would the war end? Would they live to see the end of it? Were Draco's parents well? What about Adriano? The Weasleys? Harry Potter? Was he making any progress, wherever he was, or merely hiding? That final part was hard to believe, but it was difficult to have hope. At least with Draco, her and in front of her, it was one less person to worry about. Sort of. Not knowing was bad, but they had a new kind of knowing now – the one that dictated that, whatever happened to either of them, the other would be forced to witness it.

Although she did find the ability slowly returning, with the warmth and the shelter. As well as the lack of any Death Eaters storming the place, for now. It might be easier if they did, in the end, for it would be the only way she'd leave this place without kicking and screaming.

But she had Draco.

When they pulled back, they remained close. It couldn't go anywhere – not with how risky that would be, and certainly not with her leg still pounding in time with her heartbeat. But that didn't stop them from swapping kisses over and over, loathing the moment they'd have to properly pull away and welcome in the real world again.

Marilyn watched Draco quietly, deciding she much preferred this world than the one out there.

"You must promise to keep looking at me like that once the war is over," he said, and she knew the thought had shown on her face.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"A disgraced Death Eater on the, god willing, losing side of the war? Delusion and grandeur are among my greater skills, but even I can't pretend the Imperius Curse excuse will work a second time."

"If that was going to be the way things shook out, I'd be by your side still," she said. "But it won't be."

"Oh?"

His question was filled with curiosity, rather than scepticism.

"You left them. To do the right thing. The brave thing. I'll be screaming about that to all who'll listen for the rest of my life. Whatever happens between us."

"Whatever happens between us?"

She shrugged. Whatever they'd been through, they were only seventeen. Couples their age always thought they'd be together forever, only to fall prey to the stress of…oh, exams, and other such laughable things. They were facing much more now, and she didn't dare hope he wouldn't come to resent her for it. Especially not if something had happened to his parents – or would happen to them, before all was said and done.

Their only hope on that score, she suspected but did not voice, would be if their glorious and demented leader had decided they were better off alive. For now. As bait, to draw Draco back in. Were he not so preoccupied with the likes of Harry, he'd have probably tried it already.

"I hate to break it to you, Baxter, but you're stuck with me for as long as you'll have me around. And even then, you'll have to chase me off with a few choice curses."

"That day won't come."

With anybody else, she'd have never made such vows – because that was what they felt like. Vows. What else did one call it when they swore they'd spend their whole life with another? But with him, she'd make those promises. With him, she didn't doubt them.

"I hope not. It shan't for me."

Closing her eyes, she pressed her forehead against his. They remained like that awhile, until the silence threatened to grow too thick, and Draco spoke again without moving away.

"So. You'll scream about my virtues to all who'll listen, will you? What about those who won't listen?"

"I'll make them listen."

Draco laughed quietly, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd heard him do so. "Well, I can believe that, at least."

"What about you? Saddling yourself with a crippled former ballerina. Some would say you could do better."

"Some are bloody idiots. We'll get your knee fixed, and you'll be on the stage again in no time."

"I've lost a lot of time. A lot of training. I'm hardly in peak physical condition. I'll never be as good as I could have been."

"Don't be ridiculous," the words lacked any bite, only bluntness. "You'll get it back. I'll pay your way to the top, if I have to – but I won't have to."

There was that fabled Malfoy love language. But she appreciated the sentiment, even if she'd never accept such help. Not only for the sake of the her ego, but because of her respect for ballet in itself. Paying your way to the top was all well and good, but you had to have something to offer once you were there – particularly when a lack of anything to offer would be extremely clear, centre stage.

Instead, she breathed a tired laugh.

"The bad boy with a troubled past, and the mad ballerina who lived in the woods. What a pair."

"The papers will love us."

"It helps that we're very good looking," she said – but only mock-seriously.

The mocking was mostly directed at herself, because she half-expected to come out of the other side of this (if she did at all) to find that she'd aged fifty years. But the way he looked at her, filled with such deep love that it was almost difficult to look back at him, even though she knew it was reflected in her own gaze, helped.

"Well. Before we plan PR strategies, you should sleep. I'll keep watch. And when you wake, we can eat, and wash, and loot the place. And eat. My mother always gets migraines when she's here, something about the cold highland air, so I'm sure I'll be able to find pain-relief potions – ones that won't dull your senses. But they'll be in the kitchens, too…"

"You say that like it's a problem."

"I don't know where the kitchens are. Nor the pantries. But I suppose finding one will lead me to the other."

"I thought you'd been here before?"

"I have. A few times."

"But you don't…" she trailed off, laughing quietly. "Never mind."

It didn't matter. This did.

A/N: So I was going to have a chapter or two of them being in the wild and snapping at one another (although that's not still completely off the cards!) but at this current stage, it would've really made the story drag. I'm sorry to the folk who were excited to see that! It will creep in here and there, but for now having it referred to in hindsight helped make this story just a little bit less depressing to read.

I also have a new, solid update rota up on my tumblr to help me juggle novel work and fic a bit more productively. I'm limiting myself to one fic chapter per week (total, not per individual fic), every Friday, and I've pinned a post to the top of my blog that will let you know what's going to be updated when. I edit it at the start of each month. This fic is high on the priority list, just because of how neglected it's grown, so I'm aiming for one chapter per month for you guys! I do go by when it turns midnight UK time, though, so if I have a chapter done well in advance, if might end up going up Thursday evening for some folk who are a few hours behind me :)

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