"Yes," Draco huffed. "If I needed to seek out a Weasley, this is where I'd begin my search."

His shoulder was wedged beneath her arm, bearing the brunt of her weight as they inched forth – hobbling at best, shuffling mostly – through the sewers beneath Diagon Alley. Marilyn didn't laugh, but nor did she admonish him. It was a hell of a blow to him, she knew, to have to seek out Fred and George for help like this. Expecting him to do so gladly would not be realistic.

"That's right," she breathed, sweat trickling down her brow. "Get it all out of your system before we see them."

"A sewer?" he continued. "A ruddy sewer?"

"A sewer," she echoed. "Yep. Looks like it."

It was a funny sort of blessing that her current sorry state prevented that fact from bothering her too much. The smell was…okay, the smell was pretty dire. But the pain in her knee had already induced a near-permanent headache that seized her skull and squeezed with all it had, along with bringing on constant waves of nausea, so the smell could do little that her injury did not.

"I've seen it all now."

"Don't say that. The universe will take it as a challenge."

"They do know they have magic at their fingertips? Don't they?"

"I'm sure the thought has occurred to them once or twice."

"Why not use those sorts of methods, then?"

"The Death Eaters would expect those. Anything within the realms of the non-magical doesn't occur to them as easily. The pitfall of all their magic is might shite."

She was also pretty sure that it would serve as a bit of a consolation prize to the twins – that if the Death Eaters did find this secret entrance to the shop, they would've had to trudge through a place like this to get to it.

The only saving grace came in the fact that they weren't literally trudging through…well, matter she'd rather not sit and speculate as to the exact origin of. No, the source of the smell ran, or rather oozed, in the form of a small manmade river between two narrow walkways, the left-most of which she and Draco slowly hobbled down.

Labyrinthian in nature, the tunnels followed roughly the same map that the streets above did, but with smaller off-shoots that crept beneath the various shops and cafes. Even if they'd been able to follow based on noises up above, it would've been hard to avoid getting lost, but Diagon Alley remained a ghost town, and there was much pausing and stopping in the gloom to work out which way they should go. Security lay within that difficulty, though. Had this been one long straight walkway with no turns or tunnels, they'd be immediately visible with nowhere to run, nor hide, nor even anything to provide cover if it came to a duel.

It was funny, wasn't it? Not so long ago, a straight, empty street wouldn't have induced any anxiety in her at all. Matters of cover or escape simply weren't matters at all. How swiftly, and how drastically, things could change.

But if she'd been fool enough to doubt just how necessary that newfound paranoia was, that foolishness would've been displayed readily enough in what happened next.

"Fuckin' sewers," a ragged voice spat – literally spat, after pausing to really hock up a gob of saliva to deposit into the sewage to the left. "Give Grent the sewer duty, he'll enjoy that. Har har har. Funny bastards."

Draco's grasp on her turned from firm to outright steel, and the cold terror that seized at her insides was no less vice-like. She allowed herself that – for approximately three seconds. Then, she inhaled deeply, and shoved it down. Had less been at stake, she mightn't have been able. But they'd formulated a plan for situations just like this one…even if the setting left something to be desired. They couldn't run. She sure as hell couldn't sneak.

And Grent was between them and their destination.

When she looked to Draco, she found his face paper-white, even in the dark, and could see him going through much of the same thought process that she was. Then, he met her gaze, seeking…something. Permission. Marilyn nodded once – a shaky, frightened imitation of a nod. But it was enough.

Putting down their bag of supplies – very carefully, so as not to make a noise – he then drew his wand from his pocket. Once he moved, it would begin, and the clock would be ticking. Marilyn drew her own wand, and then nodded again. He Disapparated with a crack, and Grent's grumbling stopped mid-sentence.

Hysteria threatened to well up within her, the way bile might rise up through her throat if she'd been about to vomit, the sound of Draco's exit making her flinch despite how very much to-plan it was. What if he didn't come back? What if he really had left? What if- no. No. She wouldn't doubt him now. They'd come much too far for that.

A glint of platinum blond hair, streaking out of sight in her peripheral vision on the other side of the shit-river rewarded her for her faith. It was gone in a flash, and Marilyn was occupied with pretending to give a damn about the bag at her feet, acting as though she'd just Apparated in. All the while, she kept her arm folded, pressed against her middle, hiding her wand in her jacket.

If she was being honest, the prospect of being flung into the mystery liquid to her right bothered her more than the prospect of facing the patrolman – but, hopefully, he would wish to question her before it came to a fight. Maybe he'd even hope to apprehend her without a fight.

"Oi!"

She was about to find out.

Grent's footfalls echoed through the sewer, in sight in an instant and she straightened, staggering a little as her weight shifted. It wasn't a planned move, but it had his pale, bulging eyes immediately take note of the bandage wrapped tightly over her knee, above her jeans. It wouldn't fit beneath them, not with the swelling. His eyebrows shot up beneath his dark greasy hair, and he eyed her with keen interest.

"Sorry," she forced a tired smile, raking her free hand over her hair. "Sleeping rough between watches. It's raining up there – thought I'd get out of it."

It sounded ridiculous, but she didn't need to be believed – just distracting.

"Sleepin' rough?" he echoed with a scoff. "Are you daft?"

"It's raining," she repeated, like it was perfectly reasonable.

"Half of the shop up there are abandoned," he pointed out. "Doors blown clean off the hinges. Could've gone into any of 'em."

"Well," she frowned slightly, ignoring the pounding of her heart, "when you put it like that…good idea! I suppose I'll be off, then-"

"Ah!" he stopped her with a sharp, wordless cry. "What's your name?"

His eyes were fixed hard on her face, no doubt picturing her now-straggly hair in a smooth ballerina bun, dramatic stage makeup plastered over her features.

"My name?" she echoed, blinking, making a half-hearted attempt to lift the pack. "Victoria. Like the queen, you know? Vicky, for short."

"Mm-hmm. Well, your majesty, maybe I should've asked something different."

"Oh?"

Whipping out his wand lightning-fast, he levelled it at her chest. "Where's Draco?"

"Draco? What's that? Don't think I've got one."

"Draco Malfoy, Miss Baxter. Last we all heard, you n' him were very cozy. Where is he?"

It was then that she noticed his attention drifting from her face to her wand-hand, hidden in the folds of her zip-up hoodie. She had to act.

"Stupefy!"

He was faster than she'd expected.

"Expelliarmus!"

Her wand flew out of her grasp, hurtling over the sewage and landing, thank Merlin, somewhere on the opposite walkway.

"Shit," she breathed.

Come on, Draco. Where are you?

Grent raised his wand again.

"All right, all right. You can't fault me, it was worth a try," she breathed, raising her hands in surrender. "He…he left me behind. When he realised I wouldn't be able to run if we got into trouble. Said I'd only get him killed. Haven't seen him since."

Distantly, she heard a faint echo that might've been a footfall drawing nearer, barely audible over the sludge moving by. He must've found a way to cross and double back – quieter than Apparating, but she still had to buy time if they wanted to take advantage of the element of surprise.

Doubling over, she faked a coughing fit, ignoring the nausea that raged within her at having to breathe through her mouth. She had to afford him time to get nearer, faster. Grent kept his distance, watching the whole thing with suspicion, and only spoke when it died down.

"Wise boy. Why're you here? Who're you meeting?"

She couldn't lead them to Fred and George.

"No one. Thought I'd hide in plain sight. Who'd be stupid enough to try and hide here? Seemed foolproof."

"Did it? How's that working out for you?" his teeth were grimier than the rest of him, half of his last meal wedged between them as he grinned at her.

"Yeah," she sniffed. "That's fair."

And then she dove.

A blast of fire burst from his wand as she did – but the joke was on him, for the blaze that caught her shoulder was nothing compared to the sharp stab that pierced her knee, having no choice but to spring off of both legs if she wanted any real momentum. The flames that caught her hoodie went out as they tumbled to the floor, and she was clawing and punching at whatever she could think of. Her nails raked down the side of his face in search of his eyes, crying out when his teeth sank into the side of her hand in retaliation, before she aborted that idea and instead blindly groped for his wand hand, trying and failing to slam his knuckles into the filthy stone floor beneath them in an effort to dislodge his grip.

It didn't work – but Draco's hex hitting him square in the back did, her opponent becoming dead weight upon her right at the moment her fingers curled around the wand in his hand. Marilyn tightened her grip, and yanked her hand sharply at an angle. The wand splintered and broke beneath her grasp. In the next moment, Draco was there, kicking Grent off of her and shoving his Stupefy'd form into the river of sewage.

When Marilyn peered over the edge, she watched him float away face-up…and at least knew that a man drowning in crap wouldn't be on her conscience.

"Whatever we had in the way of time just shrunk significantly."

He hauled her to her feet and, when seeing what her actions had done to the little mobility she had left, turned and hauled her onto his back without the patience to stop and discuss it first, picking up their pack of supplies almost as an afterthought.

"I found the place we're looking for while he was distracted," he kept his words vague, likely aware that Grent may still hear them. "He won't be allowed before the Dark Lord while he's covered in shit, but he will get to him eventually. We need to move."

Marilyn barely heard the words over the sickening throb of her knee, a cold sweat across her brow as he hurried them both through the tunnels.

The patch of sewer below Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was indeed unmistakeable when they reached it, thanks almost entirely to the distinctive spot that Fred and George had managed to nab for their shop. It took Marilyn only a little fumbling, still on Draco's back as he fought to regain his breath under the panic and the strain, to find the panel on the wall she needed, charmed to look like just another stony brick. Grent's bite into her hand had drawn blood, but he'd done her a favour there. Wiping her palm over the panel, she sobbed when it recognised her as a friend, and the wall gave way. A levitation spell carted her up the ladder that was presented next, and she dragged Draco up into the basement of the shop with what little strength remained in her, letting loose another sob when the floor sealed in his wake.

Any further tears, though, waned when the dimly lit basement exploded into clouds of purple. Draco gave a cry, firing off a jinx in a random direction before her hand clamped down upon his, staying it. She might've gotten through the escape measures, but it seemed the trespassing ones were less discriminate. Or maybe they'd been set off by Draco's presence. A sticky, uncomfortable feeling spread across her forehead, and when the clouds cleared, she saw on his face the words that she knew were stamped across her own brow, too – LOOTING LOSERS, in cartoonish, royal purple capital letters.

Draco's panic quickly morphed into disbelief, and then disgust. Far more disgust than either of them had any right to feel, really, given how the smell of the sewer still clung to them.

"Sodding Weasleys," he spat.

All Marilyn could do was laugh. It was that or cry, wasn't it?