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Chapter Text

On her first full day at Hogwarts, Marilyn - like most of her classmates from Beauxbatons - chose to explore. It was a great day for it; her favourite kind of day, in fact, chilly but bright and sunny. Bracing. 

Maybe, she thought to herself, as she familiarised herself with the grounds, she should have come here instead. She knew the thought to be an exercise in pointlessness before it had even fully formed in her mind, but it was impossible to wander across the hilly emerald green grounds of the castle and not as least ponder a few ‘what if’s - imagining herself pottering about the castle garbed in long black robes embellished with red, green, yellow, or blue (she didn’t know enough about their strange little houses to know which one she might be in just yet), and calling this castle home.

It was homey, too. It made her want to laugh - that not even four full years in the Wizarding world had her referring to a castle like this at homey, but it was. It was just as grand as Beauxbatons, sure - although her peers would be affronted if she dared to say anything of the like to them - but just in a different way. Warmer than the cold palatial grandeur of the academy she attended, during which she’d spent her first year almost afraid to let her shoes touch the floor lest she sully it with her sheer commonness. No, she would not be joining the number of her classmates who made a show of acting like the Hogwarts castle was little more than some backwater cottage. Maybe she could have even been happy here. It was certainly closer to home - not quite the worlds away from York that France was. 

But it wouldn’t have done her much good in the end. After all, Beauxbatons was The School for ballerinas to attend, so used to boasting alumni who went on to become prestigious dancers that they already had a plan in place for students who hoped to follow in those footsteps, rather than it falling upon those students to carve out their own path via a series of endless meetings and forms with teachers. Rather than begging professors for permission slips, or permission to floo to her classes, she had teachers apparating into the Beauxbatons palace for lessons, for god’s sake. Oh, if she’d had no option she’d have moved heaven and earth to make it happen in Hogwarts, but it was rather nice being one of a number of ballerinas rather than the odd one out. 

The price to pay for that, she supposed, was the way word had spread through the male population of the other two schools that Beauxbatons boasted a number of ballerinas. While they couldn’t quite compare to those with veela blood, she supposed they came a close, more ‘attainable’ second to the hormonal teenage boys of Durmstrang and Hogwarts. At least during these first few days, before the novelty had a chance to wear off. 

Coming to a stop by the glassy black waters of the lake, she was barely aware of the group of boys sitting on the shoreline until she caught wind of their whispering.

“She is! They do their practising in the empty classroom in the dungeons, I’ve seen her go in.”

“Can’t be, she’s too little.”

“She’s younger than the rest, is all. I thought they only brought seventh years? And anyway, they need to be little - so they can be flung about and manhandled.”

“I’d like to give that a try.”

A few low snickers followed. Marilyn’s jaw clenched, unsure of whether the flush that rose to her face was one of anger or mortification. 

“You’re embarrassing yourselves,” a bored drawl joined the fray. 

For a moment, just one single moment, she almost dared to hope - that maybe this friend of theirs would discourage them and they’d all just shut up. But then one of them replied.

“Oh, come on Malfoy, don’t tell us you’re not curious.”

“No,” he replied “I’m not.” 

“Well not all of us can bank on your high and mighty name to try to bag ourselves a Veela, can we?”

“No,” she could almost hear the eye roll as Malfoy replied “You’re right - you can’t.”

She might not have chosen to attend school in her home country, but that didn’t mean she was ignorant to the name of Malfoy. It was impossible to read the Daily Prophet more than a handful of times and not know it, even to a muggleborn like herself. Maybe even especially to a muggleborn like herself, given the sympathies of the Malfoy clan. 

Hugging her arms to herself, she counted to ten in her head as they continued to argue quietly among themselves. If she left too quickly, they’d think they’d run her off - it didn’t matter if they were right, she wouldn’t have it. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Finally, once she hit ten, she inhaled deeply and turned to leave, already wondering where she might wander to next (and hoping it would be devoid of idiots). Admittedly, it took a bit of effort for her to get her feet moving, but relief hit her the moment she did…and then one of them called after her. 

Ignoring him, and how her hand itched to fly to her wand just in case, she instead sped up, hoping she might clear the hill in record time.

“Oi! Oi - you! Beauxbatons! Hello? C’mon love, I know you can hear me, don’t be rude!” 

A few snickers came from his friends at the boy’s efforts, as well as a scoff that she suspected came from Malfoy. Marilyn ignored it all, jaw clenched. It would be fine, he’d give up, maybe with a shouted insult at her back before he returned to his friends, smug in whatever show of balls he’d been intent on making. She’d even believed it, too, until she heard the pounding of shoes against the grass, and then a hand grabbed at her elbow.

Whirling around, Marilyn yanked her elbow from his grasp, and then she did dig her free hand into the pocket of her powder blue robes, fingers grasping instinctively at her wand. 

“What?” She snapped.

“Oh-ho-ho,” he gave a yellow-toothed grin, shooting an amused look back at his friends “Prickly, are we? Prefer the Durmstrang boys?”

“I like the ones who can take a hint best of all,” she replied archly.

“Don’t be like that. We only want to talk. Further magical relations and all that, like Dumbledore said.”

“Leave it, Flint,” the Malfoy boy called from where he sat.

“Oh come on, Draco, don’t be boring.”

“I’m not going to spend my weekend in detention when McGonagall makes an example of us all just because you can’t take a hint…or get a girl.”

Flint’s lips pursed at that, but it was clear where Draco stood in their hierarchy when he did not offer any response back to that. Marilyn exhaled sharply through her nose and turned back towards the castle, but the idiot caught her arm again.

“Stop bloody touching me,” she snapped, tearing her arm from his grip once again.   

There were a few hoots of laughter then, and it took her a moment to realise why - as she’d whirled, she’d instinctively drawn her wand. Well, shit. If this went really badly, and it was certainly looking that way, Madame Maxime was going to have her head. This boy - Flint - was tall. A good few years older than her, she thought. Perhaps even a seventh year. His buddies remained by the water’s edge, but all had risen to their feet bar the Malfoy boy, who was shaking his head and muttering to himself. They all appeared around her age. 

“You prefer my mates, is that it?”

“I’m wondering why you don’t have any friends your own age.”

He grinned wider, apparently only spurred on by her snark “And I’m wondering if it's true what they say - that ballerinas can put their ankles up by their ears.”

The disgust was on her face, and her wand was beneath his chin, before she could even think better of either move. Surprise flitted across Flint’s features, and for a brief moment there was nothing but the bitter Scottish wind pulling at their robes, Marilyn steeling herself against it. The silk robes of Beauxbatons were woefully ill-suited to this climate. Just walk away, she thought fiercely, scarcely allowing herself to blink as they stared down one another, just walk away and we’ll forget this whole thing. But he recovered, forcing out a cocky laugh despite how she noticed his own hand creeping towards his pocket. 

“Don’t they teach you about not pointing a wand at somebody unless you’re willing to hex them at your school?”

“They do,” she replied coolly.

His hand still inched towards his pockets, and she just waited for a sudden movement, returning his gaze evenly despite how she kept track of his hands in her peripherals. No, this wasn’t going to end well at all. And then a new voice joined the fray.

“Ah, Colette, there you are!” 

She froze, not daring to look away. But they were talking to her - whoever this was, and whoever the hell Colette was - that much was obvious by the sound of footsteps through the grass before a hand fell to her shoulder. 

“I told you I’d give you a tour of the grounds, you didn’t need to resort to this sorry lot.”

Flint’s eyes finally left her so that he could glare at the newcomer, and Marilyn finally lowered her wand, glancing to her left and seeing little other than ginger hair and more black Hogwarts robes - although these were streaked with red rather than green. 

“Sod off, Weasley.”

“Happy to! We have a tour to continue - one that preferably won’t end in violence. Come on, Colette, time to move away from the nasty Slytherins.”

Intent on doing little other than getting the hell away from them, she allowed herself to be steered away, glancing over Flint’s shoulder to the rest of the so-called ‘nasty Slytherins’ before she turned. She briefly met the gaze of the Malfoy boy as she did so - Draco - who looked at her, very faintly raised one pale eyebrow, and then looked away. And then her back was to them, continuing up the hill at the side of this Weasley who kept his hand very lightly on her shoulder.

“Thanks for that. Who’s Colette?” She asked quietly.

“Wow. Well that wasn’t the accent I was expecting. You’re English? Thought you’d be French - that’s why I chose a French name.”

Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he must’ve decided that the coast was clear for he dropped his hand from her shoulder.

“It’s Marilyn,” she offered with a smile “Baxter.”

“You look like more of a Colette.”

“…Thanks, I think?” 

“Oh, any time.”

He had a way of putting her at ease, this Weasley , which was saying a lot given that her fight or flight instincts had not quite yet worn off from her previous encounter. Her wand was still surgically attached to her hand. 

“Keep calling me that if you want,” if the on-edge nature of her feelings were seeping into her words, the boy made an amicable show of not noticing “It’s the least I can do.”

“Very kind of you. I’m George - Weasley. What were you about to duel Flint over?”

“He was being an arse - asking why I’m younger than the others and…”

And whether I can put my ankles up by my ears . But she didn’t exactly want to repeat that part - not least to a stranger, nor to a boy who had to be a year or two above her. It was too mortifying. 

“Blimey, that’s what got you so angry? I’m amazed I got away with asking about you being English.”

Something about his tone told her that he knew there was more to the story…but he, thankfully, didn’t seem intent on pressing for it. 

“One should never ask a lady her age. It’s not polite.”

“Very fair. For all of their bluster about good breeding, that lot don’t have a lot of manners. Best give them a wide berth, yeah? A good rule of thumb - green is ghoulish. Or grim.”

“And what’s red?” She nodded to the red emblazoned on his robes.

George gave her a wide grin “Red is rosy.”

“And blue?” She challenged with a small smile of her own, gesturing to her own robes.

“Bloody dangerous, judging by whatever hex you were about to level Flint’s way,” he frowned down at her “You aren’t a seventh year, though, right? Or if you are, you’re horribly undernourished.”

Marilyn made a face “I’m a fourth year.”

“Oh? There’s a story behind that, I wager.”

“A very long and annoying one, yeah.”

And a decision she was already coming to regret. 

“Long and annoying is what I do best - wait,” he snorted and then grimaced “That didn’t sound quite right, did it?”

“It wasn’t a glowing advertisement, no.”

…But maybe she wasn’t regretting it quite as much as she had been five minutes ago. It didn’t take them long to reach the worn stony steps that led back into the castle from the grounds, which was when George drew to a stop.

“I need to go find my brother, so this is where I leave you,” he gestured to the archway “You’ll be fine from here, yeah? Just remember what I said.”

“Green is grim, red is rad.”

He blinked at her “I can’t believe you’d have the audacity to not only steal my proverb, but improve it too.”

Marilyn laughed, then offered a smug smile as she headed up the steps before offering a shrug and a “And Beauxbatons is best.”

“Hogwarts is heavenly!” George offered his argument in parting.

Marilyn offered no rebuttal to that - even as her brain found a few less than pleasant adjectives to fill in its place. Heinous, for example, as Flint’s face crossed her mind once again. Despite how relieved she was to have been saved from that bullshit, she was also happy that George was leaving her here - it wasn’t anything against him, but it was difficult to pretend that she was cheery and unbothered when she was very much not so, already dreading running into those assholes again during her time here. 

As she strode down the hallway, dodging students from all three schools gathered, she lost a bit of the feigned cool she’d managed to adopt as the redhead had escorted her back to the castle, her heart pounding in her chest from the aftermath of the confrontation. It wasn’t exactly how she’d planned her first full day here going, but it could have gone a lot worse. Yeah, she’d met a handful of absolute wrong’uns, but she’d also met one certified good’un. Surely that cancelled things out?

Yes. That would be what she’d tell herself. If only so that she wouldn’t find herself retreating to the toilets for a cry before she even got her timetable for the year. 

Chapter Text

The students, mostly boys, of Hogwarts (and a few from Durmstrang) quickly learned something that the ballet admirers of Beauxbatons had already realised long ago - that the idea of spying on ballet practise was a lot more exciting than the reality of it. Oh the novelty was there in the beginning, and it took some time to wear off judging by how often their teacher-in-residence, Madame Garnier had to chase off admirers who peered through the glass panels in the door, but by the end of their first week there, those instances already grew marginally fewer. The fact that they practised nightly rather helped.

She knew what they expected - whatever the reason for their admiration, be it curiosity, admiration, or some form of jealousy. Lots of twirling, impressive feats of athleticism and flexibility. A show. The reality of it was probably disappointing - hours upon hours of footwork practise, basic strengthening exercises, honing precision when it came to timing. Even the parts that were flashy or complicated grew less exciting when repeated to death over and over again so that they might become muscle memory. Before long, they were entirely unable to compete with the buzz surrounding the tournament and the Goblet of Fire, and the ballerinas of Beauxbatons were left quite alone.

At least during their rehearsals, anyway. For the novelty was much more difficult to beat away when Madame Garnier was not around to do so, and Marilyn faced it tenfold being the only non-Hogwarts student in the fourth year classes. For good reasons, mostly, and she learned to smile in the face of the novelty she posed, hiding her nerves and her awkwardness and answering the same handful of questions fifty times over, knowing soon she would be Marilyn and not 'that Beauxbatons girl'. Discomfort and difficulty were not two in the same, but she had no problem with facing either.

That, however, didn't mean she enjoyed it, and at the end of the week when she faced her first actual difficulty. It was her first Muggle Studies class here at Hogwarts and she arrived early, making a bee line for the back of the class. The desks in this room sat two at a time, with one heavy wooden table sitting two rickety chairs each behind. Her potions essay (because Professor Snape was the only teacher to set an essay during the very first week) was already out on her desk and being added to when she became aware of somebody standing before her. Lifting her head, she met the gaze of two Slytherins - idly noting George's 'proverb' in the back of her head. Green is gruesome. Or ghastly. Grim? Something like that.

Well, gruesome, ghastly, and grim all befitted the sneer on the face of the girl in front of her, a look which Marilyn returned with a blank expression of her own, her eyes drifting to the left of the girl to take in the blond who stood beside her. He didn't look half as angry - just bored, again. The Malfoy boy.

"We always sit here during Muggle Studies," the girl announced imperiously.

Marilyn glanced around. The class was beginning to fill up, a few students sending looks varying between curiosity and sympathy their way.

"Seating isn't assigned," Marilyn pointed out "And I'm already settled."

"Well settle somewhere else, you don't even go here."

Marilyn blinked, then she took up her quill and returned to her work "No."

The Malfoy boy sighed and Marilyn steeled herself for his interjection - one that would no doubt be sharp-tongued and nasty. Instead, though, he slung his fine black leather satchel from his shoulder, lowered it to the free space on the desk beside her, and then began to round the desk so he could take the free chair to her left. It was difficult to say who was more surprised by this - the Slytherin girl, or Marilyn herself.

"Draco?"

Marilyn certainly hid her surprise better than the girl, she thought, hand never faltering as she carefully wrote down the difference between adding rosemary sprigs whole to a potion and grinding the buds down instead.

"I always sit here," he supplied in explanation as he sat down.

"Are you joking? You're sitting with her instead?"

"I'll see you at dinner, Pansy."

His tone broached little room for argument, lofty and almost daring her to disobey. Marilyn resisted the urge to snort. If anybody tried to take such an imperious tone with her, they'd never see her again - nevermind at dinner. But Pansy huffed, made a high-pitched indignant noise in the back of her throat, and stormed off to the other end of the classroom. Probably to make some sort of point. When Marilyn next looked up, she was sitting at the front of the classroom instead…and a few of Malfoy's fellow Slytherins were nudging each other and murmuring about how he'd bagged the Beauxbatons girl who thus far had refused to flirt with anybody other than George Weasley.

Marilyn couldn't decide which part of that assessment she resented the most, so she chose not to think about it at all. The Malfoy boy was almost entirely silent as he set out his own supplies in front of him - a quill, an inkwell, and his own half-finished potions essay. He broke his silence only to let out an annoyed sigh when the professor, a bubbly middle aged blonde woman, walked in and greeted them sunnily. Sitting back, Marilyn put down her quill and made a show of paying attention just long enough for the lesson to begin properly…before promptly returning to her potions essay.

Malfoy, who didn't bother even making a cursory show of polite interest, glanced towards her as she returned to her work, his writing pausing.

"I see I'm not alone in recognising what a waste of time this so-called class is."

Now it was Marilyn's turn to pause. Ah. He thought her a pureblood. Or at least a half-blood prejudiced enough to deem anything non-magical a complete and utter waste of time, mistaking her pre-existing knowledge as indifference.

"In a manner of speaking," she replied carefully.

If he didn't know she was a muggleborn, she had no reason to tell him. What would be the point? She saw no need to invite harassment. And she hadn't even really lied - the class was a waste of time. For her. It was like when her Muggle friends back home from Spain or France took French and Spanish at school for the sake of an easy grade. Still, the hum of approval he gave when she agreed was almost funny as he seemed to visibly decide he was in good, agreeable company thanks to their apparent shared prejudices.

"Your girlfriend won't be happy with you," she commented quietly upon noticing Pansy towards the front, turning her head just slightly as if to check whether they were speaking.

"She's not my girlfriend. Not yet."

"She never will be if you keep talking to her like that."

The boy snorted haughtily "You don't know her at all if you think that."

"Well, maybe one day she'll get a bit of self respect about her."

He chuckled, maybe not realising her words were as barbed towards him as they were his future girlfriend.

"Why are you here?"

"It's a mandatory class at Hogwarts."

"But not at Beauxbatons?"

"Not beyond our first year - although it's strongly encouraged."

"I hear at Durmstrang it's barely offered at all - they run it, but nobody takes it."

"They probably have to run it. They produced Grindelwald."

"And they have to at least pretend to be apologetic about it," he snorted.

Marilyn said nothing, but he was still waiting for an answer to the question he'd actually asked.

"Our ballet mistress, Madame Garnier, came with the seventh years. Unless I wanted to miss out on a year of ballet, I had to come with."

"There aren't any other teachers?"

"None like her. Were I a crappy dancer, she wouldn't have allowed me to tag along, but I'm not, so here we are."

"You're here through sheer strength of your talent?" He sounded suitably skeptical.

"Skill," she corrected boredly.

It wasn't quite true - the topic was a loaded one. Ballet provided the same unfortunate fate as other sports did for most athletes in that you could practise all you liked and still be beat by somebody better genetically predisposed to the requirements set. Luck did play a factor, for she was winning on both fronts - on her willingness to work, and the role that fate played with her physique. So far. These next few years would be make or break, and she had to pray that she wouldn't unexpectedly shoot up and grow too tall to be a dancer. But just as with the matter of her blood status, she had little reason to get into all of this with him. Despite how the snort he gave made her almost tempted to explain herself.

Luckily, or maybe unluckily, she was saved by Professor Burbage's interjection.

"Mr Malfoy, might you explain to us what topic of discussion you and our visiting student find so much more fascinating than my lesson?"

Marilyn forced a bashful smile onto her face - aided by the curious looks this question had the class in its entirety turning round in their seats to send her and her new friend.

"I'm sorry, Professor," she answered before he could "The curriculum is very different at Beauxbatons - Draco was helping me clear up some confusion."

The woman, at first, appeared unsure as to whether she wanted to believe that. But Marilyn's embarrassment, combined with the innocent look on Draco's pale face, must've convinced her, for she blinked.

"Oh. Well in that case well done Mr Malfoy, that is precisely the sort of consideration we're hoping to foster this year - five points to Slytherin."

Draco inclined his head with such nonchalance anybody might've thought he really had been clueing her into the finer points of the Muggle Studies modules for the year. He waited until the lesson resumed and the curious looks waned before he spoke again, more quietly this time.

"You know my name."

It was more of a statement than a question - and a lofty one, at that. Smug, really. Like he wasn't surprised at all. Marilyn scoffed.

"I heard it from your lovely friends. Back at the lake."

"Hm."

That was all she got - and it wasn't even a particularly apologetic hum. She wasn't sure whether that endeared him to her more or less. After all, if he'd been particularly sorry he would've stopped them at the time. Pretending otherwise now would've just been a weak attempt at saving face, and then she'd have been obligated to nod along like she was an idiot who believed a word of it. No, his refusal to play that game saved them both the bother.

"What's your name?" He prompted.

Impatience and exasperation seeped into his tone in equal measure, like he was annoyed that she made him ask rather than offer it up of her own accord. She'd earned some measure of patience from him, though, apparently - whether that was through the disdain he thought she had for Muggles, or the fact that he wanted to be seen earning the interest of the only Beauxbatons fourth year, she knew not. Marilyn sighed softly, turning her head to look at him. He was very good looking, she noted idly…and he knew it. But she wouldn't grudge him that. Not while he was being amicable, anyway - something she knew would only last right up until the moment he realised the true nature of her blood status.

Better then, she supposed, to show him that muggleborns did know how to behave while she had the chance to. Not because she had anything to prove, but because she knew it would be all the more infuriating to him when he realised the truth.

"Marilyn," she answered finally, giving a nod.

She even did an admirable job of pretending that she wasn't blushing when she glanced away from the teacher to look at him and they held the gaze of one another for a few stretched out seconds before they nodded, and then returned to their essays - because, damn him, he really was good looking, with piercing eyes and fine features that belonged sculpted in marble. Judging by the way his eyes lingered on her face for just a moment, too, their opinions on that matter regarding the other was more than mutual.

A shame, then, that he was a prejudiced asshole. Oh well. There would always be other boys. And, she noted to herself, as they both returned to their essays in a silence that verged dangerously on the companionable, at least they were on the same page as far as how this lesson should be spent - even if they reached that destination from vastly different paths.

Chapter Text

"Would you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"

"I can't, I'm not old enough."

"I'm aware, Baxter, that's why I said 'would you' and not 'are you going to'."

Well, he had a point there. Straightening a little, Marilyn smoothed the tip of her quill's feather over her chin as she considered the question. It took less consideration than she first anticipated, though, and then she shrugged.

"No."

"No?" Draco quirked an eyebrow.

"No," she repeated "I'm guessing by your surprise that you would."

He hesitated for a moment "No."

"No?" It was her turn to blink in surprise, mirroring the look he'd just given her.

"Not because the idea frightens me - if I did apply, I have no doubt that I'd get in, nor that I'd win," he cocked his chin slightly as he spoke "But such antics wouldn't be befitting of somebody like myself. Firstborn pure-blood sons don't dance around like…like…"

"Like ballerinas?" She asked drily.

"Like fools. We're not here to entertain."

Marilyn snorted "Fair enough."

They'd come to an uneasy sort of truce over the last couple of weeks. Not quite friends, but not enemies either. They would hardly seek each other out in the great hall at dinner, nor even outside of this classroom at all, really, but within this classroom they could speak with ease. Relative ease, at least. More ease than she'd expect. It made the class pass more quickly, it cut awkward silences to a minimum for they neither ignored one another nor felt any great need to be overly friendly, it became a surprisingly decent way to get through a lesson.

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Are you suggesting that it's beneath you but not me?"

"The Baxters aren't one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Even if you are a pure-blood and not a half-blood, it's still not the same."

"I haven't got any interest," she sighed with a shrug "I'll watch it, given that I'll be accused of shirking the spirit of things if I don't, but between dancing and schoolwork, I have no interest in adding this to my list of responsibilities."

"Not even to prove Beauxbatons' glory?"

"I've got nothing to prove," she snorted.

"People with nothing to prove don't say they've nothing to prove," he pointed out.

"If you say so," she shrugged.

He stopped writing at that, pausing. Marilyn made a concerted effort not to allow her own essay writing to stop - but evidently it hadn't been the sort of response he'd expected from her. What, did he really think that he'd push her into some sort of mad frenzy, justifying her lack of any need to justify herself to him? It was probably what he was used to. Only when she began struggling with her essay and her writing slowed, then wavered, then stopped entirely did he avert his ice-grey gaze from his face to her parchment.

"Dried valerian root."

"What?"

"The three most ineffectual ways to use valerian - roasted, boiled, and dried. It's the juice that holds the properties, those three options all waste the juices."

"Your potions' master mentioned roasted and boiled, but not dried," she argued, but only half-heartedly because she could see his point.

"Well he's not going to give you all of the answers, is he?" Draco rolled his eyes "Some common sense is expected. We're not first years."

She huffed a laugh, dipping her quill in the inkwell before nodding "I see your point. Thanks."

"You'll soon adjust to the way things are done around here," he sniffed.

Marilyn rolled her eyes, but kept silent. Mainly because muttering 'what a dick' beneath her breath probably worked against that oh-so-important fostering of community spirit between the schools. She continued to think it for the rest of the class, though.

Baxter, Draco surmised, was a half-blood. She hadn't rushed to correct him when he'd brushed ever so slightly against the topic of her blood status, which could only mean that she was indeed a half-blood. Or maybe she was a pure-blood, but of the blood traitorous sort. He doubted it, though, for those types never shut up about it for long, and his mention of the Sacred Twenty-Eight had earned him no lectures. Then, though, he remembered her words - the ones that seemed to be true, at that. I've got nothing to prove. Perhaps she was pure-blood, but just didn't feel the need to flash it around? There were plenty among those at Durmstrang and Beauxbatons who were the same. It was the sort of question that could be easily answered by his mother, but he was entirely unwilling to deal with the thousand questions if he wrote home mentioning a girl. Not for something as simple as mild curiosity.

But she was an odd one. She sat at the Ravenclaw table with the rest of the Beauxbatons students, looking comically small between two seventh years, speaking to neither of them. Instead she ate like a bird - quickly but delicately - while staring at a textbook in her lap. As far as her own peers were concerned, she hardly seemed to socialise much with them - indeed, from what Draco had seen he was the only one from either of the other two schools who she bothered much with at all. At least nobody could accuse her of having poor taste.

Or so he thought. For almost as soon as that thought crossed his mind, he noticed one of the Weasley twins sauntering her way. With an idiotic grin on his face, he paused by her and tapped one shoulder while ducking his head down by the other. The Baxter girl turned her head in the direction of the shoulder that had been prodded, right in time for Weasley to say something almost directly into the other ear. It earned him a yelp of fright that Draco heard even above the chatter in the hall, and he watched in interest. From what he'd seen of her, she wouldn't take it kindly - the idiot was sure to have earned himself an earful. Instead, though, any smugness left Draco's face when she grinned, then laughed as she shook her head and greeted him cheerfully.

Draco's face soured. Maybe she was a blood traitor after all.

"Looks like Beauxbatons doesn't have the same proper ideals that Durmstrang does," he hadn't realise that Pansy had followed his line of sight until she commented.

"What?" He feigned ignorance.

It didn't matter if it was particularly convincing ignorance - she'd hardly call him out on it either way. She pressed her lips together and gave a shrug that was just a little too pleased. Draco wondered if there was anything more entirely tedious than jealousy. He couldn't even take any satisfaction in it, it was so boring. Once she returned to her dinner, he turned his disapproving gaze back to Baxter and the Weasley. During their quiet, fairly amicable chats in Muggle Studies, she'd never struck him as the type who might find idiocy to be a fair replacement for actual humour. Maybe she just liked having a sixth year sniffing around her, even if that sixth year was barely a full step up from a street urchin.

Weasley appeared to ask a question, his head tilting as he offered Baxter a goofy grin - she, in return, answered it with a smile of her own, and whatever her answer was made him laugh in response. Then, Draco noted with what felt uncomfortably like dismay, she closed her book, pushed her plate aside and rose to her feet. As she did so, though, she cast her eyes about the hall where they met his. Draco didn't look away - he was never the first to look away. Baxter blinked those wide blue eyes of hers, apparently surprised to have found him looking at her, and then she quickly looked away. Draco smirked.

The twin, being a Weasley, of course didn't notice this happening right before his nose, waiting patiently for her to step one foot over the long bench she sat on, then the other. And then they were leaving the hall together…but Draco's annoyance waned, because just as they reached the great double doors to leave the hall, Baxter glanced back again - perhaps to see if she'd find him still watching. And the frown she gave when she did couldn't hide the pretty blush that coloured her cheeks.

Draco smirked - only when she was out of sight. Was it any wonder? A Weasley was hardly a match for somebody such as himself.

His former boredom returned, though, his newest source of entertainment now gone, and as he moved the peas around his plate with his fork, he remembered one very interesting detail. The ballerinas practised not too terribly far from the Slytherin common room.

When George offered to walk Marilyn to her practise room in the dungeons that evening in order to shield her as the Grim Greens (as they now conspiratorially called them), part of her had been oddly worried that he had some sort of ulterior motive - regardless of the fact that he'd been nothing but genuinely nice to her thus far. But it was simple paranoia, fostered by the less than pleasant introduction she'd had to Hogwarts boys, and she did truly dread the prospect of wading through a sea of emerald to get to her ballet lesson, so she accepted. And she was glad that she did when she caught Draco Malfoy staring at her in the great hall.

Had he found out the truth about her blood status? No, she doubted it. It was no secret at Hogwarts that his disdain was of the vocal sort, and she knew if he felt that she'd bamboozled him in some way or another that it would earn her more than a look of vague interest over dinner.

"So, I hear you met my brother," George said cheerfully as they began their walk through the halls.

She was finally beginning to learn her way around. Sure, she still couldn't meander without getting lost, but she was capable of getting to her classes without the constant worry of ending up in the wrong wing of the castle entirely.

"Don't," Marilyn groaned with a wince "You could've warned me that you were a twin, you know. I went up to him spouting nonsense about green being grim and red being rad."

"It's funnier when I don't warn people," he said brightly.

"He just went along with it!"

"Yeah, that's Fred."

"I'll admit it was almost impressive how smoothly he adapted. He looked at me like I'd lost my mind for all of a split second before letting me continue on like a lunatic. Took him a good five minutes to put me out of misery."

"That's funnier, too," he said - but warmly, like she was in on the joke as well.

It only made it marginally less embarrassing. Not least because there'd been witnesses - ones who had watched on in clear amusement, no less.

"I wouldn't worry about it. He said he admired your zest," he added when she didn't seem much cheered by his reassurances.

"Yeah. Well. I don't suppose you'll take my mortification as payment for your help that day?"

She pulled her satchel carefully out of the way so it didn't block her view of the steps they descended going down into the dungeon. While she fancied herself fairly graceful, the stairs in this place had a habit of being nastily uneven and worn. The students here were used to it, but took great joy in watching their visitors stumble only to catch themselves at the last second before they got a mouthful of stone.

"Does the fact that I'm helping you here again now mean that I can embarrass you again for a laugh later?"

"That's your sick plan, is it? To keep offering your help so you can humiliate me throughout the whole year?"

"If only I was a quadruplet rather than a twin. The laughs could go on and on."

Marilyn snorted.

"But no, I'm afraid I'm not quite that much of a schemer. Red is rosy, remember? My plan is a simple one - this seemed like a fantastic way of meeting the seventh year ballerinas, and having their first impression of me be one that showcases my incredibly chivalrous side."

"And if I tell them of this plan and ruin it all?"

"I'll tell them about the delightful first impression you made with Fred - if I can't be chivalrous, I can always be funny."

"Well," Marilyn sniffed "In that case, it's a pleasure doing business with you."

"Speaking of chivalry, though…if you'd be open to a friendly warning."

"Only if it's friendly."

The rehearsal room, now decked out in mirrors and dance equipment thanks to a bit of spellwork, was in sight…but George drew to a stop, for once looking almost serious - but no less comfortable.

"My brother - other brother. Younger one. Fourth year."

"Ron," she said knowingly "He's in my transfiguration class."

"Ah. That explains how you remember him. Well, the fourth years talk. Word is you're getting pretty close to Lord Git-face himself."

Marilyn sighed.

"Look, if you're stupid enough to believe the same tripe that he does, that's you're decision and natural selection will get you for it in the end. But if you're not…the Malfoys aren't the sort you want to be around."

"If I was stupid enough to believe in all of that while actually being a Muggle-born, natural selection absolutely would be out to get me," she replied simply.

"Oh."

"Oh," she repeated.

"Well, that makes everything a lot simpler then. But what's a Muggle-born doing cozying up to a Malfoy?"

"We're not cozy. We sit together in one class, and that's it. People are just idiots."

"Hm. Sometimes true. None more so than Malfoy, at that."

Marilyn thought back to how he'd helped her with her essay, and stayed quiet. Whether he took that as agreement or something else was up to him. But then again, she supposed there was a difference between being stupid, and being unintelligent. It was the same difference between being a dick, and being dangerous. She only hoped that she'd been right in her conclusion that the Malfoy heir was the former and not the latter. At least for now.

Chapter Text

"What I am about to tell you is to go no further than this room," Madame Garnier said sternly in French, her boots clicking on the floor as she paced the length of the room.

Whenever they practised, she used a spell to cover the dungeon's stony floor in wood. It was just slightly less of a hard surface for them to jump around on, but that was like saying that lava was cooler than fire. Still, it allowed them to do their turns more smoothly, and it made Marilyn's shoes last a little longer between cleaning and repairing spells. Christ knew what she'd do if she'd been born an all-out Muggle, for her parents certainly wouldn't be sending her money for three pairs of pointe shoes a week.

The girls waited in silence, and Madame Garnier didn't bother doubling down on her point as far as the confidentiality went. She told them not to speak of it, and so they wouldn't speak of it. It was as simple as that.

"Part of the tradition of the Triwizard Tournament is a Yule Ball on Christmas day. It allows a chance to showcase the champions once they have been chosen, and yes - for a bit of dignified revelry. However, it puts Beauxbatons in a unique position, seeing as the other schools cannot boast you among their students. It is, therefore, Madame Maxime's wish that we put on a performance during the dinner portion of the ball."

Marilyn perked up - quite literally. Her back straightened where she sat on the floor, her shoulders squaring and her chin lifting. She wasn't the only one, but they all knew better than to ask questions before their mistress was done speaking.

"We will be performing an act from The Veela and The Vampire - the Waltz of the Pixies."

Her green eyes roamed over them now - expectantly. Now it was safe to ask questions.

"Will there be auditions?" Marilyn asked immediately.

They wouldn't be too extensive if they were to happen at all - there were only two roles available, and only one of those roles was a solo part. The rest was all group dancing.

"Non. I have assigned the roles, we haven't the time for auditions, nor the number of students to make it necessary. Marilyn will have the solo as head pixie."

Marilyn grinned - but she was the only one who did so.

"What? Her? Why?!" The girl to her right, Chloe frowned as she shot a venomous look her way.

"Because I'm the best dancer here," Marilyn shot back, giving her an equally nasty glare before she rolled her eyes "It's not my fault you couldn't keep to a beat if you were told to do so under the Imperius Curse."

"It's not my fault that I have a life outside of ballet - a monkey could learn the choreography if it was all they ever had to do."

"Enough," Madam Garnier snapped "The choice is purely an aesthetic one. Marilyn is the youngest and she is therefore the shortest - she will look out of place if we put her in line with all of the seventh years. The outcome would always be this one, regardless of talent or skill. I'll hear no arguments on the matter, is it decided. Do you understand?"

Nobody answered - nobody was stupid enough to argue the matter further.

"If there is to be a drama over this, I shall tell Madame Maxime that you are not up to this task, and you can all go back to Beauxbatons tomorrow morning," she continued sternly.

There were pursed lips all round, punctuated by murmurs of "oui".

"We begin rehearsals tomorrow - with fresh attitudes. You can go."

They all rose to their feet and offered demure, shallow curtsies to their teacher before making for the door. The moment Marilyn's back was to the woman, though, she called after her.

"Mademoiselle Baxter. A word."

A few snickers sounded from the older girls, but Marilyn ignored them and slowly turned back to Madame Garnier. They both waited patiently for the other girls to file out and close the door behind them, Marilyn's cool demeanour a great deal more feigned than that of her teacher. Finally, the heavy wooden door closed with a thud and the woman arched a thin black eyebrow at her.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean, Madame?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"I'm a better dancer than them," she said.

"By a foot, not by a mile. Will it be a mile one day? Probably - but not if you antagonise your sisters into putting glass in your shoes before every performance. Would you be able to out-dance them to any role your heart might desire? Perhaps. If you can do it at fourteen, I'll be surprised if you cannot manage it at eighteen. But they are just as capable - if not more so - of making life in this world, the world of ballet, so unpleasant for you that you no longer wish to."

Marilyn pursed her lips.

"You think they couldn't? They absolutely could. They'll make it their raison d'être if you keep motivating them to do so. You're a good dancer, girl - a damn good dancer, but don't ruin this for yourself because you can't pretend to be modest when necessary."

By the end of the scolding, Marilyn's cheeks were pink and her pride was sorely bruised.

"Oui, madame," she murmured.

"Good. You can go."

Bowing her head, she forced herself to make for the door at a speed that was neither so quick as to seem embarrassed, nor so slow as to suggest that she was licking her wounds. She was doing both, but she didn't need to show it. The walk back to the Beauxbatons carriage would be a long one - longer still given that she didn't pause during her exit to change out of her pointe shoes, but she could always clean them up with a spell or two when they got inevitably muddy and scuffed on her walk back.

Stepping into the hallway, she shut the door behind her and then sighed, finally allowing her annoyance to show. Smoothing a hand over her hair, she shook her head and allowed her brow to furrow as she turned left towards the stairs that led out of the dungeon. But then a voice sounded behind her and she almost jumped out of her skin.

"Bad day?"

Spinning on her heel, she was met with the sight of Draco Malfoy - and the very smug smile on his face, and she knew immediately that he'd heard every word of her scolding.

"What do you want?" she huffed.

"My, my, somebody's in a mood," he smirked.

"Goodnight, Draco," she ground out, turning her back on him once again.

But she wasn't so lucky as to be left alone. His stupid fancy leather shoes clacked against the flagstone floors as he strode to catch up with her - he was taller than she was, so it wasn't much of a task.

"I don't need an escort, thank you."

"I'm not offering to escort you."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"My common room happens to be down here," he pointed out.

"You're walking away from it."

"You're being terribly unfriendly to somebody who comes bearing gifts."

Heaving a sigh of sheer exasperation, Marilyn folded her arms and turned to regard him, eyebrows rising in impatience. Draco didn't seem too bothered by it - no, his face remained insufferably smug as he reached into his robes and produced the bottle he'd been keeping, hidden where it was wedged beneath his arm. Blinking in surprise, it took her a moment to register what she was looking at and then another moment after that to make sense of the bottle. Wine. Good wine, too, as far as she could tell.

"Where did you get that?"

"Funniest thing - one of my friends snuck into McGonagall's office and stole it. He's in detention for it as we speak, but nobody quite managed to track the bottle down in the end."

"So you had one of your lackeys take it for you and then take the fall."

"You've got no sense of mystique to you at all, you know that, Baxter?" he admonished with a scoff.

"I'm sorry that my discussion of thievery isn't elegant enough for you. So now, what? You want to give it to me? Is this some kind of trick?"

"I want to drink it with you," he rolled his eyes "We won't get caught."

"Why me?"

He blinked, apparently taken aback by the question, and then shrugged "It's French wine."

"I'm not French."

"You go to a French school, you speak French. It's not so much of a stretch that you might drink French wine."

"Well don't I feel special."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Marilyn looked at the bottle, weighing up her options. Draco was a prat at the best of times, but returning to a group of girls she knew were currently sitting and bitching about her (girls who were older, at that) after a dressing down from Madame Garnier just did not appeal to her. The wine in Draco's hand? That did. She could hold her wine decently, anyway, and she knew well enough by now to look out for any tricks. She had her wand on her, too. It would be fine. He probably just wanted to boast to his goons about getting tipsy with the Beauxbatons ballerina.

"Where do we go?" she asked finally.

They moved across the grounds under the cover of darkness - Marilyn had been forced to wait by the entrance to the Slytherin common room while Draco ducked inside and grabbed a spare set of robes for her, thanks to his insistence that the blue of her Beauxbatons robes would stand out like a sore thumb. She didn't really argue, and she was glad that she hadn't when she felt how much warmer the Hogwarts robes were. Mostly she was just grateful that it hadn't yet proven to be some elaborate prank - that he hadn't left her waiting there for hours, snickering to himself and wondering how much longer she'd hang around before she realised. Oh, she still wasn't ruling out the idea of this being some nasty prank, and she wouldn't do so until she'd tasted the wine and was satisfied that it wasn't vinegar (or worse). But it sure as hell beat what she'd originally had planned for the evening.

Draco led the way across the grounds and then around the shore of the lake, the hood of his robes pulled up so his platinum blond hair was less easily spottable.

"Won't your absence be conspicuous? I can sneak away from my classmates unnoticed far more easily than you," Draco only spoke when they reached the trees, picking their way through the tree line.

He didn't try to lead her into the forest proper, thank god, and once they were a handful of trees in, and therefore out of sight, he finally slowed to a stop.

"Are you saying I have more of a presence than you?"

"There are more of us than there are of you - and you're the only fourth year. I don't want search parties tearing through the castle just because you didn't think," he rolled his eyes.

He did that rather a lot. It was a wonder it didn't give him a sore head.

"They'll just think I'm practising. Usually I would be at this time. It's fine."

"Didn't feel like it this time round?"

Drawing his wand, he tapped the bottle of wine and the cork sprang from it. He glanced towards her after, and she hated that she knew she'd let her face slip and show that she found the trick impressive. He watched her expectantly for a response.

"You heard, then," she replied flatly.

He shrugged and took a gulp from the bottle, and then held it out to her. Marilyn accepted it, then inspected it before taking a gulp of her own…and tried not to think about the fact that his lips had just been in the same spot. A prat he might've been, but he was still fit. Hopefully the dark would cover the blush she felt rising to her cheeks.

"If it's any consolation, I think your professor is a fool," he sniffed.

"Madame Garnier is a genius," Marilyn disagreed, taking another swig before returning the bottle to him when he extended a hand for it.

"She's a fool," Draco countered flatly "If you're the better dancer and she knows it, why should you pretend otherwise? So the lesser ones can cling to their delusions? That's the sort of tripe that has us pandering to mudbloods."

Marilyn stayed carefully silent. The precarious nature of her situation was not lost on her, and she knew that at some point or another Draco would discover the truth of her blood status. She just didn't particularly want him to discover it when they were alone together in the woods, in the dark. That would not be…ideal. Only when he turned to her, pale eyebrows raised as he waited for a response did she offer one, and even then it was only to cast off any suspicion.

"It's not the same," she shrugged.

He handed the bottle back to her "It sounds like it's the same."

"You're not a ballerina."

"Thank Merlin for that."

She snorted "It's complicated."

Taking another few swigs, she regarded the bottle. She wasn't well versed in wine - certainly not enough to know the good from the bad - but it certainly tasted decent. In the past she'd snuck stuff from her mum's stash to drink with her Muggle friends during summer, and she'd barely been able to stomach it. This? This wasn't a challenge to drink at all.

"This seems a bit risky for you," she changed the subject "Don't you have a reputation to uphold?"

"I'm breaking curfew, not massacring house-elves," he replied drily "And my grades are just fine, so it doesn't really matter, does it?"

Marilyn laughed again - this time a real laugh. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was because she hadn't expected him to be funny. Dark, sure, but still funny.

"Somebody's already taken the blame for the wine, and I don't know about you but I'm not stupid enough to get caught sneaking back."

"From what I've seen, your grades are more than fine," she pointed out.

When they'd first met, she'd expected him to be a stupid little asshole who took himself more seriously than his classes. Instead, he seemed to get consistent Os on his essays. Well, in everything other than Muggle studies.

"You might define fine as As and Es. We do not," he replied simply.

It was supposed to be a boast. Yet another show of superiority. But tiredness crept through into his voice and his eyes both, and she knew it was a slip. He'd rather die than show it intentionally, she knew that well enough. And still, against all odds, she felt sorry for him. Marilyn handed the bottle back to him.

Chapter Text

It was good wine. Well, good in that it went down easily and it soon had her cheeks burning and the tip of her nose tingling in a way that didn't seem solely down to the cold Scottish evening.

"You're a decent dancer," Draco sniffed when the bottle began to run so low that what remained swished around the bottom every time they passed it between each other.

"I know," she said.

"Careful, that's the attitude that got you in trouble with your professor," he replied.

"Are you going to grass me in?"

He scoffed, and though she couldn't see very well in the darkness, she was certain he rolled his eyes at her too.

"Thanks for your help - with my essay, by the way. I got an E, and apparently from Snape that's as good as an O."

"For anybody not in Slytherin, I suppose," Draco replied, and Marilyn rolled her eyes before he continued - albeit highly begrudgingly "You're welcome."

"I owe you one."

She made to hand him back the bottle so he could have the last of it, but he gestured casually for her to have it. Not one to back down from a challenge, she held eye contact with him as she drained the last of it.

"Should I require a dance instructor, I know who I shall turn to," it was said teasingly, but not outright mockingly - that in itself surprised her.

"You never know, with this dance coming up you might need it. Can you dance?"

"Not ballet."

"Few can. That wasn't the kind of dancing I was talking about."

"Of course I can. Why? Is that an invitation?"

"I don't invite boys to dance with me," she snorted.

"Do boys invite you?"

"Only the very brave ones. Or the stupid ones."

"And which ones do you say yes to?"

"Neither."

There was just enough moonlight for her to see Draco's smirk "Can you dance?"

"You just complimented my dancing."

"That wasn't the kind of dancing I was talking about," he echoed her own words back at her.

"Why? Is that an invitation?" She countered.

He regarded her for a few long moments, during which she refused to falter beneath his stare, before giving a shrug and saying lightly "I suppose you'll find out."

Now that she had no idea how to respond to. So she said nothing. Because she was scared that if she did respond he'd hear the blush in her voice despite the fact that it was too dark for him to see it on her face, because she hated the fact that she was blushing, or that it was so easy to fall into this charming little back and forth with somebody whose views were so abhorrent, and because she knew that while amicability was one thing, if (no - when) he found out the truth of her blood status after this, he would be embarrassed. And his ilk did terrible things when they were embarrassed.

"We should return," he said finally after a few moments of silence.

Marilyn regarded the empty wine bottle doubtfully where it lay discarded among the roots of a tree. She supposed she could shrink it and hide it in her robes, but if they were caught with it they'd be in a hell of a lot of trouble. Her deliberations were cut short when Draco picked it up, took a few steps towards the shore and hurtled the bottle into it. It landed in the water with a splash that broke through the night and had her cringing at the noise.

"You'll piss off the squid," she pointed out.

"The squid," he echoed with a derisive snort like she was referring to Santa Claus.

And so whatever charm the wine had aided her in seeing was already diminished. Or so she thought, until he returned to her side and was suddenly surprisingly close surprisingly quickly. For a brief, horrifying, thrilling moment she thought he was going to try and kiss her. Even worse was the fact that she found herself wondering if she'd let him. And then, instead, he pressed a hand into the small of her back to lead her out through the trees with a casual "after you". With anybody else, she would've found it presumptuous at best and invasive at worst, but he did it so easily and casually that it had her fighting off yet another blush.

They were perhaps half way across the grounds towards the castle, far enough for Marilyn to breathe a sigh of relief that they'd gotten away with their little misadventure after all - even holding back a giggle or two at the thrill of the whole thing - when a voice boomed out behind them.

"Oi! You two! Stop right there!"

The voice of the Care of Magical Creatures professor was unmistakable. Shit. Her happiness had been premature. For a split second she contemplated running. She was fast, and she had the stamina. But the awareness that it would only get them both into much more trouble squashed the idea before she could even begin to take it seriously.

"Bloody oaf," Draco ground out lowly, slowing to a stop beside her.

Before she could even breathe a word of her own, though, he turned to her and spoke in a voice far louder.

"You turned left when you should have turned right, you see. An easy mistake to make - the grounds slope downwards to the west just as they do to the south, so the terrain looks much the same," his expression of innocent surprise that he then adopted when Hagrid finally reached them was so convincing that even she might've bought it if not for the fact that she could still taste the wine on her tongue "Yes, professor?"

"What are the two of you doing on the grounds at this time? It's far too late for you to be out here, this is grounds for a detention, Mr Malfoy."

"Miss Baxter here got herself lost on the grounds, I found her on my way back from Quidditch practise and now I'm walking her back to the Beauxbatons carriage."

Hagrid frowned and turned his eye to her. She knew little of the professor save for her classes with him, but that didn't give her nothing to work with - she'd proven a dab hand at dealing with the Blast-Ended Skrewts in their infancy. Hopefully that would be enough to serve her well here. Widening her eyes and wrapping her arms about herself (all the while praying that he wouldn't clock the borrowed robes), she looked between he and Draco with a worried, furrowed brow.

"I was just starting to gain my bearings around here, but with the dark nights setting in all of the grounds look the same and I must've gotten turned around," she fretted, raking a hand through her hair "It's two lefts then a right, right? I think I took the right too soon, or perhaps it was three lefts - I know the second left wasn't right, but by that point I was hopelessly lost already, so then I took a third left hoping it might balance it out, but then-"

Out of Hagrid's line of sight, Draco stifled a snicker as she continued to ramble nonsense, hoping dearly that if she did so enough, she'd talk in such circles that Hagrid would give up. It was a far cry from her partner-in-crime's method of cool, wide-eyed innocence, but the professor's frown of concern told her she'd done the right thing.

"Don't get yersel' worked up, lass, we've had students still gettin' themselves lost well into their second year," he turned to Draco, who dropped the amusement from his face just in time, eyeing him distrustfully "Get Miss Baxter to her schoolmates, Mr Malfoy, and then to yer common room with you."

Could it really have been that easy? It didn't feel right. But then he turned to her and said, after a moment's hesitation "If Madame Maxime needs this explainin' to her, send her my way, Miss Baxter, and I'll see it sorted."

Ah. So that was it. While she wanted to kid herself that the offer was down to her acting abilities - that he'd mistaken the tipsy flush of her cheeks for some sort of genuine panic - gossip concerning her headmistress and the groundskeeper had been rife for the last week or two.

"Right, yes, I will, professor," she nodded solemnly "I'm sorry for the fuss, it won't happen again."

They were dismissed with a nod and the wave of a giant hand, effectively brushed off as he turned and began walking back the way he'd come from.

"I'm sorry for the fuss, Professor Oaf, it won't happen again," Draco mimicked with the high, innocent voice she'd used.

"Piss off," she rolled her eyes as they resumed their uphill stride towards the castle "It worked, didn't it? And don't be horrible - he's sound enough."

"First the Weasley fool, and now that great hulking cretin? What does that say about your standards, Baxter?"

"What does that say about you, given that it's your company I've been in all evening?" She snapped back.

Draco was unbothered "That there's hope for you yet."

Marilyn rolled her eyes "Hagrid's better than your Professor Snape, anyway."

"Had it been Snape that caught us, it wouldn't have even been a conversation. He and my father are old friends," he sniffed.

She wondered if he expected a round of applause - if he did, he'd be disappointed. His, however, were not the only expectations that were thwarted, for when they walked past the entrance to the castle Draco stayed by her side rather than breaking off to head indoors, walking her in the direction of the carriage as he'd claimed to be doing in the first place.

Once they were a few yards away he slowed to a stop and she paused too, unsure of whether she should just keep walking. They weren't friends, and a long drawn out goodbye didn't seem the sort of thing in his character. No, he was more the type to wave a hand and announce that she was dismissed - and she didn't want to give him a chance to do that. Wouldn't it be better if she kept walking, with not even a backwards glance in his direction? Curiosity, though…that was what won out.

"This was entertaining," he announced with a bored shrug "Perhaps we'll do it again."

It was all far too casual and forced for it to appear as natural and easy as she suspected he wanted it too, and she let out a short puff of laughter, shaking her head. Presumptuous little dickhead.

"Goodnight, Draco," she said ruefully.

Then she took a step back, before he could get any ideas, before she did turn and had a chance to make her exit - without looking back.

The next morning was…a lot. While she wasn't exactly hungover, she still felt ever so slightly delicate, and when Marilyn walked into the great hall for breakfast, Chloe was sitting with the rest of the Beauxbatons students at the Ravenclaw table, her nose wrinkled and her lip curled as she spoke in quick, annoyed tones. Marilyn didn't need to hear what she was saying to know that she was slagging her off - and she was in no mood to deal with it. So, with a sigh, she cast her gaze around the rest of the room. The Slytherin table was out of the question, she wasn't desperate enough to consider that at all, and it was packed with Durmstrang students anyway. If she wasn't mistaken to be fawning over Draco, she'd certainly be assumed to be drooling over Krum.

Part of her was tempted to just fill her pockets with fruit and eat outside when an ear-splitting whistle broke through the hall, and then a familiar voice called out in the silence that immediately followed.

"Oi! Twinkle-toes! Over here!"

Marilyn's lips pursed, if only so she could maintain a pretense of exasperation under all of the eyes that were now on her, as George waved her over. As she approached, her harassed the boy at his side - his brother - into budging along the bench so she could take his place.

"Was that really necessary?" She snorted, slipping into the space as the chatter slowly resumed in the hall.

She quickly began loading her plate up with anything that even slightly resembled bread. Potions was her first class, and if the fumes weren't going to knock her sick, she'd need something substantial in her stomach.

"Is that the thanks I get for coming to your rescue while you stood there looking like a lost little lamb?"

"Thank you, Sir George - no, Saint George - you're the most charitable soul in this hall," she said drily.

"That's more like it," he tutted.

Something was going on. It took her a moment to realise it; at first she'd concluded that the weird atmosphere was down to all of the attention he'd just brought crashing down upon them, but while everybody else seemed to have returned to their conversations, those in their immediate vicinity had not. To her right, his little brother glared into his cereal, his lips pressed into a thin line. It was a stark difference, considering beforehand he could scarcely pass her in the hallway without turning a startling shade of purple. Harry Potter sat opposite her, and did an even poorer job than Hermione Granger, who sat at his side, at hiding the suspicious looks being shot her way.

Fred sat beside George and seemed entirely unbothered by all of this, but they were the only two who were acting with anything that even resembled normality. But George caught her confused look before she could speak - which was a good thing, indeed, because she'd been half a second away from demanding "what?" at the third strange look she'd gotten from The Boy Who Lived in as many seconds.

"All right, I'll admit it - no sense of subtlety with this lot about," George grumbled "I may have had an ulterior motive in extending this invitation to you."

"I'm bored of teaching people how to swear in French," she warned - and took it as a good sign when he laughed in response.

"We're happy enough with English," Fred chimed in with a shrug "If it's not broke, y'know?"

"Hear, hear," she took a sip of her pumpkin juice.

"My brother and I were taking a relaxing evening stroll about the grounds last night, and happened across rather an interesting sight indeed," George said.

Oh, Jesus. Marilyn sighed.

"Planning on becoming the first Muggle-born Death Eater, are we?" He asked, keeping his tone quiet and light.

Apparently that was a revelation in itself to the three of her fellow fourth years, who all blinked in surprise and then shared pointed looks with one another.

"Yes, I'm so masochistic that I decided dancing wasn't enough and this would be even better," she said flatly before sighing "I got lost on the grounds, he found me wandering and walked me back to the Beauxbatons carriage."

Hopefully the twins hadn't seen enough to know that she was lying.

"That doesn't sound like Malfoy," it was Harry Potter who cut in now, frowning.

"I'm a ballerina - it's rare that men behave normally around us," she said drily.

His eyebrows rose for a brief moment as if to say "fair play", and Ron's face slowly started turning pink again. She knew she was on the right track.

"Hear that, George? She called us rare," Fred said.

"It almost even sounded like a compliment," George replied "Well. Fair enough, then. Can't blame us for expressing some gentlemanly concern. See, you lot? I was right. No fangs, no horns, no Dark Mark."

Ron rolled his eyes but remained silent, Harry seemed more or less content to return to his breakfast, and Hermione…Hermione eyed her with a frown.

"You need to be careful. If he's being decent to you, then he mustn't know…he won't take kindly to it when he finds out."

"Don't worry," Marilyn waved a hand "It's fine. I know what I'm doing."

"Hope so," George said lightly - in a tone that suggested he very much did not believe her.

Marilyn couldn't particularly blame him for that.

Chapter Text

"Here."

Marilyn blinked as Draco slid something across the desk towards her. A badge - one of the ones she'd seen all of his friends wearing, with little animated letters reading "POTTER STINKS" emblazoned across it.

The pulling of Harry's name from the Goblet of Fire had happened the week prior, and talk of it had yet to die down. Marilyn just didn't particularly care. Fleur was nice - she didn't really know her, but she'd never had an interaction with the girl that wasn't positive, and Beauxbatons loyalty demanded that she hoped that she would win, but other than that she wasn't among those at the school who were insanely invested in this whole thing. She looked forward to witnessing the challenges, but it wasn't all she wanted to talk about. That tended to be reserved for dancing.

She snorted "No thanks."

Anybody who wasn't a half-mad conspiracy theorist, nor blinded by their own agenda, could see that whatever had gone on that night, Harry Potter hadn't planned it. To hear the tales, he'd already faced down a hell of a lot in his time here - not least the possibility of having his head cursed from his shoulders by Sirius Black himself just last year. If this was some sort of prank gone awry, he wouldn't have gone half as pale as he did when it all happened.

"Oh, don't tell me you're one of his groupies," Draco scoffed.

"You know, Draco, I'm very concerned about the places your mind goes if you think there's no middle ground between hating somebody and wanting to shag them."

"They tend to be the only reactions that prat elicits. Or is it that Weasley clone you're interested in?"

"My, you have been paying some amount of attention to me," she said.

He spluttered for a moment before huffing "Those two demand attention wherever they go. I imagine because it's difficult for them to get any at home, what with the rate their mother churns out offspring."

"I always thought it would be nice to have siblings."

"That's not a group of siblings, that's a bloody orphanage - with the poverty to match."

"Oh, stop it. They've never done anything to you."

"It's not me personally that should be concerned. It's our kind. The lot of them are scummy little blood traitors."

Marilyn sighed heavily, continuing to scratch out her to-do list for the rest of the week down in her diary.

"Have I offended you? Perhaps it's not Potter you're pining for at all, but Weaselby. I do think it very odd that a sixth year should be sniffing around you at all. It's downright seedy."

"Half of the girls in our year are fawning over Viktor Krum and he's older still."

"But he's Viktor Krum."

"What's the problem here? Concerned for my virtue now, are we?"

"Just wondering if it's him you'll be attending the Yule Ball with after all."

"Doesn't matter to you either way - you'll be going with Pansy Parkinson."

"What makes you think that? I told you she's not my girlfriend," he huffed, leaning back and crossing his arms "You're being exhausting today, you know that, Baxter? I can't help it if she's all over me."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make it sound like it's all one-sided when it's obviously not. We're fourteen, Draco, we're not babies. If you didn't want her attention, you'd say so. You have no trouble telling everybody else exactly what you think."

"It's none of your business."

"Thank Merlin for that - but you can't have it both ways. You can't have her fawning all over you when it suits you, before pretending that you haven't had a hand in it when that suits you instead. It's not fair on her."

"It's called being polite."

"I'm polite to lots of people without sticking my tongue down their throat under the stairs to the astronomy tower."

He faltered for a moment, apparently not having realised she'd even witnessed that display (to be fair to him, he had been rather distracted), before he remembered his bluster a half a second later.

"I didn't realise the two of you were such good friends - she'll be touched that you're defending her honour so ardently," he sneered.

"We're not," she shrugged "And thank Merlin for that, too."

"So why do you care?"

"I don't."

"It sounds like you do."

"You're making it sound like it keeps me up at night and I spend my days shaking my fist at the sky and cursing her name. I don't need to care, and I don't even need to be friends with her, to point out crap behaviour."

"Well it's not your place to point it out."

"The same way it's not your place to care whether or not I talk to George."

Silence prevailed then, and when she next glanced towards him she found him scowling furiously at the patch of desk before him, apparently no argument at hand to counter that point.

"Okay, let's just sit here quietly, then," she muttered sarcastically before she could resist the urge.

Maybe she shouldn't have poked the bear in such a manner - not once her point had been more than well made. In fact, she knew she shouldn't have a moment later when he spat a few indistinguishable curse words under his breath, gathered his things furiously into his arms, and then stood and made the short journey to the nearest empty desk. He left the badge behind, and Marilyn flicked it away.

Well. At least there'd be no more conversations at the Gryffindor table about her tenuous acquaintanceship with him in the future. And it was that thought that she clung to as she tried to brush off the weird feeling of regret that flitted through her chest in the wake of his response…and the stares that his response had brought about. She hadn't done anything wrong. She hadn't said anything wrong. Maybe the delivery could've used some work, but she stood by all of it. What did he want her to do? Nod along with everything he said when she disagreed with half of it, and knew the rest to be blatant bullshit? Nah. She didn't do that for her closest friends back at Beauxbatons, so she wouldn't do it here for him now for the sake of his great and mighty ego. That one, she surmised, was far too used to yes men.

It was that which she reminded herself of as she continued to silently write, trying to look as unbothered as possible under the gazes of those who turned their heads to see just what all of the commotion was about.

Marilyn's annoyance - the annoyance she made a point of not showing all throughout the rest of the morning - fuelled her training that afternoon…just as, well, pretty much everything else fuelled her training in some way or another. Rehearsals weren't even really scheduled until that evening, but the classroom they always used for dancing was empty and she was just in no mood to sit at the lunch table while Draco glared at her for the entirety of the whole meal. Knowing him, he'd spend the whole time necking on with Pansy at the Slytherin table because he had some sort of absurd notion that it would bother her. Which it wouldn't. Obviously.

Only when lunch was halfway done, and she knew the bulk of the students would have filtered outside to lounge around on the grounds for the rest of their break by now, did she pull on her robes over her leotard and tights and make her way to the hall. It was without hesitation this time that she made a bee-line over to the Gryffindor table, but while George was nowhere to be seen (nor either of his brothers, for that matter) Hermione was there, and Marilyn hesitated at the free space beside her.

"Do you mind if I…?" She trailed off, gesturing to the space.

The girl glanced up, then at the space, and finally sighed before shaking her head and returning to the book in her lap. Slipping onto the bench, she began loading up her plate and doing her utmost not to glance towards the Slytherin table. If her curiosity bested her and Draco caught her looking over, she'd only make herself look like a right tit in the end - at least now she could take comfort in her firm ownership over the moral high ground.

"Excuse me - hello? Er, Beauxbatons?"

Looking up from her plate, she blinked at the boy who sat across the way, watching her like she was some sort of dangerous animal as he fidgeted with the sleeves of his robes.

"Marabel, isn't it?"

"…Marilyn," she corrected slowly.

"Ah. Right. Yeah - sorry. That's, erm, that's very unique, it is."

"Uh…thanks," she said slowly.

"We have potions together - Jonathan. I sit at the front. We have that essay due on Friday. I've already done mine, if you want to copy it."

"…That's fine," she blinked "I've done mine, too. Thanks, though?"

"Oh. Well, um, d'you think you could help me with mine?"

To her right, Hermione sighed in annoyance, but she was still mostly bewildered. Was this some sort of strange prank?

"You…you just said you've already done it," she pointed out.

"Um…I did, didn't I? That's…nevermind then," he said quietly, flushing crimson as his friends all burst into fits of snickers.

Marilyn returned to her food, not quite sure what the joke was and why she didn't understand it to begin with.

"They announced that there's going to be some sort of ball around Christmas - our heads of house are going to talk to us properly about it later," Hermione took pity on her, although she didn't look up as she did "You'll be dealing with that quite a bit. You're the youngest Beauxbatons girl, I suppose they think it makes you the easiest target."

Marilyn huffed a sigh. They'd been putting together their dance routine for it for a couple of weeks - she hadn't expected the news to start going around Hogwarts until much later. Well after the first task, at least.

"Like a particularly slow antelope. Fantastic," she sighed "Although I suppose I am amongst lions…"

That, at least, earned her a begrudging smile. Apparently the fact that she didn't relish the attention sent her up in Hermione's books.

"I don't suppose you'd go with me?" She joked lightly "I think they'd listen to 'I've already got a partner' more than just a 'no'."

"If the goal is to avoid the attention of teenage boys, going with me would be the opposite of helpful," she pointed out.

"Touché. Best not then."

"Hm," she agreed, then hesitated and added airily "In any case, I'm not sure Malfoy would like it."

"Oh, Christ, not you too," she rolled her eyes "The lad can't stand me, I think he's a prick, and we just fell out from anything resembling civility in first period today anyway."

Hermione finally looked up from her book, brown eyes fixed on her as she spoke.

"Did you?" She asked.

"Yes."

"Then why was there a big scene at the start of lunch when he wouldn't let Pansy Parkinson sit with him?"

Marilyn felt her face pale as whatever response she was ready to give all but vanished, replaced by only one word in her mind. Fuck. Whatever Hermione expected to see in response, it obviously wasn't panic - nor the level of panic that Marilyn felt, for any sort of arch pointedness left the girl's face almost immediately.

"He did what? No - no. Are you sure?"

"She wasn't exactly quiet about her displeasure. Surely you…surely you knew?"

"You think I planned this?" Marilyn hissed "I wanted him to do the opposite."

Or at least she suspected he would. If he'd had it in his head to ask her to the ball and he found out the truth of her blood status that way, he'd view it all as some grandly orchestrated prank. A scheme on behalf of the evil mudbloods to make him look like a fool. Christ, she was probably straying into that territory when he found out the truth anyway. She'd probably danced into that territory the moment she'd agreed to go for a secret tipple in the woods with the git.

She needed to get out of here. Appetite very much a thing of the past, she stood up and clambered over the bench without any of her usual dancerly grace. It was difficult to say whether the post-dancing cooldown or the dread furrowing into the pit of her stomach was the culprit for how utterly freezing she suddenly felt.

"Marilyn, wait," Hermione sighed "I didn't mean to-"

Not looking at the Slytherin table was certainly bloody well easy now. She didn't even know if Draco was still there or not, but she didn't want to know. Fucking hell, she had two classes after this. How would she focus on anything else? Luckily neither was with Slytherin house, so at least there was that. But…shit.

She made it just as far as the courtyard outside before Hermione finally caught up with her, her school supplies gathered in her arms from where she'd snatched them up quickly before pursuing.

"I thought you'd have known - I thought it was…I don't know, some sort of plan. A goal or something, I don't know. I didn't mean to…"

To her credit, she did seem to feel genuinely bad. Whatever was showing on Marilyn's face (something she knew she'd have to get under control as soon as possible) had obviously proven to her that she was more of an idiot who'd started wading into the water with no idea of the riptides within than any sort of scheming temptress with a game-plan.

"Why would I have planned this? Even if I did fancy him - which I absolutely do not," scepticism reigned on Hermione's face once again at this "He hates people like us. Despises us. What could I have to gain in convincing him to shun his bloody girlfriend, or not girlfriend, or whatever the hell she is or isn't, for me? Do you realise how furious he's going to be when he finds out now? Do you think I want to get the pants cursed off of me? Do you think I want to anger the nasty former Death Eaters?"

"Girls can do very stupid things when they think absolute prats are attractive," Hermione pointed out falteringly "I thought…oh, I don't know. I thought maybe you had it in your head to change him."

"I'm not an idiot," she said - although she didn't believe it "Fuck."

"He was going to be furious either way," Hermione pointed out.

"Very helpful, thanks," she smoothed a hand over her hair where it was scraped back into a bun "We don't even like each other, Hermione! We spend half of our time annoying one another! There's no way he fancies me. Not enough to do this."

"To be fair, I don't think any deep confession of love is on the way. He's Malfoy, his motives won't be that noble. He wants to be the one who brings the pretty ballerina to the Yule ball. It's all status with him, he wants to show off. That's all it is - all it ever is."

That…that made sense. Oh, thank god. It didn't make her situation any less sticky, but it certainly filled her with less horror than what her mind had first jumped to. Sighing in relief, she felt somewhat embarrassed that she'd even suspected it was something deeper than that, but her horror still stood. She was still on course to make an enemy of near enough everybody in Slytherin house.

"What do I do?" She asked finally.

She wasn't even sure if she was asking Hermione, whatever higher power lurked out there, or herself. But she wouldn't mind if Hermione saw fit to answer - she was smart, and she had much more experience with Draco than Marilyn did. Biting on her lower lip, she sighed and looked about the courtyard as if looking for inspiration.

"We'll…we'll think of something."

The general sentiment of the thing wasn't reassuring. The 'we', though? The 'we' was uplifting.

Chapter Text

While Marilyn had very much hoped that Hermione's promise of thinking of something meant that she'd ponder the matter for all of two minutes, before finally coming up with a solution that would free her of any worry by the time dinner rolled around, she knew she couldn't really complain when that didn't happen. Given that the girl was under no obligation to help her at all, she knew she wasn't in much of a position to complain. So she did what she could to put it out of her mind, and when she was left with little choice other than to think of it, she cloaked herself in positive thoughts. Positive thoughts that tasted a bit too much of denial, admittedly, even for her own tastes, but they helped all the same. A little.

Their little chat in Muggle Studies had left him in a foul mood. That much was just a fact. And Draco Malfoy was prickly even when in a good mood, so a bad one stood to be disastrous - another fact. Perhaps it really was that simple. He'd been in a fettle, and didn't particularly want Pansy flirting with and fawning over him during lunch because of that. That much was even somewhat reasonable, especially for him, for she hardly even liked people so much as asking her for the time when she was in a mood, nevermind fussing over her.

Thanks to that, when rehearsals ended for the evening, Marilyn lagged behind. If she didn't tire herself out good and proper, she'd only spend the whole night awake and panicking - and she was already dreading tomorrow enough, she didn't need to add sleep deprivation to the shitshow she was currently starring in. But dancing helped. Dancing always helped. Especially when the burning and the ache of her muscles occupied her mind so much that the noise faded into nothing.

Setting the borrowed broomstick onto the floor, she stretched her feet a few times, pointing and flexing them as she glared at the broom, and then she finally stepped atop it. It was almost easy at first. With her toes pointed outwards, it was more balance than anything - and balance was old hat for any ballerina. Keeping the broom steady wasn't quite so simple. The more it bobbed about as it began to slowly lift her a couple of feet from the ground, the more likely she was to fall, and she had to keep her attention firmly divided between controlling herself and the broom beneath her feet. Arms stretched out at either side of her to help keep herself steady, she slowly began to move up to the balls of her feet, jaw clenched as her calves tensed and the broom wobbled beneath her feet. She did that a few times, going down and up until she felt sure of the movement. The next part, though, would be the true test.

Inhaling deeply, she tested the stability of the broom beneath her and then carefully rolled her weight through her feet and rose to the very rips of her toes. The broom wobbled a little, dipping at one side, but she corrected it carefully, and then she held firm - en pointe, atop the broom, hovering off of the ground. Marilyn breathed a laugh of delight. But then, somewhere behind her, the sound of a chair scraping against the stone flooring. Marilyn jumped, and it all went to shit. The soles of her pink satin shoes slipped against the handle of the broom, and then she was falling with little time to do anything other than brace her arm up over her head to lessen the impact. Instead of crashing down onto the hard floor, though, she tumbled into something much softer instead. Pillows?

Cursing, she rolled from her side onto her back and was met with the sight of Draco Malfoy sitting in one of the chairs shoved to the far side of the room, fiddling with his wand. Marilyn scowled.

"No need to thank me," he said.

"If you hadn't distracted me, you wouldn't have had to help," she pointed out, and then faltered "…But thank you. I suppose."

He smirked "Not so difficult, was it?"

The pillows vanished into thin air as she rose to her feet.

"What do you want, Draco?"

"Still in a mood with me over this morning, then?"

"You were the one who stormed off."

"To give you time to cool off. So, are you? Cooled off?"

Giving a long suffering sigh, Marilyn spread her arms wide and shrugged.

"To be in a huff with you, I'd need to think about you. I don't care enough to do either of those two things," she said flatly.

The shit-eating smile he gave in response to that said that he didn't believe her. Which…was fair enough, considering it wasn't entirely honest. But if he wasn't such a shit, she wouldn't think about him. It wasn't by choice, it was…it was the same way a blister demanded one's attention with every step taken.

"An impressive little trick, that," he nodded towards where the broom lay discarded on the floor.

How did he manage to make even compliments sound insulting and condescending? It was a talent, truly. But she didn't rise to it.

"It's not impressive enough. Not yet."

"Does your professor expect you to manage the solo on the broom? Not many do even at proper performances."

Well, she hadn't expected him to know that.

"Clarabella Vane does it on the tip of the broom itself," she pointed out, hands on her hips "This is easy in comparison."

"I never knew Beauxbatons were such perfectionists, expecting you to do that - even if it is with the aim of showing off to the other schools."

"If I wanted to do it the easy way on the floor I'd get no arguments from our teacher," she sighed "But I talk a big game - which means I have to play a big game."

It was something she brought upon herself, so she couldn't really gripe too much about it.

"The cost of greatness," Draco snorted "Having to then actually be great."

"No," Marilyn disagreed, moving to the table where her flask of water waited "The cost of greatness is that greatness ceases to be, well, great."

Raising one pale eyebrow at her, he tilted his head as though asking her to elaborate.

"Say you're a student who only ever gets Os," she said.

"As I am," he said.

She rolled her eyes "So you'll understand this example well, then. Once you establish that pattern, anything less than an O becomes a failure. Other students get to celebrate Es and even As, but the second you get one of those, it's no longer 'good enough' but catastrophic. Victories aren't victories anymore - you don't get to celebrate them, they're just what's expected. You're either exceptional, or you're disappointing. There's not exactly any room for error there - nor to relax, or to…to breathe."

She'd begun to rant before she was even fully aware of it, and by the time she did become aware of it she was too deep in to just suddenly stop speaking. And so, as she bashfully ended her little speech, she glanced towards him as she took a drink of her water - mostly expecting to find him rolling his eyes at her or preparing some snide little comment. Instead though, shockingly, he appeared entirely lost for words. For a moment, just one brief moment, she felt like she was looking at the Draco Malfoy that dwelled beneath the bullshit and the bravado - however much he enjoyed both of them. That much she even somewhat understood. She sang the same song half the time, even if it was in a different key. But it did grow exhausting at times, and he did look exhausted.

For a moment, just the slightest moment, she even felt bad for him. Even when at school in France, she heard tell of the Malfoys and the kind of folk they were. Draco Malfoy was probably used to people envying him - shit, he went about thinking that the world envied him. Marilyn felt no such envy.

Whether her curiosity or even her sympathy showed on her face, she didn't know - but whatever it was that he saw in her expression had his own locking up. For a moment he faltered in search of words - clever, nasty words no doubt. And then finally he shrugged and pointed out, albeit with a surprising lack of bite.

"Some might say that in your case, you bring your own problems down upon yourself. If you didn't boast of your skill, you wouldn't need to live up to it."

"The skill preceded the boasting, I'm afraid," she offered a tired smirk "And whether I pretend to be humble or not, they'll still expect greatness and then, as I said, it would still cease to be greatness."

There was more to it than that, of course. She could point out that the boasting was more for her own benefit than that of others. It wasn't with any great desire to prove herself to them - whether they saw her ability or not wouldn't diminish or enhance it either way - but to remind herself. The more she sang of her ability, the less she could convince herself that her success was down to some sort of fluke or luck. If the others hated her for it, so be it, but she had too far to go to waste time or energy on self doubt, and if radical and obnoxious self-belief worked in beating it back, then obnoxious self-belief it was.

But she couldn't go sharing all of her secrets - not to Draco Malfoy, anyway. And she'd already blabbed more than enough. Turning towards the broom, she considered trying again but quickly decided against it. Her legs were burning like hell, quads involuntarily twitching every now and then. If she pushed herself much further, they'd start to seize up and refuse to cooperate - and muscle failure wasn't something she wanted to go to under the cool gaze of the boy who showed no sign of moving from his place in the front row. Instead, she picked up the broom and propped it out of the way against the wall before turning back to him.

"You've seen Clarabella Vane dance, then? In The Veela and the Vampire?"

"You haven't?" He frowned - and for once it didn't seem like a jibe "She was here only this past summer, performing in London."

"Ah. No - I was in Norway."

"Is that where you summer?"

Marilyn snorted "Depends on the year."

And on which of the parents of her friends, Muggle or otherwise, took pity on her and invited her along for their summer holidays. Another thing he did not need to know.

"We had the opportunity to meet her afterwards - platinum tickets, you see," he sniffed.

Approaching hesitantly, she lowered herself into the chair beside the one he sat on - a process that was slow and shaky, given the state of her legs. His eyes swept over her form as she did so, clad in only a leotard, tights, and a thin sheer scrap of a skirt. But it was quick, and it felt a far sight less invasive than the looks some of his peers gave her when she was in her full set of Beauxbatons robes.

"What was she like?" She asked.

"Exhausted, and not particularly fluent in English."

"Or maybe pretending not to be because of said exhaustion," she snorted "I do the same all the time back home - pretend I only speak French if I can't be arsed with strangers."

He chuckled at that "I just ignore them."

Yeah, she bet he did.

"Beautiful, though," he added "Then again, ballerinas tend to be."

"Ugh."

He smirked at that "I said tend to be - I didn't say you fit the bill."

"I do," she shrugged.

That particular statement - for once - wasn't down to her mantra of obnoxious self-belief. No, she suspected his statement was skewed to have her batting her eyelashes, flushing, doubting herself and asking whether he thought she fit the bill or not. Putting her in a position to seek his approval. Marilyn had no intention of doing that. Unfortunately, he appeared to like that - giving a wicked, amused smile that had her at risk of blushing all the same. Damn him.

"Well, who knows? My mother is always badgering me to bring a plus one to these events. Perhaps next time you can join us."

He watched her carefully, likely anticipating a certain kind of reaction - eyes wide, spluttering, maybe a curtsey. Instead, Marilyn made a face.

"I doubt that."

"Why? Because you're half-blood? They'd be fine with us so long as we were all under the understanding that we could only ever be friends. Snape's a half-blood, and he and my father are old friends."

For a brief moment she once again considered unveiling the truth of her blood status. It was less risky here than it would've been back in the woods. She could say it here and now, sit back as he denounced her at the scum of the earth, and it would all be done with. So she was left wondering why she didn't when she instead cracked a joke.

"I'm happy that your mother can rest easy at night knowing they can only ever be friends."

Draco's nose wrinkled "You really are impossible at times, you know that, Baxter? Most of the time, really."

"Thanks."

"Unless your problem is with the fact that it only ever could be friendship?" He probed.

"More like wondering if we even are friends to begin with," she said drily.

"Aren't we?" He raised his eyebrows.

"That…remains to be seen," she said finally.

His former annoyance was rising up now - it was clear that he wasn't used to dealing with people who didn't fall over themselves to get his approval. But if that displeased him, surely he would stop seeking her out. Maybe he was just curious to know what it would take to make her start falling over herself. Who knew? The mind of a Malfoy wasn't something she particularly wanted to unpuzzle.

Rising to her feet, she walked stiffly to where her robes and bag were piled in a heap and began to quickly and methodically dress.

"You know hard to get turns into hard to want past a certain point, Baxter?"

Now that was territory she absolutely didn't want to stray into - and it had her deciding she'd just walk back to the carriage in her pointe shoes and scourgify the damage away after the fact. Anything to get her out of the territory this conversation was straying into as quickly as possible.

"Maybe I have no wish to be wanted, Malfoy," she pointed out, making for the door and pretending she couldn't feel his eyes on her every step of the way "Goodnight."

Chapter Text

It was from that point on that Marilyn found herself a new routine that she absolutely did not ask for - nor was it one that she particularly wanted. Each night, her evening ballet class would end, and she would stay behind to work on her broom balancing act. It was during that quiet little interlude that Draco would invariably slip into the room - and usually make his presence known by doing his utmost to startle her in some way or another. Sure, technically she could've avoided being startled by turning to check to see if he was there every so often, but if he caught her doing that then he'd know that she was expecting him, and if she was expecting him then she was thinking about him. And that? That, he would like.

In the end, she figured that it was good practise. It wasn't like audiences were guaranteed to be permanently silent and unobtrusive - so if she could dance with Draco Malfoy potentially being a menace behind her, she could dance under any circumstances. Even if he tried to put her off on purpose. You know, by coughing, tapping his foot, disturbing a chair, breathing. That sort of thing. This time around it was a sneeze (the nerve of the boy, honestly) but while she wobbled only slightly, she held firm as she stood on the broom on the toes of one foot, the other raised and pointed upwards in the air behind her.

"You're getting better at that," he commented.

Marilyn held the pose for a few moments, muttering her thanks as she did just to prove that she could talk while doing this. It was a mark of success, too - a comment like that from Draco Malfoy meant she'd almost mastered the bloody technique. The sheer pain radiating from her feet up her legs was almost worth it thanks to that alone. Holding the position for a moment, she then jumped from the broom down onto the floor, remaining en pointe all the while, and then slowly, slowly, slowly, came down to the ball of her foot, and then further until her heel was finally on the floor. Unable to help it, she directed a smug look towards the blond boy.

"The smugness ruins the effect rather, you do realise?" He asked boredly.

"Should we talk about the irony of that coming from you or nah?"

"Best not, if we're to remain amicable," he shrugged lazily.

Marilyn stifled a laugh - mostly to avoid giving him the satisfaction of having made her laugh. He really wasn't bad company when he wasn't being a complete and utter dick, it was just a bit of an unfortunate turn of events that when he was decent, he seemed to quickly remember he wasn't supposed to be and would resume being a prat. Or maybe it just came naturally to him and he didn't have to put that much thought into it. It was sort of difficult to tell.

But while Hermione had yet to come to any sort of concrete plan with navigating the way forward, Marilyn was formulating one of her own. They said to keep your friends close and your enemies closer for a reason, right? It seemed easier to deal with Draco if they were friendly, if not actual friends, than it would be if they were enemies - not least because her work where the former was concerned was already done, whether she liked it or not.

It helped that her panic had proven more or less unfounded. He hadn't come to her in a flurry of black and green robes, exclaiming loudly for all to hear that he'd forsaken Pansy for her and that she must promptly start necking on with him there and then so that it wasn't all in vain. A good thing, too, because if anybody tried to use the word "forsaken" in casual conversation with her, she'd probably pop a lung laughing. Sure, he hadn't made much of an effort to be subtle about seeking out her company after classes like this, but no great obvious move had been made yet - if it was even going to be made at all. He didn't really seem like the type to truly chase after a girl, and she had a feeling that if she didn't make an effort to do any sort of real and obvious flirting, he wouldn't chase. It was probably beneath a Malfoy to do any sort of chasing. Thank Merlin.

Wasn't this a smart way of doing it, though? If they maintained some sort of veneer of friendship, if he was later to bring up that stupid bloody ball again or try to make some sort of move, she could oh so sheepishly push him away with coy excuses of not wanting to ruin their friendship - of not wanting to start something that was doomed to end in sadness when she left Hogwarts for good at the end of the school year, of not wanting to partake in any sort of relationship-slash-activity that might take away time, energy, or both from what truly mattered. Dancing. That last one wasn't even a complete lie.

Of course, all of this was her operating under the pretense that Draco Malfoy would accept any reason as being a good reason while he was being rejected, and she already knew he was hardly the type who might handly any sort of rejection even vaguely well at all. But she could hope. And anyway, the way things were at the moment wasn't entirely without merit. The fact that he was sniffing around her meant that most of the Slytherin boys left her alone despite the way the Yule Ball would soon be breathing down their necks, and she was sure it played a role in lessening the number of boys from the other Houses who approached her, too. Although in their cases they probably didn't want him setting out to make their lives miserable rather than worrying that he might set out to ruin their family's social standing out of spite.

And when he wasn't being a shit, he wasn't half bad. Christ, even when he was being a shit, sometimes it was funny. Although she was almost certain that her little assessment as far as that was concerned would soon come back to bite her on the arse. Every time it cropped up she shoved it aside, but there was a growing trepidation budding stubbornly underneath the denial that this could only really end in disaster.

She kept up her dancing for another half hour, during which he pulled a textbook out from his fine leather satchel and began to leaf through it. By the time she was done, sweat was pouring off of her in bullets and he only closed the book when she was sitting on the floor, water in hand, beginning the arduous process of stretching out her legs as she cooled down.

"You remember the test in Muggle Studies today?"

"Mm."

"Professor Burbage had us mark one another's work."

"I was there. I remember."

"You corrected some of my answers for me," he pointed out.

"I know you probably fail these things on principle, but if you got below twenty you'd've had to go back at the end of the day and redo it until you got a passing score. I didn't fancy hearing about that for the next five weeks."

"Less an act of goodwill and more one of self-preservation, then?"

"Exactly."

"So what you're telling me is that my complaining works in getting me what I want to such an extent that now I don't even have to complain in order to see results."

Marilyn paused.

"You're a sick and twisted individual, Draco Malfoy, you know that?"

He gave a smug half-smile in return.

"You mimicked my handwriting well," he brandished the test, pulling out the parchment from where it had been folded in the back of the book "I'd have almost thought it was my own had I not remembered leaving half of the questions blank."

"It's all about letting the god complex show through in how you loop your 'y's," she said drily "Now we're even for the Potions help."

"Isn't that up to me to decide?"

"There's that god complex again."

"Mm. What would you do if I kissed you?"

Marilyn choked on the breath she'd been taking in, almost falling out of the pigeon stretch she'd so painstakingly forced her limbs into, eyes darting up to look at him. He regarded her perfectly casually, arching one pale eyebrow when she did little other than stare. Surely she'd misheard him.

"What?" She demanded.

The other eyebrow rose to join the first, suggesting he had no intention of repeating himself.

"I- what are you even on about?" she spluttered "Who just asks that?!"

Shifting her weight backwards, she brought both legs in front of her so she didn't risk an injury the next time something ridiculous left his mouth.

"I'm curious," he shrugged.

"Well…well don't be!"

"If you answer the question, I won't be."

"I have no intention of answering that question because it's a ridiculous one."

"How so? You have kissed before, haven't you?"

"Of course I've kissed before," she rolled her eyes.

"So why is it ridiculous?"

"Because who just asks that?" She repeated.

"So you'd prefer if I didn't ask and instead tried it and found out for myself?"

"No! Don't be daft," her cheeks were on fire.

"Really? Because you haven't yet said you wouldn't want me to kiss you."

She knew damn well the sort of answer he'd really wanted to his original question. A pretty blush, a shy little laugh, and a suggestion that there was only one way that he'd find out the answer. Marilyn had hoped that in not giving that response, she'd won. Apparently not.

"I'm busy trying to recover from the sheer audacity of the question in the first place. And I'd much rather you didn't think about kissing me at all."

"I can't make any promises as far as that goes," he smirked.

He was revelling in just how much he had her blushing - it was blatant, he was barely holding back his laughter as he continued to smirk smugly at her as she sat on the floor, gaping at him in disbelief. It was then that Marilyn thanked Merlin that she hadn't lied to him when she told him that she'd kissed before, because if she hadn't been telling the truth she'd have never had the courage to do what she did next. Rising smoothly to her feet with all of her dancerly elegance, she brushed non-existent dust off of her dazzling white tights and began to walk towards him.

"What are you doing?" He questioned, expression smoothing over as his eyes widened slightly in surprise.

"Putting an end to your curiosity," she shrugged.

"What?" He breathed a surprised laugh.

There. Bluff called. Giving a tight-lipped, incredibly self-satisfied smile, she huffed a laugh and replied lightly.

"Yeah. Thought not."

And maybe if she hadn't goaded him, it would've ended there - but she hadn't been able to resist, and she regretted it the moment she turned her back to him and heard the chair he'd been sitting on jostle in response as he stood, and then his hand latched onto her arm to stop her. Breath hitching, she barely had time to think oh, shit before she was spinning around and then he was kissing her.

Marilyn hadn't ever expected Draco Malfoy to be a good kisser. Or maybe she'd hoped he wouldn't be. Attractive lads had a habit of being bad when it came to things like this - always assuming they could just rest on pretty. Draco did not rest on pretty. He didn't simply shove his tongue into her mouth, he didn't eat at her face, he didn't paw at her with no idea of where to put his hands. The one that had caught her arm slid downwards to toy with the fingers of her hand while the other came up to cup face, tilting her head upwards as her eyes fluttered closed and she kissed him back. The insistence of her better judgement that this was just about the worst idea ever was batted away the second she coaxed a low, dangerous sigh from him.

Chapter Text

"You really don't make life easy for yourself, do you?"

"What?" Marilyn looked to George in alarm as he sat down beside her at Gryffindor table for lunch "Why?"

Fred followed close behind his twin, sitting down on the other side of him, while Marilyn had already been sitting with Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

"Word is that you're going to the Yule Ball with Draco Malfoy."

"Oh for fuck's sake," she groaned.

"It's not true then?"

"Of course it's not true! Why would I do that?"

"I find myself asking that about you a lot these days," he sniffed teasingly.

She resisted the urge to mutter a 'same'.

"Malfoy wouldn't go about spreading that if he didn't think it might be true," Harry pointed out "He's a prick, and I don't doubt that he lies as easily as he breathes, but this one is too easily rumbled."

"Harry's right. He must be fairly certain that you'd go with him, or else he's setting himself up to look like a complete idiot if he ends up going without you."

"When he ends up going without me," Marilyn corrected, staring down at her plate "He's probably hoping that if he spreads the word enough that it's happening, I'd be too scared to turn him down - or too polite, I don't know."

"Merlin, he's never met you then," George muttered.

Marilyn gave him an unamused look that seemed to have very little effect.

"The only way to handle this now is for you to tell him the truth, but you need to be careful about how you do it. Very careful," Hermione said quietly "It's going to be bad, but it'll be terrible if he finds out from anybody except you. If you don't take the initiative in how he finds out. Wait until he asks you - time is running out, so he'll have to do it soon - and then…oh, I don't know, act all confused and ask if he knows you're a Muggle-born. Pretend that it never occurred to you until then that he mightn't know, and that you're telling him then because you know he wouldn't sully his high and mighty reputation by being seen attending the dance with you."

"He won't believe it. I've had too many chances to tell him."

"And you dug yourself into this by not taking those chances," Fred pointed out.

"I can't argue with that," Marilyn sighed.

That, at least, earned her some begrudging support. Maybe they were just relieved to find she wasn't stupid and in denial about said stupidity.

"What's the alternative?" Hermione asked "Supposing you don't actually intend to go with him-"

"I don't."

"The only other excuse you can give is that you already have a date. It solves the problem in the short term, but even if you acquire a date solely to hold up the facade, it'll only make him more angry. Immediately after because of the rejection, and then it'll increase his rage tenfold, too, when he finds out the truth - because of the fact that he'll then have to face that he was angry over being rejected by a being as inferior as we are."

Marilyn blinked at her in surprise for a few moments "You have a shining future in psychology, you know that?"

"He's just alarmingly easy to read," Hermione waved off the compliment.

Marilyn nodded slowly. She would do that then. It was a good plan - a fantastic one, really. The results wouldn't be pretty, especially not after the kiss. And thank god none here knew of the kiss, for they'd probably abandon helping her devise a plan and instead begin building her coffin instead. Still, it was the only way she could approach this while having some semblance of the upper hand. The only way out now that didn't leave her looking like some mad bint who'd done her best to masterplan her way into his pants before embarrassing him over how he'd sullied himself with her.

"Who are you going with, then? Anybody we know?" Fred cut in "You can't just go alone, it's too sad."

"Nobody, it would be too awkward. I don't want to spend the whole night making awkward small-talk with somebody I barely know, while they wonder where they should put their hands."

"I bet they would," Fred snorted.

"Oh my god," she groaned "What about you? Who are you going with?"

"I'm going with Angelina Johnson, Hermione is going with some mystery man that she refuses to tell any of us about - who may or may not exist, for that matter…"

Hermione joined Marilyn in making noises of general annoyance and disgust, but remained resolute in her insistence when it came to not saying a word.

"Harry and Ron are floundering," Fred continued, unperturbed "Perhaps secretly hoping that you'll take pity on one of them."

"That's not what I'm doing," Harry cut in archly at the same time Ron exclaimed "Will you shut up? I don't need my big brother to get me a date."

"Not even I can help at this point, my boy, you're a lost cause," Fred sighed with a great deal of mock sorrow.

"And you?" Marilyn raised her eyebrows at George.

"I am taking my time. Weighing up the pros and cons. Making a list or two, you know?"

"None of that sounds like you at all," she said flatly.

"I've told him to hurry up or else all the good ones will be gone," Fred shrugged.

"And who exactly are the bad ones?" Marilyn challenged, sharing an eye-roll with Hermione.

"Oh, don't worry, you're not among them," Fred shrugged.

"Well, George, by the sounds of it Pansy Parkinson's free. Have at it," Harry snorted.

Marilyn might've found that funnier had it not been punctuated with a suspicious look directed towards her.

"Mm. Rather not," George made a face.

"Well, as thrilling as it is to find out where I stand in this charming little hierarchy of yours, I'm going to leave you to it."

"Practise?"

"Mm. I have a free period after this, so I might as well."

"I've got Potions, I'll walk you down," George shrugged, standing.

"She doesn't know you don't take Potions, then?" Ron muttered, earning a sandwich thrown directly at his face by Fred.

Marilyn carefully chose not to comment on that, stepping away from the table and taking up her bag, waiting as George followed suit. As he collected his things, she changed a glance towards the Slytherin table and found Draco watching the two of them, lips pressed into a thin line. If she expected him to quickly look away when caught staring, she'd have been disappointed - instead he fixed her with a pointed look, and then his nose wrinkled in disapproval before her turned his attention back to her, pale eyebrows rising with a silent question that seemed to say little more than 'really?'.

It was a question she had no intention of answering. Looking away, she rolled her eyes and began to lead the way out of the Great Hall. It was a beautiful day - bright and sunny but bitingly cold thanks to the Scottish winter. It was nice. It would've been nicer, had she not felt like it was mocking her.

"So why is Malfoy saying this now?" George pressed immediately once they left the din of the hall behind.

"I don't know," she lied.

"Liar."

"George."

"Something's happened. I can see it all over your face. It's in your eyes, you see."

"Alright, Lionel Richie, calm down," she scoffed.

"You're still not answering me," he was unbothered by the Muggle reference she was near enough certain he hadn't understood.

"We kissed."

"We did not, I'd remember if we had. Probably."

"Not me and you, me and that git."

"You didn't," George snickered, which took just a bit of the edge out of the judgement "Oh Marilyn, tell me you didn't."

"Shut up."

"You really don't make life easy for yourself, do you? Merlin's balls, girl. Are you mad? Have you actually lost your mind? Are you actually one of those Muggle-borns with some weird self-hating complex after all?"

She had no intention of answering any of those questions.

"Wait - he kissed you, or you kissed him? Because one of those is definitely more stupid than the other. Although both are catastrophically bad, really."

That was another question she didn't want to answer, but she felt compelled to do so - if only to prove that what he probably thought wasn't true. That she hadn't been skulking around with some weird crush on Draco, despite how good looking he inarguably was, and despite how funny and clever he could be when he wasn't set upon being an absolute arsehole for the fun of it, that she wasn't cutting about Hogwarts with some stupid fairytale woven in her mind of how she might make him fall in love with her before unveiling the truth of her blood status, but how at that point it wouldn't matter because something something true love. Yes, she'd been stupid, but she wasn't that stupid.

"I don't know," she groaned "A bit of both, really. But only because he thought I wouldn't."

Any hope that such an argument might hold any ground was swiftly scuppered by George laughing loudly.

"Oh, I never thought I'd see the day where I'd say this, but that's because he probably should have been right."

"It was complicated."

"It's more complicated now."

"It was stupid."

"It's more stupid now."

"You're being less than helpful."

"At this point, Marilyn, I'm almost certain that you're beyond helping."

"Me too," she admitted flatly "I told him right after that it wasn't going to happen again, that we had to pretend it hadn't happened at all, and that it didn't mean anything."

"As if he's going to listen to any of that.

"I don't know why he'd go around saying this now. The Yule Ball wasn't even mentioned."

"Yeah, I mean it's not like you kissed him or anything. The nerve."

"If I could go back and not do it, I would - I mean, I wouldn't. I would go back in time, I wouldn't kiss him."

"I'm all out of time-turners, I'm afraid."

"Then what use are you?" She teased with a snort.

"Merlin, now you're starting to sound like him, too."

Marilyn huffed a laugh, shaking her head "This is going to end very, very badly."

"I mean…yeah," George replied frankly with a shrug "I'm not trying to be an arse, but I don't know what else you expected."

"I…I was trying not to make an enemy of him," she floundered "And in the end I've only gone and set myself up to make a real enemy out of him. He's going to find out the truth, it's not like it's a big secret."

"Probably," George agreed.

"And then he's going to be absolutely furious."

"Definitely."

"I just…I thought that if I kept him at arm's length enough, he'd get bored and piss off."

Okay, there'd also been a part of her that had very much hoped that she would get bored of him, too. That he'd grow to be so insufferable and his presence so unbearable that she'd eventually find it in her to flat out tell him to piss off. Instead, he'd proven…funny. Good company, even, in his own strange way. They just…they just meshed. It hadn't been how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to tolerate him until she could no longer do so. She was supposed to feel sick at the prospect of having kissed him, not left blushing and distracted by the fact that she had done.

George stifled a laugh, and that worried her because up until now he'd been content to laugh at her pretty openly.

"What?" She prodded as they began to make their way down the dungeon steps.

"If that's how you keep somebody at arm's length, I'd be floored to find out what you did if you liked them."

"I'm not sure I want to bloody find out at this point," she groaned, feeling her face blaze "Anyway, I think I know how I could help you."

The corridors were mostly empty, save for the few students who were incredibly anxious to get to their next class especially early. It seemed as good a place to talk about this as any.

"Oh, between the two of us you're the one who needs help right now," George replied.

"Yeah, but we've already concluded that I'm beyond helping. You, however, are not. Chloe."

"Chloe?"

"Yeah. She's hard work just as a…as a general human being, and she hates me which shows her appalling taste in people, but she's pretty and she hasn't got a date yet. She'd been holding out for a specific Durmstrang lad, but he's going with a Hogwarts girl now, so you can swoop in and mend her broken heart with your, uh, charm."

"Now, now, don't be cruel just because you're facing down pure and unfiltered Malfoy fury. This Chloe? She's the one that always wears her hat sort of tilted to the side?"

"Yeah. She thinks it looks fashionable."

She'd expected George to be intrigued by her little offering - instead he made a face and shrugged.

"Eh. I don't know."

"She's a Beauxbatons ballerina, you'd be the hero of all of your friends. I thought this was your not-so-noble goal. What's the problem?"

He made a show of considering the question for a few moments.

"The…the eyes, I think."

"Too many of them? Too few? What, you prefer girls with eyepatches?"

"Too few - which is a shame, because if it was too many it could always be fixed."

"I'm afraid we don't boast many ten-eyed women among our number."

"Oh? Damn. Shame, that."

"Yeah, we left those back in France. Didn't like to show off too much."

"We left our ten-legged students locked up in Trelawney's tower when you arrived for the same reason, funnily enough."

"That's a real shame, they could've joined the ballerinas and been pretty impressive."

"Do you have that many of those fancy shoes lying about to go around?"

"Hm. Good point. I suppose they need to stay locked away, then."

"It's for the best. Speaking of for the best, I have a proposition."

"No, I don't intend to make a habit of kissing boys in abandoned dungeon classrooms."

"Just the girls, then?"

"Eh. Hermione already turned me down."

"Probably doesn't want to play second fiddle to Malfoy."

"This proposition? Quickly? Before I lose my mind?"

"This little practise session isn't scheduled, is it? No teacher?"

"Just for fun."

"Your very sad idea of fun aside, how about we use that room and I show you some of the most frowned upon jinxes around these parts? For when your great war against the Pure-blood wrath begins."

Ordinarily it would've been an instant no. Anything that took any sort of time away from dancing was an instant no, really. But she was only planning on dancing as a distraction, and this sounded like an even better distraction. Plus, if she did learn something new she might be glad of it if Draco did pop the dreaded question tonight. She'd just have to be sure to have her wand at hand when he showed up.

"We could, but don't you have Potions to get to?"

"Eh, Snape would probably prefer it if I didn't turn up anyway," he shrugged.

"Because you're not in his NEWT level class?" Marilyn ventured drily.

George offered a cheeky grin "Maybe. Now don't be rude, or I won't teach you any of my very exciting jinxes."

Pansy Parkinson was not happy. Pansy Parkinson had not been happy since the moment Marilyn Baxter twirled her way into Hogwarts and promptly decided that she owned the place.

"Okay, she's kind of pretty if you're into that sort of thing - but any girl is pretty when she'd blonde and skinny, it's hardly revolutionary," she rolled her eyes "But it doesn't matter, because have you heard what she sounds like when she opens her mouth? She's common as muck, it's embarrassing that he'd even be seen anywhere near her, nevermind these stupid rumours. I bet she started them."

Neither Crabbe nor Goyle seemed particularly interested in what she was saying, but she didn't care. They weren't interested in anything anybody was saying so long as there was a plate of food in front of them, and it wasn't their opinions she needed, she just needed to vent and empty vessels were rather good at that.

"Trust me, Pans," Goyle snorted "He doesn't care what she sounds like so long as she can put her ankles up by her ears."

Pansy sneered "Anybody can do that."

"No," he shrugged in disagreement, considering the chicken leg he was in the process of demolishing "They can't."

"It wasn't her that started the rumour, either," Crabbe added "Think it was Nott. He overheard Malfoy tell Zabini that they snogged last night in that practise room the ballet girls use. Won't be long now before he asks her."

"They what?" Pansy demanded.

Crabbe shrugged, and Goyle glared at him - probably because he'd told her. Draco wouldn't be happy with them if it got out that they'd been blabbing about his affairs, but Pansy didn't care.

"This is ridiculous! She's not even one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight! For all we know she's a halfer! A mutt! And he's doing this - what? Why? So when the school year ends he can never see her again? Does he think his parents would welcome her sort to their balls and their garden parties? It's absurd! It's sick! If he thinks he can come crawling back to me when she's gone and that I'll just welcome him with open arms after having to witness this sick little display, he has another thing coming."

The two boys shared a look that spoke volumes over how little they believed her.

"Don't think he's the crawling type," Goyle said finally.

But they had to say that, they were his friends. And maybe they had a point - maybe she would forgive him, because what they had was too important for her to end it all after one silly little spat, one moment of very boyish stupidity, but he would have to grovel. He would have to…to prove to her that he truly had seen the error of his ways.

"He'll realise soon enough. He'll apologise. He'll be dying to spend time with somebody who can carry a conversation and share the same proper values," she sniffed.

"Not sure he's the apologising type, either," Crabbe snorted.

Huffing, Pansy shot to her feet, snatched up her bag, and began to march out of the hall.

"Coucou - Slytherin girl! Hello? You! Fourth year!"

The voice followed her out of the great double doors and into the corridor outside, growing louder and more impossible to ignore when it was no longer drowned out by the noise of the other students at lunch. Grinding to a halt, she pressed her lips together in a thin line and spun slowly to scowl at the Beauxbatons girl who had followed her out here. She was one of the ballet girls - making her one of the last people Pansy wanted to deal with in that moment.

"You were talking about Marilyn Baxter, yes? I could not help but overhear," she glanced around before she continued "You were confused about her blood status, by the sounds of things."

"What's it to you?"

The girl grinned, tilting her head which only made the slight angle that she wore her hat at appear all the more ridiculous.

"It's nothing to me," she raised her arms in a wide shrug "But it seems like it matters to you, so I thought I would share - ease your curiosity, non?"

"Get to the point," Pansy rolled her eyes.

So what, had she been wrong? Was the Baxter girl pure of blood after all? Either way, she definitely wasn't one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Pansy knew that, so her point still stood.

"Marilyn is a Muggle-born, little snake," the girl offered her an amused half-smile, already turning her back to her and walking away "Have a nice day."

Pansy remained standing there in the hallway for a moment, dumbstruck over what she'd just heard. Surely not — surely it couldn't be. It couldn't be that easy. It couldn't be that hysterical. Oh, she was certain she'd have a nice day indeed.

Chapter Text

The first clue Marilyn was given that something wasn't quite right was when Draco didn't turn up that night while she practised. She lost count of the amount of times she did a turn or a jump, expecting to find him there, only to see the chair he usually occupied totally empty. She'd even stayed later than usual, wondering if something had held him up. Not because she wanted to see him, of course, but because she hoped to put her plan into motion as quickly as possible - and as privately as possible. The last thing she wanted was for him to get it in his head to show off by asking her to the dance while she sat at Gryffindor table, only for her to have to tell him the truth there and then. That wouldn't be pretty.

Only when her toes hurt unbearably from dancing atop the broom - and when she knew she was on the verge of risking an instant detention if she was caught wandering around the castle any later than this - did she finally pack up her things and make her way back to the Beauxbatons carriage.

His absence was something she pondered as she tried to fall asleep, and very few explanations she came up with felt anything close to right. The first…well, the first was just plain laughable. That maybe he'd heard her when she said they could never, under any circumstances, kiss again and that they had to go on like it hadn't happened. Maybe he'd listened, and was giving her space. Yeah, she'd known that to be bullshit the second her mind conjured it. What else was there, though? Was he annoyed that she'd even ask such a thing and was staying away in order to sulk? That was possible. But still, it just didn't feel right.

Maybe he knew that in staying away, he'd leave her to wonder where exactly he'd gone off to. Out of all of her theories, that felt the most likely. That he was playing mind games. He probably thought that he could stay away tonight, and then return tomorrow - ultimately making her so grateful for the gift of his presence that she begged him to take her to the Yule Ball.

Well. He was in for a shock with that one.

More than that weighed on her mind, though, as she tried to force herself to fall asleep that night. The big problem was that she did feel his absence. It should have been a welcome break, a nice bit of peace, but instead something dangerously close to disappointment had weighed ever so slightly upon her chest every time she found an excuse to twirl or turn only to see that damn chair empty. Something felt missing from her night.

Scoffing into the darkness, she rolled over with a bit too much gusto and ended up tangled in her blanket. It was absurd. Yes, they gelled well - in a weird, antagonistic way. They just bounced off of one another in a way that felt natural and easy. And yes, that damned kiss kept replaying in her mind over and over when she didn't have the mental wherewithal to bat it away. But there was a caveat. He didn't view her as his equal. Okay, Draco Malfoy didn't view anybody as his equal, but if he knew the truth of her blood he wouldn't just view her as inferior, he'd view her as subhuman. As the dirt beneath his fancy expensive shoes. It was a pretty fucking big caveat.

That's what made the whole thing so infuriating. She didn't like what it said about her that she might miss somebody like that. That they might have things in common - that they might bond over the weight of the expectations placed upon them. That she might kiss him and blush over it, rather than wanting to vomit. What she hated even more was that she knew if she'd been born a Pure-blood, she'd fancy the pants off of him. She'd be free to do so. She hoped she wouldn't - that his hatred might still mean something to her even if it wasn't directed at her, but she wasn't sure. And she hated that, too.

A crap night of sleep meant that she sat at Gryffindor table for breakfast the next morning all but snoring into her porridge. Her eyelids kept fluttering slowly downwards in an effort to lull her into sleep, and she never quite managed to notice up until they were fully shut and she had to drag them open again. It grew more difficult every time.

"Don't tell me you've graduated to something a bit more tiring than kissing," George teased quietly beside her.

"Of course not, don't be a pervert," she scoffed.

Shaking her head, she took a sip of her iced pumpkin juice in hopes that it would wake her up. It did not. Any more of this and she'd be orchestrating a scheme to steal the coffee from the teacher's table.

"It's the only way that you could possibly make all of this worse, so it's what I'm expecting to come next," he shrugged lightly.

"We get it, we get it, ha-ha, Marilyn dumb. A new topic of conversation, please?"

"All right, how about why is Draco Malfoy walking this way rather than towards Slytherin table?"

Forcing her head up, she turned her head towards the doors - expecting, and hoping, that George was just winding her up. Alas, Draco had indeed just stepped into the hall, but rather than turning right and heading towards the opposite end of the hall, he turned left and strode towards Gryffindor table. Marilyn braced herself, trying to play it cool as she stirred her spoon around her cereal bowl. Oh Merlin - she hadn't been right, had she? He didn't intend to ask her here? Surely not. He'd never be so cocky. So ridiculous.

Her grip on her spoon threatened to damn near break it as he drew nearer, and then he was behind her…and after that, he continued on. Marilyn watched the back of his head, dumbfounded. Soon he reached the head of the table, turned, and then walked past the tables of the other two houses, before eventually reaching his own and taking his seat halfway down. By the time he was done, he'd more or less done a full lap of the hall.

"What the hell was that about?" She murmured.

"Nothing good," Hermione replied.

"D'you reckon he got lost? Forgot where Slytherin table is?" George said.

"Or maybe he's hoping we'll all be sitting here wondering what it was about," Fred added.

Content to chalk it up to that, mainly because she doubted she'd get a proper explanation, Marilyn sighed. Confusion and panic now gone, she was left with the tiredness again. She had an insurance plan in place for times such as these - it came in the form of a Vitamix potion in her bag - but it was usually intended for once classes were done so that she might have the energy for rehearsals afterwards, just in case there came a time when she found herself completely lagging.

But she had Potions first thing with Snape, and the last thing she needed was to doze off and miss something important. Her being a visiting student made him no less unpleasant to her than he was to just about everybody else. Grimacing, she reached behind her where her school bag was tucked beneath the bench they all sat on and dragged it up, bringing it into her lap.

"If you start doing homework at this time in the morning, you can go off with Hermione and compete for the title of world's biggest geek," George snorted.

"Unless the homework is due for first lesson, in which case you get to stay with us cool kids and risk takers," Fred added.

"No," she rolled her eyes, digging her hand into her bag "I'm…"

Something wasn't right. The contents of her bag were…wet? Oh Christ, wouldn't it just be her luck if the one day she intended to use the potion ended up being the day the phial cracked or leaked into her bag? Rooting around in her bag, she tried to fish it out and then frowned. Her things were way too wet for it to be the potion - it was little more than a shot full of liquid in the phial - but her water was on the table. What the fuck had…?

Unlatching her bag properly with her free hand, she pulled the other from it and then froze. The entirety of her hand, from her fingertips all the way up to halfway up her forearm, was caked in thick, crimson blood. It was difficult to say how long she stared at it - it couldn't have really been longer than a fraction of a second, but it felt like an eternity as her mind stuttered and halted and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Because it couldn't be, could it? She wasn't seeing this. She'd blink, and it would disappear. But she did blink, and it did not disappear. The table around her slowly grew quiet as those closest saw what she was seeing.

Someone nearby, she couldn't register who, gasped a "what the-" and then Marilyn crashed back into her body…and swiftly began screaming.

Jerking back, panic seized at her chest - and then spread through the rest of her - as she shoved the bag bodily away from her. It thudded onto the table, some of her books sliding out along with a whole lot more blood.

"Oh, shit," George groaned at her side "Marilyn, it's just a-"

She scrambled back, anything to get away from the bag, but the bench dug into the backs of her knees and stopped her - she would've gone toppling back off of it were it not for the older boy grabbing her back and stopping it (thank Merlin, because that would've been the only way the whole thing could've gotten more embarrassing) but as she searched in vain for something to wipe the away the blood clinging to her arm - because she didn't want it on her robes, either - it began to change. Darkening and thickening all at once until it was no longer a deep, vivid red but an opaque dark brown, it slowly morphed into…mud?

Realisation hit her and her screams morphed into wavering, pathetic high-pitched whimpers. If the meaning of this hadn't already been clear, it certainly would have been when a voice across the hall shouted a venomous 'mudblood!' through the silence. A few snickers joined it and some echoed the sentiment, all from the Slytherin table, but it didn't go unanswered as mortified tears rose to Marilyn's eyes. Several of the Beauxbatons students were quick to respond, shooting to their feet and shouting back in quickfire French - and she would later be told that Krum himself joined the fray, snarling at one of the nearby boys who had joined in the cry. What touched her most of all, though, was how several of those around her drew their wands, half-rising to their feet.

"Silence!" Dumbledore's voice cut through the hall, booming and furious.

The order was obeyed immediately…although not entirely, as she wasn't sure she could stop crying even if she wanted to, and she hated how much it seemed to echo about the hall, her chest heaving as she tried and failed to catch her breath. It felt like the eyes of everybody in the hall were burning into her skin, but just as she resolved to flee the hall, a hand landed heavily on her shoulder. Flinching away, she looked up to see the head of Gryffindor, her face white with fury and her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Come with me, Miss Baxter," she said "Do you wish to bring a friend along with you?"

Her vision was blurry, but her eyes met George's all the same and he rose wordlessly. The hall remained silent as they left, save for the occasional sob that forced its way out of her. They left her bag behind.

Chapter Text

Guilt was not something Draco Malfoy was used to feeling - and, he maintained, it was not something he was feeling now. Baxter had brought it on herself, trying to make a fool of him as she had. It was only right that he have the last laugh. That he show her exactly what happened to those who tried to pull one over on a Malfoy. Not doing so was inconceivable - it would be weak.

…But he hadn't expected her to cry. The screaming, the shock, the fear, that was all expected. The tears were not. Those around him - those from his inner circle - particularly delighted in that, Pansy's glee almost disturbing. It was something Draco didn't share. He wished he could. He was annoyed that he didn't. It had to be done, and if he could go back in time he'd only do it again, but none of that changed the weird discomfort brewing deep within his chest. He hadn't thought Baxter capable of crying like that. Shouting, yes, and swearing like a gnome, certainly, but not crying.

He didn't join in with the shouts of 'mudblood!' across the hall - in part because his point had already been made, but also because the people who did shout it were idiots. Pansy included. It was like they wanted to spend the rest of the term in detention. He stayed silent, and his lip curled in disgust as he watched that gormless, lanky Weasley oaf stand up and follow her from the hall. Once there was no more spectacle to witness, the eyes of those in the room began to slowly drift towards Slytherin table and he forced his expression into, well, one of no expression at all. Those who knew he did it would regard it as cool - business-like, even. And those who didn't would have no evidence that he did from his face.

"Of course Weasley is running after her. A blood traitor through and through, that one." Pansy sniffed.

Draco ignored her.

"It's an old blood purist trick - well, they'd call it a prank, but it's not, is it? Everybody from Wizarding families knows what it means," George explained grimly "Strictly against the rules here, obviously, and frowned upon pretty much everywhere else, but…"

"Now we know what he was doing walking past us like that. He had a point to make," she sniffled.

"Yeah," George replied "I s'pose he thought he did."

McGonagall had Scourgify'd the mud from her arm once they'd arrived in her office, but whatever this charming little hex was, it had been designed to cling to fabric. Her robes were fucked. It stood to reason that the contents of her bag would be, too. After doing what she could, the teacher had excused herself, bidding them to stay where they were while the teachers discussed the matter. Madame Maxime had to be no less than two full corridors away, but every so often they'd hear her voice carry through, booming and furious.

"You should go to your classes. This is my mess, I should be the one to clean it up."

"Are you joking? I have a reason to miss lessons without even getting in trouble for it. If I turn up anyway I'll be disgraced."

Marilyn wasn't up to, well, keeping up with him at that moment, so she settled for a nod and offered no response. The office felt far too big to be a mere office - a perk of being set up in a castle, she supposed, was that pokey little cubicles weren't really a thing. Still, the size of the room had her feeling exposed, like Draco and his goons were hiding in some corner waiting for their chance at a second go. It was a ridiculous fear, but it still had her glancing about every now and then, checking her blind spots like some sort of paranoid nutter.

"Are you alright?" George asked tentatively.

"I shouldn't have cried."

"You had a nasty shock."

"It gave them what they wanted."

"It was to be expected."

"It was stupid."

"It was human."

"Humans are stupid," she grumbled petulantly.

George snorted "Yeah. Well. Given the morning you've had, I won't disagree. So…what do we do?"

"We?" She echoed.

"Of course - we. We can't let this go unanswered. What do we do? Me n' Fred can come up with something, but given that it's your honour we'd be avenging, it's only right to give you an input."

And then the tears were threatening to cloud her vision again.

When the door to McGonagall's office swung open again, it revealed McGonagall, Dumbledore, her ballet mistress, and Madame Maxime. Marilyn's headmistress fired several questions at her, one after the other, asking her if she was okay, if she was hurt, and such. Marilyn answered all of them with quiet 'oui's. Somebody must have brought them her bag, too, for it hung in McGonagall's grip, still dripping mud every now and then.

"Miss Baxter, I must apologise to you for what just occurred," Dumbledore said gravely "It does not reflect the values we uphold here at Hogwarts, and it was unacceptable."

Marilyn didn't say anything - mostly because she had no idea what to say. To have a wizard like Albus Dumbledore offering her his apologies was overwhelming; if she said that she accepted his apology it sounded much higher and mightier than she had any right to feel standing before such a wizard, but if she said it was okay it would be a lie. In the end, she nodded awkwardly.

"At this venture, it's only right that we offer you the opportunity to return to Beauxbatons, should you wish to do so."

"What?! No," she snapped, and then remembered herself "Er - I mean, thank you for the opportunity, Professor Dumbledore, sir, but I-"

He held up a placating hand while Madam Garnier's lips twitched into a pleased smile - before she recalled that she was supposed to be furious and pursed them instead.

"Beauxbatons students do not flee, Dumbledore. Especially when they have done nothing wrong," Madame Maxime said.

"The implication is not that the girl did anything wrong, Olympe, we only wish for her to know that she is under no obligation to remain. There are men and women grown who wouldn't wish to spend another hour in this school had they just..."

Been humiliated in front of the entire student body?

"I want to stay," she reiterated quietly "I'm not running."

"I believe I speak for all here whose values are not misguided when I saw we are happy to hear that, Miss Baxter," Dumbledore said warmly "Now, I'm afraid I must ask - have you been having difficulties with any students here? Have you had any interactions that may have led to that display in the hall?"

George shifted slightly to her left.

"No," Marilyn lied.

George stilled. It was difficult to say whose gaze was more piercing - that of Dumbledore's, or Madam Garnier's. McGonagall's was on par, too, but hers was directed solely at George.

"Do you know anything, Mr Weasley?"

"What? Me? No, Professor, nothing at all. I'm just here as a shoulder to cry on," he said cheerfully.

"You're quite certain?" Dumbledore reiterated gravely, speaking to Marilyn "You can think of nothing at all?"

"Nothing," she said "Or at least, nothing that wouldn't get every Muggle-born in the school hit with the same treatment. Maybe it's because I stand out - I'm the only fourth year Beauxbatons student, I sit at the Gryffindor table rather than the Ravenclaw with all of my peers, I'm among the small number of Beauxbatons students who does ballet…I stand out. Maybe it's that, I don't know."

Her lying was pretty good, if she did say so herself. Driving how shaken she still felt into her words as she spoke, she did her utmost to sound every part the baffled little victim - like she was sitting before them trying to work out just what had brought this on just as much as they were.

"Those who felt the need to…voice their opinions have been given detention through now until the end of this term, and banned from attending the Yule Ball," Dumbledore said.

"The person who did this was probably one of them," Marilyn shrugged.

In actuality, she doubted Draco had been stupid enough to join in with the cries of 'mudblood', but she had a role to play here.

"It is certainly possible," Dumbledore said in a way that told her he knew, and that he knew she knew "You may take the day away from lessons to recover - Mr Weasley here may accompany you, should you think it helpful."

"That's it?" Madame Maxime demanded "Mild punishments for those who may not even be the culprits, and a day out of lessons for the victim of it all?"

"If Miss Baxter has no notion of who might've been behind it, and no other saw anything concerning who may have done it, there's little more that we can do," Dumbledore explained calmly "Save for stressing to Miss Baxter that should she encounter any further animosity, that she must report it to a member of staff immediately. But I am fairly confident that she will not."

"Encounter it or report it?" George muttered.

"Thank you, Mr Weasley, but I might remind you that you are here to support, not to participate," McGonagall said.

It spoke volumes regarding the woman's stern nature that George actually did fall silent then. Or maybe he just didn't want to push his luck as far as his lesson-free day went.

"Miss Baxter's school supplies will be replaced - at no cost to her - where they cannot be repaired, and she shall be excused from any homework that was ruined," Dumbledore added "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several letters to write to parents."

"They'll be so proud," George couldn't help himself.

Marilyn suppressed a snort - because he wasn't wrong. If any parents took issue with what they were about to learn, it would be because their child was careless in their display of prejudice, not the prejudice itself. After all, where had they learned their hate?

"Mr Weasley," McGonagall warned again.

Given that the Head of Gryffindor didn't seem to be the type who was in the habit of giving multiple warnings, Marilyn suspected she rather agreed with him.

"Perhaps we might allow our guests a moment to speak privately," Dumbledore said.

McGonagall nodded in agreement, and the two of them looked to George expectantly. He grimaced and then followed, with a nod to the doorway that seemed to amount to 'I'll wait out there'. Marilyn nodded her thanks - knowing full well that he deserved a proper thank you as soon as possible, no matter his bluster concerning how thrilled he was to be able to skive off for the day.

What followed was a stern conversation in such quick and furious French that Marilyn would've had no hope of understanding a word of it had she been in her first year - Madame Maxime asking if she was well, if she was sure she had no idea who it could have been, if any of the other Beauxbatons students might know, before finally sternly impressing upon her just how vital it was that she tell her should something of the sort happen again.

And then her Headmistress left her with Madame Garnier, and Marilyn had to truly begin fighting her guilt over her playing dumb.

"That one might be good for you," she nodded in the direction of George, who peered curiously through the doorway as Madame Maxime made her exit.

Marilyn said nothing - it wasn't like her to comment on such things.

"Better, I think," she continued slowly "Than the Malfoy boy."

Ah. Well. Fuck.

"I don't pretend to know what happened between the two of you," she continued, hands folded in front of her "But his family's reputation spans much further than this wretched little island. I regret that I did not interfere now, but it's rare that I must tell a girl that she's focusing too much on ballet. I thought perhaps a little…teenage distraction may be good for you. Which makes it particularly regretful that it led to this."

Opening her mouth, although not sure what she was going to say - a lie, an excuse, something - any thought of doing just that left her when the woman raised one dark, thin eyebrow challengingly.

"You knew?" she asked weakly instead.

"If left too much to your own devices, you would dance yourself right into an injury," Madame Garnier replied "I came to check on you a few times, and very rarely found you alone."

Marilyn's gaze lowered, cheeks burning in shame, embarrassment, sheer frustration, and probably much more.

"I won't tell. Only because I fear it would make things worse," the ballet mistress admitted "You may take tonight away from practise, too. I must focus on the other girls and their routine, you'd be delegated to watching even if you were present."

"Thank you," Marilyn bowed her head "But…I've been thinking…after this morning…do you think I'd be able to do the broom trick in time for the ball?"

"After this morning?" the woman frowned "You've been working on it long before now. You'll be prepared for the performance well before."

"No," she said quickly "I don't mean on the length of the broom, I mean…I want to do it properly. On the tip of the broom, like Clarabella Vane. In front of them all."

Madame Garnier blinked slowly, and then she breathed a laugh. Marilyn liked to imagine that it was more proud than incredulous - for Draco wasn't the only one who had a point to prove.

Chapter Text

"You didn't tell them that it was Malfoy, then," George pointed out.

He waited until they sat on the shore of the lake before he pointed out her blatant bullshitting, at least. It wasn't like he was out of practise when it came to keeping teachers out of his business.

"I didn't," she confirmed.

"Can I ask why?"

"You've heard the phrase about snitches and stitches?"

"...Stitches?" he frowned "Like with knitting?"

Ah. So maybe he hadn't, then.

"If I tell on him, there's no evidence, and I become the stupid little mudblood…" the word hurt to say, rubbing raw in her chest, but she made herself say it for that very reason "...who got Lord Malfoy in trouble because…oh, I don't know, because of spite at being rejected. It helps nothing, and it makes several things worse."

"Ah. So it's because it makes revenge easier, then?" He asked slowly.

"Why else would I have done it, George?"

Pressing his lips together, George gave a shrug.

"Oh come on," she gave a laugh totally bereft of humour "You really think that after all of that I'd harbour some sort of weird crush on him? I can barely forgive myself for kissing the dickhead - every time I think of it I feel sick."

"He probably feels that way, too."

"Which should help, but only makes it worse," she sighed.

Her voice was getting dangerously close to cracking again.

"I thought you said he kissed you?" George asked after a moment - teasingly.

"I said I don't know who started it. But I was an…an active participant."

The biting wind from the lake felt like it was piercing through to her bones and set her teeth chattering. But going inside meant people, and here they'd more or less have peace at least until lunchtime, so Marilyn pulled her cloak tighter around herself and clenched her jaw against the shivers.

"Ah, the stuff of all great romances," he said in mock wistfulness.

"You're an expert on them, are you?"

"Enough to know that people kiss people all the time, and that it doesn't have to be the end of the world. Even when one of those people is that git."

Marilyn turned her head to face him, and found him very close. His eyes flickered towards her lips, and then back to her eyes, but he didn't initiate anything - only made an invitation. A very clear invitation, at that. Marilyn hesitated, and then she leaned in and he closed the gap.

It was no revelation that kissing George was entirely different from kissing Draco. It was gentle, and soft, and caring - safe, even - and…she felt nothing from it. In fact, she spent the whole thing feeling painfully aware of herself; her hands, her lips, her brain that never shut the fuck up - all of it. Finally, she pulled back, although she didn't quite dare look at him.

"So…" he said slowly.

Marilyn instantly knew he felt the exact same way about it as she did - and then she met his gaze, a sad smile rising to her lips. .

"Didn't feel right, did it?"

"Oh, thank Merlin," he groaned "Was worried I'd just made things a whole lot worse if you didn't agree."

"Mighty confident in your abilities, there."

"I'm some kisser," he shrugged "…And it was worth a shot. Now we know."

Marilyn smiled tiredly "Now we know. And now Dra- Malfoy isn't special among the boys here anymore. Friends, then?"

"Friends," he agreed, leaning back on his elbows "You should still come to the Yule Ball with me, though."

"George…"

"Hear me out - I don't have a date because…"

"Because the whole doesn't feel right discovery came on a bit late?"

"Mighty confident in yourself, there," he echoed her own words back to her "And you don't have one because…"

He trailed off and Marilyn raised her eyebrows, hoping her expression would make him phrase his next words carefully.

"…Well, you're not very personable, are you?"

Apparently his sympathy over everything that went down that morning had a time limit to it. Or maybe he just knew his comment would make her smile.

"I befriended you," she pointed out.

"Which just speaks for how very personable I am, really," he replied "We balance each other out. You get to go with a built-in anti-Slytherin filter, and I get to look like the knight in shining armour who swept in to save the day - all chivalrous and that."

Marilyn made a face. It was tempting. She'd been happy enough to not go with anybody, but now with everybody paired off and dated up, it did leave her feeling pretty vulnerable. Sure, she could stick with others throughout the dance, but there'd inevitably be times when they went off with their dates and she'd be left to either third wheel or sit on her own. If Draco's anger was so great that he would do that to her in front of everybody, what would he do if he caught her alone?

"It'll piss Malfoy off something rotten, too," George added cheerfully.

"Oh, well in that case you should've led with that, you've got yourself a deal," she drawled "I don't see why it would piss him off, though. He hates you almost as much as he hates me now - wouldn't that be a match made in heaven?"

Sighing, he shook his head and cast his attention out over the lake "You're doing nothing for the stereotype about ballerinas being stupid."

"There is no such stereotype," she frowned.

"I know, but outright calling you dense felt too mean. Today, at least."

"I'm not sure I want to be your friend anymore."

"Too late, you had your chance at being something more."

Marilyn shook her head, and then she laughed, and then she slowly began to feel better. Maybe she needed somebody to call her an idiot more often.

The day off of classes, although given to her in kindness, ended up being a bit of a mixed blessing. Yes, she'd been in no state to sit through classes and pretend that her mind was on anything even remotely resembling work, but she spent it dreading the next day rather than relaxing or recovering. The first day would be the worse, she knew that. Then it would fade. They were teenagers, there was no shortage of stupid drama going around, especially in the run-up to the ball. It was just waiting for it to fade that was the trick. And that was why she couldn't face the hall at dinner time.

Maybe she should have just forced herself to go in - break the ice with every student all at once, let them get their whispering and staring out of the way under the watchful gaze of Dumbledore himself…along with every other member of staff for that matter. It made sense. It would've been the smart thing to do. It was what she'd intended to do. But then the early night drew in and brought paralysing dread with it, weighing her down so heavily that she was sure she wouldn't be able to set foot in the hall even if she'd tried.

So she hid. She wasn't proud of it, and she would only allow herself to do it for that one day, but it was what she did. The dungeon was even more out of the question than the Great Hall, for painfully obvious reasons, so in the end Marilyn parted ways with George, retrieved the practise broom and her pointe shoes from the Beauxbatons carriage, and found a secluded part of the grounds to practise on. She kept her robes on, not only thanks to the cold, but because they allowed her to keep her wand close at hand.

Of course, the rest of the castle was hardly empty - she walked past plenty of people from all three schools as she went about her business. Most stared, a few snickered, but more often than not their brows furrowed in sympathy and they offered smiles that were probably meant to seem reassuring - especially from those in the older years. After the fourth or fifth one, Marilyn stopped meeting their gazes.

Dancing in the dark was no more difficult than dancing in the dungeon had been - it wasn't like she could spend the actual performance staring at her feet, anyway, so this was just good practise. The fact that she actually had a cushioned surface in the form of the grass below to fall onto was just an added bonus…as she almost did, with a sharp gasp, when a spinning jump brought into view a mop of platinum blond hair.

Stumbling down from the broom, she only just managed to land on her feet, rolling her ankle in the process. Panic overtook the ache that shot through the joint, though, as she whipped out her wand and pointed it at him, staring at him with wide eyes.

"What the fuck do you want?" She demanded.

"Classy, Baxter, truly. It's a wonder it took me so long to figure out what you are," he sneered.

"Get fucked. You're the last person on this planet that can talk about class after what you did this morning."

Part of her wondered if he'd deny it. An even smaller part of her hoped that he would. However, contrary to what recent events might suggest, the rest of her had a brain, so it came as no surprise when he did not. Instead, he gave a twisted imitation of a smug smile - despite the fact that none of that mirth reached his eyes.

"What did you imagine? That I'd embrace your inferiority and beg you to attend the Yule Ball with me? You're not that good a kisser."

"That's not what you said last night."

"Now listen here, you filthy little mudblood," he hissed "If you breathe a word of that to a single soul - a single, solitary soul, I'll-"

"I'm in not more of a rush for people to know about it than you are," she interrupted, the broom flying up to her hand the moment she held her fingers outstretched "I'm going to the Yule Ball with George, I'm going to see through the rest of the school year here, and I'm going to forget I ever so much as set eyes on you. So don't worry, I have about as much desire to admit that I was stupid enough to think you were anything more than a deluded little prick who'll believe whatever makes him feel superior in the moment than you do to admit you found a mudblood like me to be better company than your pureblood girlfriend."

His glare intensified and he began to splutter more venom in response, but Marilyn's voice rose and she continued, refusing to be cowed.

"And what does that say about your values? Either you're an idiot who can be taken in by a lesser being such as myself so long as she's pretty with a pair of nice legs…or there's nothing in your beliefs at all. Tell me - which of those two conclusions do you want going around? I think I know which one you'd like least, but neither of them are very good for your lot, are they? But…like I said. I'm just as much of an idiot here as you are. So the secret's safe. Congrats, Draco. Have a nice life."

One hand held the broom and the other brandished her wand, but both of them shook almost as much as her voice by the time she was done. Draco stood still save for the furious heaving of his chest beneath that stupid bloody snake emblem, but she didn't wait for a response - it would only be more bile, anyway.

"So that was the plan, then?" He called after her "I confess, I was curious as to what your ploy was."

"There was no fucking ploy," she spat, whirling "What sort of bullshit political thriller do you think we're living in? I didn't…"

She stopped short and his eyes flashed - because, for the first time during this conversation, she'd almost lied to him. There was no pretending that she didn't know he didn't know. Not really. And the only way she could lose anything resembling the moral highground now would be to play dumb and innocent.

"I didn't have a plan," she said finally "You assumed, and I made the decision not to correct you. Because what sort of fucking idiot gives hateful bigots the excuse they're looking for to hate them?"

"The same sort of fucking idiots who kiss those hateful bigots," he pointed out sharply.

"I didn't expect to…I didn't expect to get along with you. I didn't expect any of it. There was no plan. I thought I'd make Muggle Studies bearable by not correcting your assumption, and that would be the end of it. By the time it became painfully bloody obvious that it wouldn't be that simple, there was no turning back."

His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared as he listened - but he did listen. And when he was done, his eyes bore into hers for a long while as though trying to detect any slightest hint of falsehood. Marilyn returned his gaze evenly, if not tiredly. Exhaustedly. This had gone on too long. She'd had enough. Finally, he gave one sharp nod. It was perhaps the most civil response she could've hoped for.

"Aren't you going to apologise, then?" He asked sharply.

Aaand…there it was.

"Fuck off," she breathed a laugh, shaking her head - disgusted and amazed all at once by the sheer audacity of the boy who stood before her "Fuck right off. Are you going to apologise for what you did to me this morning? In front of the entire school? Because that was done far more deliberately with miles more malice."

The tears were back - filling her eyes, not helped by how stubbornly she refused to blink so they wouldn't start falling. She had no idea whether it was the point she'd made, or the presence of those tears that had him finally looking away, furiously scowling at the patch of grass before his shoes.

"Goodbye, Draco," she said finally, turning in the direction of the Beauxbatons carriage.

This time he didn't stop her.

Chapter Text

Her first day of lessons after the incident was somehow better and just as bad as she'd imagined, all in one. Better thanks to the fact that the reality of things could've never matched up to the horrors she'd spent all the previous day (and night) imagining - not unless Draco decided to set out for a repeat performance. And worse because, well, walking into each and every classroom with her head held high took every ounce of training Madame Garnier had ever instilled in her.

Muggle Studies was the worst, which was exactly why she had to treat it like it was not. She walked in and purposely did not look towards the back - she didn't need to look in order to know that Pansy Parkinson would be sitting in her former seat beside Draco - but what she didn't expect was for a Hufflepuff girl to wave her over and offer up the seat beside her, effectively saving her from hovering awkwardly at the front of the room as she tried to spot a free seat. What Dumbledore had said, it seemed, about Draco's actions not reflecting the views of the school as a whole, had been true.

It wasn't just the Hogwarts students, either. Her Beauxbatons frères et sœurs had rallied around her. Nobody was more surprised by that than Marilyn, but apparently they'd come to the decision that the Beauxbatons student they liked least was still worth their loyalty more than whatever students from the other schools they liked most. Or maybe they just didn't like Draco and his cronies very much. Even if it hadn't been officially pinned on him, it was obvious that it was him - that incident had marked the turning point not only of Pansy Parkinson going from being permanently furious to outright gleeful, but also from Marilyn herself dropping all association with Draco. Sure, there wasn't any evidence for him to actually be held accountable and punished for it, but it was a bit of an open secret that it had been him. Which was just what he'd intended, she supposed.

Pansy's glee lasted only for one full day - after which she went back to being furious. It didn't take long for them to find out why.

"She was pulled out of Charms by Snape this morning," Hermione explained at dinner that evening, a pleased smirk on her face "And informed that, thanks to the word of several witnesses, she's banned from the Yule Ball."

"Bet Snape enjoyed delivering that news as much as she liked hearing it," Ron snorted.

"He didn't seem pleased," Hermione sighed "But he rarely does."

"Probably more angry that she was stupid enough to get caught than anything," Harry said "It's not a good look for his House, is it? All of the people in the shit for it are Slytherins."

"And one Durmstrang lad," Seamus Finnigan added from a few places down "Karkaroff's fuming at Dumbledore, word is. Says he has no right to dictate how his students are punished - apparently Dumbledore said that since the ball is happening in Hogwarts, he gets final say over who attends and who doesn't."

"Durmstrang's always been dodgy, though, hasn't it?" Ron said "Karkaroff probably thinks that sort of thing is good. A requirement to attend, even."

"That's like saying Hogwarts is dodgy because a quarter of us are Slytherins," Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Viktor Krum picked up a quill I dropped in the corridor by the library," Marilyn said "He even smiled as he handed it back to me, which I'm guessing was meant to be a show of support from the Durmstrang side."

"Tell 'im you've already got a date to the ball," George said.

Ron was quick to ignore his brother's impressive show of faux possessive outrage, scoffing "Krum'll have had a date from day one."

"How has Snape been with you?" Hermione was quick to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand.

"His usual pleasant self. If I was one of you I'd be for it, I think, but maybe he doesn't want to risk being a total prick with a student from another school. Or maybe he'll start when Dumbledore isn't keeping quite such a close eye anymore. Either way, I'm doing my best not to give him an excuse."

"He rarely needs one," Harry said flatly.

"Comforting. Thanks."

He offered her an apologetic smile in response. They were saved from their talk of the dour Head of Slytherin house, though, when a couple of Beauxbatons girls brushed by, offering warm shoulder squeezes and overly cheery 'good mornings' to Marilyn as they did.

"And there's that, too," she said.

It was nice of them. Really, it was. Their determination to remind her that she wasn't alone in this and that, even as Slytherin fury towards her increased tenfold. She'd been caught off-guard by how many of them went out of their way to be nice to her - it was overwhelming, and it had her feeling guilty that she hadn't made more of an effort with her older schoolmates when they'd first arrived. Mostly, though, she sort of wished they wouldn't bother. The more it went on, the more it reminded her of what happened.

Although she supposed if she couldn't forget, she couldn't lose her motivation to show the bastards what she was made of - although the risk of that was already slim to none. Wolfing down her meal before most had even finished a quarter of their plate, she grabbed a chocolate cupcake in the way of pudding and stood. Mumbling her farewells, she took up her bag and began to make her way towards the dungeons.

She knew she was growing far too used to being here, because the castle somehow felt cosy in the evenings - lit all by torchlight that set everything in an orange glow. Of course, the dungeons were always lit by torchlight, though, so once she descended the steps below ground-level the effect was dampened, and it was ruined entirely when she spotted Pansy Parkinson at the end of the long corridor, speaking in quick, angry tones to the girl at her side, her face crumpled in fury. Refusing to react - and absolutely refusing to run - she took a bite from her cupcake and met the girl's gaze evenly, her other hand drifting towards her pocket just in case.

Pansy didn't move, but her voice did rise in volume as she glared furiously.

"I didn't even do anything! I bet she convinced all of those pathetic little blood traitor Weasleys to lie and say they saw me shouting just to get payback because she's jealous."

It was funny, really - how short-lived the girl's glee had been. And what could she do now? The staff at Hogwarts would be on high alert for another incident, particularly one that involved Marilyn herself, and Pansy had marked herself as one to watch thanks to her inability to keep her mouth shut yesterday. The most she could do was what she was already doing; spewing venom from across a corridor. It truly did put a spring in Marilyn's step and gave rise to a sort of smugness that she felt especially entitled to after the previous morning. All of that was why she offered Pansy a smile and a wink when their eyes met before she turned and entered the practise room. The girl's furious shriek of annoyance was a reward in and of itself. No doubt she'd spend a good long time describing it furiously to Draco later on, and that just increased Marilyn's cheer - hopefully he'd get a nice chronic migraine.

That thought was enough to have her whistling a cheery little tune to herself as she polished off the cupcake and began to change into her ballet gear. Her goal was a grand one - some would say unrealistic, but she didn't need that sort of thinking in her life - and Madame Garnier had impressed upon her with no room for misinterpretation that if she wanted to achieve even a fraction of her goal, she'd need to work her arse off. It was an intimidating goal, given that she already worked more than she probably should. But it would be worth it.

The routine that Clarabella Vane was known for was impressive even for her, a seasoned ballerina, so Marilyn wasn't quite deluded enough to think that she might be able to match it. She did confidence, yeah, and arrogance, definitely, but not delusion. That, she liked to think, was her saving grace. Given that lack of delusion, she knew there was no chance that she'd be able to do a full routine on the very tip of the broom itself. A week or two ago she'd have considered it a great victory that she could even dance atop the length of the broom - of course, back then she didn't have anything to prove, and she did like to drive her points home when she took it upon herself to make one. If she could even brush against the feats that Vane was known for, she'd consider her performance a success.

Time ceased to be of any consequence to her as she practised - she danced until she couldn't dance anymore, and then she took a break the moment the tremors left her muscles. She went through her moves atop the broom until she misstepped, and then she slipped from it, swore, and jumped right back up again before the broom could even clatter to the floor. Other times - albeit a bit less often - she didn't fall at all, and jumped lightly back to the floor with a grin on her face…before she shook out her limbs and started from the beginning again.

By the time the other girls arrived, her limbs already shone with sweat and she knew she'd get a right bollocking from Madame Garnier about not burning herself out before they could even rehearse together. However - she'd managed to go through her whole routine three times without slipping from the broom. Sure, it was three times out of what was probably ten, but she knew she could get that number up. Her success rate was almost fifty/fifty already, and while it would go down when she upped the difficulty again, there was time. And she was stubborn.

Her fellow ballerinas filed in one by one, slipping through the door without fully opening it, and then falling silent when they spotted her already there.

"Are you well, Marilyn?" Esme asked in French "We weren't sure if you'd be here tonight."

"I'm fine. Ready to get on with things," she replied before pausing and sighing "Thank you."

Chloe watched the exchange with pursed lips, finally shoving past Esme so that she could pass to the other side of the room and begin changing. Marilyn shot a curious look towards her back, but mostly thought nothing of it - not until Esme approached and continued quietly as the others followed Chloe's lead, albeit not half so angrily. In fact, a few of them offered their token back pats and arm squeezes as they brushed by, sympathetic looks on their faces telling her that she was now seen as the baby of the group rather than the arrogant little pest.

"What's going on?" She asked Esme quietly.

"Chloe is the one who told them - the green ones - about your blood status."

The redhead spoke quietly, but not quietly enough judging by the square set of Chloe's shoulders and the clenching of her jaw.

"What?"

"She admitted it to Fleur at lunch, and Fleur told the rest of us so that we could tell you. She thought you should know."

Marilyn stared at Esme, for once well and truly speechless. She wasn't sure she'd have been able to respond in English, nevermind French.

"How could I have known what was going on? The pug-faced girl was harping on and on thinking she was a Pureblood - I was confused. I overheard, I corrected her. It was a simple mistake," Chloe cracked and finally snapped from across the room.

"There's only one reason why someone goes out of their way to tell another that somebody is a Muggle-born," one of the other girls pointed out with an eye-roll "We all know who the little snakes are - what they believe, the families they come from. You knew damn well what you were doing, Chloe, at least have the class to own your actions now that they've bit you on the-"

"What did she expect?" Chloe demanded - and Marilyn noted that she discussed it like she wasn't in the room with them "We all saw how she carried on with that boy. We all knew who he was. What did she expect, not telling him? How were we to know she hadn't told him?"

"You knew what you were doing. We know you knew. Being a coward now doesn't help," Esme said.

Marilyn remained silent. Chloe finally met her gaze after a few moments, and then looked away again, a scowl on her face so stern that it threatened to break her delicate features. She muttered a few choice phrases under her breath, earning one or two back from the girls near her. Esme ignored it, still not joining the other girls to change in favour of continuing to speak to her.

"We can tell Madame Garnier. We should tell her, really, she would want to know. But we thought it best left up to you - you're the one in the middle of it all."

Nodding dumbly, she took a moment to comprehend the words and then another to actually think about them. The silence weighed heavily on Chloe, apparently, for despite the careful lack of expression on her face, she fumbled with the lacing on her shoes and had to restart. Twice. It wasn't without reason, either, for as stern as their ballet mistress was, the topic of unity between them was one that she viewed as being of the utmost importance. They were a family. Sisters. Hadn't Marilyn herself been on the receiving end of one such lecture only recently? No double she'd view an arrogant remark or two as being far less of a misstep than opening one's sister up to a world of blood-related prejudice. If she was intimidating when she was unimpressed, she was terrifying when she was angry. Properly angry. And this? This would make her furious.

It would certainly be a pretty bit of revenge, all in all. Which was why nobody was more surprised than Marilyn when she finally replied.

"No."

Several heads shot up and turned her way.

"No - I don't want any more drama. No more fuss, no more bullshit. It's insufferable. I just want to get through all of this and move on."

Where would it end if she agreed? Chloe did this because Marilyn herself had annoyed her in class, so now if Marilyn grassed her in, what would Chloe do after that? And what would Marilyn then have to do in turn? When would it end? She barely had the energy for the here and now. At least this way, if Chloe didn't drop the matter, she'd look like a dick of the highest order. Okay, maybe she wouldn't be earning a friend by refusing to tell Madame Garnier, but she'd hopefully at least be shirking an enemy. She'd gained too many of those as of late, getting rid of one seemed prudent.

Esme's lips pursed…and then they stretched into a smile and she shrugged her compliance, finally stepping away to go and get changed. Marilyn chanced one last look at Chloe after that, and found her looking even more furious, albeit slightly less pale. She supposed if she'd given okay to bring the hammer down, it would've absolved the girl of any guilt. Now she was stuck with it.

Chapter Text

The last thing Marilyn expected to add to her workload was bedazzling the ever-loving shit out of a broomstick, but apparently that was just what her life had turned into. Given that the whole vibe for the Yule Ball was ethereal, winter wonderland, Santa vomiting up tinsel, that sort of thing, she knew the ratty old brown broom would stand out painfully in the middle of her routine, and she needed this whole thing to be perfect. So, one weekend in Hogsmeade she ended up single-handedly keeping the little craft shop in business loading up on white glitter, silver paint, and one-spell stick-on crystals. It actually ended up being a fairly cathartic little project, even if it drew in plenty of looks like she'd damn well lost her mind when the other students spotted her working on it around the school - usually outdoors so that the smell of the paint wouldn't knock her sick.

What she hadn't expected was for her little Art Attack moment to land her a front row seat to the newest bit of gossip that finally drove her little scandal out of the minds of all students currently calling the castle home.

Marilyn missed the very beginning of the confrontation, too bloody focused on crystal placement so that it wouldn't run the risk of ruining her performance. The first thing she was really aware of was Draco's voice, but that was nothing new - he'd chosen to occupy the other end of the courtyard with a group of his cronies not long after she'd settled down to work. Absolutely unwilling to be driven away, she instead gritted her teeth and forced herself to remain, driving her attention into the task at hand rather than Draco's posh bastard voice as it drifted towards her every now and then. Even more annoying was the occasional obnoxious snickering of his lackeys, regardless of whether what he said was actually funny or not. Or maybe she just found that more annoying because it sent little streaks of paranoia through her that she was the one being laughed at.

They could laugh all they liked, though, because it was just about all they could do. She had a beautiful little mutually assured destruction pact with their king, after all, so he could gloat all he liked because it wasn't like he could take it any further. By the time she did look up, he was already practically nose-to-nose with Harry, sneering down at him and he spewed his usual venom. Lowering the broom and the little container of crystals to her lap, Marilyn couldn't help but watch - and grimace as she did.

Whatever Draco had said clearly struck a chord with Harry, for he glowered and retorted sharply in such a way that drew in undisguised nudges and nods from plenty of those nearby. She almost wanted to warn Harry not to give Draco a reaction, not to play into his hands, but it was a thought that had her annoyed at herself as soon as it formed in her mind. Why shouldn't he? Why should Draco get to swan about saying and doing as he liked while everybody else kept their heads down and said nothing for the sake of an easy life? But if he had succeeded in drawing a reaction from Harry, Harry had done much of the same to him fairly easily, for the moment he was done speaking and had turned his back, Draco was drawing his wand. Shit.

Before she could react - to get up and hurry off in a trail of paint and glitter, or to draw her own wand just in case an errant spell misfired in her direction - a lower, much older voice joined the fray.

"Oh no you don't, sonny!"

Moody stepped into the courtyard, and with a wave of his hand Draco yelped and then was gone…and a little white ferret stood in his place.

"I'll teach you to curse someone when their back is turned!" Moody growled, marching forth before Marilyn could even fully register what was happening "You stinking…cowardly…scummy…"

With every insult punctuated by a wave of his hand, the ferret - Draco - bobbed up and down in the air, squeaking in protest as laughter began to ripple all around them. Marilyn, still wide-eyed, did not join in. Nor did McGonagall, as she swept towards them.

"Professor Moody! What are you doing?"

"Teaching," he didn't pause in his teaching for a moment.

"Is that a- is that a student?!"

She didn't think she'd ever see the day when McGonagall was lost for words.

"Technically it's a ferret," he answered simply.

It was then that Moody grew bored of making Draco duck and dive in the air - and sent him hurtling into Crabbe's trousers instead. If she hadn't envied him before, she really didn't do so now. The laughter around them reached new heights, and still she didn't join in - couldn't join in. Why couldn't she join in? It should have been funny, it should have been fucking hysterical, not least because of the high pitched shrieks belting out of Crabbe that certainly didn't match his face nor his build.

"Stand still, stand still!" Goyle ordered, leaping forward and reaching into his trousers to try and grab the ferret.

The ferret reminded them all that it was indeed Draco by biting the hand, and Goyle ripped his hand back, swearing. A few of those gathered were damn well near tears at that point - and she couldn't even blame them, because the whole thing was like a sodding Mr Bean sketch brought to life. The fact that there were probably few gathered here who hadn't been on the receiving end of Draco's ire only helped matters. But the farce came to an end when the ferret slipped out of the end of Crabbe's trouser leg and McGonagall saw her chance, waving her wand and transfiguring him back into a real boy.

Draco staggering and then spun, his hair in disarray as he stumbled back from Moody…and then didn't help matters at all by declaring his go-to tagline.

"My father will hear about this!"

He visibly regretted it the second Moody reacted.

"Is that a threat?" He demanded, limping forward as Draco fled "Is that a threat?!"

Draco rounded the tree and then began to quite literally run away, McGonagall stepping between Moody and his target.

"I could tell you stories about your father that curl even your greasy hair, boy!" Moody roared after Draco as he fled.

Marilyn didn't doubt that.

"Alastor," McGonagall said sternly.

"It doesn't end here!" Moody continued his tirade.

"Alastor!" McGonagall insisted.

Those who had witnessed the spectacle dove out of the way to clear a path for Draco's departure - however funny they'd found it, they still knew to stand between him and his exit would spark disaster for them later on down the line. Marilyn remained where she was, not even fully aware that she was still staring until Draco met her eye as he stormed past. At first he glared, opening his mouth to spit yet another pre-prepared insult at her, but then he seemed to actually register her expression - the fact that she wasn't even so much as smiling, never mind laughing or gloating. He blinked, and then he almost faltered…and finally he tore his eyes away from hers, snapping to his friends to hurry up, and then he was gone.

Grimacing, Marilyn took up her glitter again and turned her focus back to the broom.

Draco sat in the Great Hall at dinner that night with a scowl on his face. It wasn't particularly intentional, but nor did he care. Had he much choice in the matter he wouldn't be here at all, he wasn't even hungry and the last thing he wanted to do was sit around people and tolerate those people. But if he were not here, that would look too much like running, and being thought to run was the only thing that could possibly be worse than sitting here and enduring this. Malfoys did not run. So instead he endured it. He endured the food, and the inane ramblings of those around him, and the only thing that gave him any great sense of pleasure was the petty stab of smugness that arose when those sitting around him finally gave up trying to coax a conversation from him and instead resigned themselves to sit in uncomfortable silence.

Occupying himself with the enthralling process of cutting up his steak pie into pieces so small it was practically becoming a stew on his plate, he wasn't particularly aware of when his eyes trailed towards Baxter until he was watching her chat with Granger and the youngest Weasley idiot over at the Gryffindor table.

She hadn't laughed. He'd met her eye (entirely without meaning to, of course) as he left the courtyard, and it would have been the perfect opportunity for her to gloat - to see the disgrace that had taken place as some sort of great karmic revenge for her perceived slights, to snicker away with the rest of the idiots gathered, to smile, even to smirk. And she'd done none of it. Why? Was she trying to do that moral high ground thing that her favourite little Gryffindors made such a lofty point of trying to do? If so, it wouldn't work - he wouldn't fall for it.

Even as he made that resolution silently to himself, though, it didn't feel quite right. There hadn't been anything haughty on her face - nothing pointed. She'd blinked at him with those wide blue eyes of hers, an expression he couldn't for the life of him place flickering across her features for just a second, and then she'd slowly returned her attention back to that ridiculous broom she toted about during her free hours.

"Is your mother having her annual Christmas party this year, Draco?" Pansy tore him from his thoughts.

"I expect so."

"You expect so? You don't know?"

"I won't be there, anyway, so it's of no consequence to me. I'm staying here for the Yule Ball."

"What?"

"Plenty of others are doing the same," he shrugged lazily.

"I know that, but I can't go."

"And I know that," he countered "And I also know that it's your own fault. You were the one who couldn't keep her mouth shut in a hall full of witnesses."

"Because they lied," she spluttered "I would never-"

"You did. You know it. We all know it. And we're all lucky you didn't land the lot of us right in it because of it. What is it our parents are always saying about these things? We need to do it carefully. You're learning the price of not doing that. Best learn it this time."

"And doing what you did in front of the whole hall was careful, was it? You were lucky, Draco."

"What did I do?" He blinked, the picture of innocence "Walk past her?"

"Don't know if it was luck," Nott muttered a few places down "Overheard the teachers discussing it - ballet girl told 'em she had no idea who it could've been."

"Maybe she's in love," Goyle snorted.

"Probably. It's pathetic. Maybe she's hoping you'll invite her, since you're going to the ball after all, Draco," Pansy said "Assuming you don't already have a date."

"Of course I don't," he rolled his eyes "It's not sad for a man to go on his own - not like it is for a woman, anyway. I expect she lied because there was no evidence, as I made sure there would not be. And if she didn't grass me in, why should she do so to you?."

Those around him stilled slightly, and he realised he'd sounded a tad too much like he was defending her.

"Or maybe it was because she realises the hell she'd be in for if she snitched," he added.

They relaxed again, nodding and murmuring in agreement.

"Well, I'll tell you now, she's still in for it. I'm not going to sit at home while everybody else attends the ball and let that go unanswered," Pansy said lowly.

Draco sighed and said nothing.

Chapter Text

These days, Draco found himself taking long, meandering walks through the castle in the evenings. That was the cost of having previously filled those evenings with Baxter - now there was a void. Alright, maybe not a void. A vacancy. One that was infuriatingly difficult to fill. Crabbe and Goyle were…well, Crabbe and Goyle. He'd once considered Pansy fairly good company, but she was getting more and more insufferable as the days went on thanks to her obsession with Baxter and her revenge against Baxter. How was he meant to put the girl out of his mind if Pansy was bringing her up at least once per hour?

There were other options, of course. Zabini, Nott, even Flint, and more. But they were always talking to Draco Malfoy - or even just Malfoy outright. Maril- Baxter never seemed to do that. At first it had annoyed him, and then it annoyed him that it stopped annoying him. Now, most of all, he was even more annoyed that he missed it. To speak to somebody and not know what they were going to say before they'd even said it. To have a joke be laughed at because it was funny and not because it was he who'd cracked it. To have a joke made in return that was actually funny and not just tedious or stupid. Merlin, why had he been stricken with the misfortune of brushing shoulders with the one mudblood in the world who could actually carry a decent conversation?

Perhaps he was being laughed at. Or having his loyalties tested by some higher being. Why couldn't she have just been a Pureblood? If she was, this would have had the makings of the best school year yet. Instead he was here, missing her, hating that he missed her, and wrestling with every blasted emotion that came with those two problems. Why hadn't she just laughed? He might've been able to hate her had she laughed. It would have lended credence to his worry that whatever communication they'd established before he'd known the truth had been some sort of underhanded ploy on her part.

Ones like that were the most dangerous, that was what his parents always told him. They tricked idiots into thinking that they were all like that. The same way Granger tricked them into thinking all of them were smart by memorising every fact known to man and beast alike. But it wasn't deliberate, was it? At least not in Baxter's case. The jury was still out on Granger, but she was far too smug and self-satisfied to not mean anything by it.

It was as he finally returned to the dungeons that he paused and hesitated, finding a patch of the corridor lit up by a strip of light from the door to the practise room, left ajar. Ordinarily he would've strode straight past it - or so he told himself - but as he drew nearer he heard it. The sniffling. Frowning, he paused and finally, hesitantly, approached the doorway, moving on the soles of his feet to dull the sound of his shoes on the flagstones as he approached.

"Come on, for fuck's sake- Repairo!"

A sort of muted fizzling sound hissed out in response - the tell-tale sign of a failed spell. A grunt followed, one that morphed into a sob at the end which was quickly followed up by yet another curse.

"Motherfucker. Repairo!"

It fizzled out again, but Draco could see the spell failing for himself now, peering in through the door. Baxter knelt on the floor in front of that absurd broom she'd riddled with paint and glitter over the last few weeks - or rather, what remained of it. Admittedly, there wasn't much, and it looked more like a pile of very glittery sticks than anything else. A magpie nest. Recalling Pansy's earlier words, Draco's heart sank…albeit quite without his say in the matter.

A third attempt at the spell ended just about the same way that the first and second tries had, and it didn't seem that there would be a fourth for she took up one of the bigger pieces and launched it across the room. It smacked into the wall near his head and then clattered uselessly to the floor. When Draco looked from it to her, he found her staring back, wide eyes brimming with tears that she tried to furiously blink away when she diverted her gaze.

"Come to gloat?" she sniffled.

Well, he'd already been caught. There was no use fleeing now. Stepping into the room properly, he straightened his robes and regarded the mess before her impassively.

"It's not my handiwork," he answered.

The fact that he sounded bored and matter-of-fact helped his case more than it would if he'd sounded frantic and worried. Or so he hoped. Not that he cared if she actually believed him or not, of course. Marilyn remained where she sat on the floor, her fists clenched against the floor at her sides until her knuckles turned a stark shade of white.

"You'll break your wand," he commented for lack of much else to say.

He was hardly going to give her a cuddle and ask if she was alright, was he?

Inhaling sharply, her back straightened like she was preparing to hurl insults at him, before she sighed in annoyance and cast her wand aside, bringing her fists into her lap.

"The spell won't work," she said flatly.

"It has its limits. There has to be something left to actually repair."

"Yeah. Your girlfriend certainly did a great job."

"She's not my girlfriend. I'm sick of telling you so."

"Oh my god. Okay. Great. Thank you for this hellish round of deja vu, it was exactly what I needed to take this day from crap to utterly fucking abysmal, I really do truly appreciate it. Now if you'd be so kind, I really want to be left alone."

"I'm simply stating a fact. Why you have such a strange obsession with that fact is your own problem."

"Why are you here?"

"Why didn't you laugh?" he countered.

"Because I didn't find this little prank particularly funny," she stood up and kicked at the pile to illustrate her point.

"I wasn't talking about that."

"What were you talking about, then?"

"Earlier. Today. Moody's little stunt in the courtyard."

It might've been difficult to look at her, had he not been intent on studying her reaction for any hint of amusement - a smirk, a stifled laugh, anything. But there was nothing. Nothing other than a frown, anyway, followed by the pursing of her lips as she sighed and bowed her head and began to toy with the remains of her broom.

"I know what it's like to be publicly humiliated," she said finally.

"Which is precisely why you should have found it so funny. I'm sure you probably viewed it as something akin to some sort of great cosmic karma."

"Maybe it was," she said "But it still wasn't funny."

"Oh please."

"What? Believe it or not, Draco, I don't ascribe to the whole 'I want everybody to suffer exactly like I've suffered so I can un-bruise my ego'. I'm much more of an 'ouch, I know how much that sucks' type."

"I don't need your pity."

"You don't have it. Or my sympathy, really. Empathy, maybe, but that's about the most I can offer you after everything."

"I don't need that, either."

"Everybody needs empathy, Draco. Without it, we all end up like your lot."

"And who are you to be so high and mighty against my lot?"

"The girl who you're sitting talking to instead of them."

It was a challenge if Draco had ever heard one - a challenge that told him exactly where the door was. If he wanted to prove her wrong so badly, if he wanted to double down on what he'd done thus far, he could rise, depart, and go back to the Slytherin common room. He should have. He would have, too, had the thought of returning there and to all of those who he knew he'd find there wasn't so entirely insufferable. So distasteful. If it didn't fill him with dread. With how things had been going lately, he suspected he'd last five minutes at most before he heaved an annoyed sigh and retired to glare at the emerald green curtains of his four-poster bed. And then he'd only need to face it all at breakfast again anyway.

"I know exactly what it is they're going to say before it even occurs to them to say it," he said finally.

"That's the relationship you've cultivated with them," she replied.

"Half of them couldn't spell cultivated," he muttered.

That earned him a small huff of laughter and she murmured "Well, you're not wrong."

Considering he'd expected her to demand that he leave, her reaction came as a pleasant surprise. Although the look she fixed him with suggested she was very much wondering why he was still here.

Standing, he sat down opposite her on the floor, the former broom between them. Pressing his lips together, he gathered together a couple of the smaller pieces that looked to be part of the handle - perhaps they could repair it in sections, rather than all at once. The upside of all of the ridiculous work she'd done with those stick-on crystals was that it was fairly easy to piece it back together again, like some sort of flamboyant jigsaw.

"Repairo," he said, jabbing his want at the pieces.

It made much the same fizzling sound that Marilyn's had.

"So much for that Pure-blooded superiority, eh?" She sighed.

It would've been the perfect opportunity for him to take a huff, stand, and storm out…had there been any malice in the words. Instead, he was too busy noting that they were surprisingly close to the old sort of joking that there had once been between them.

"It'd take a broom expert to repair at this point," he admitted defeat, leaning back on one hand.

"I can't afford that," she snorted with a sigh.

"Do up another broom, then."

He wasn't sure why he was offering up solutions. It wasn't like it was his problem.

"I'd need a whole new set of supplies, and even if we had another trip to Hogsmeade between now and the ball, all of the hours and the money…it's just not feasible," she seemed to wonder why she was discussing the problem with him just as he wondered why he was trying to help, sighing and shaking her head, adopting an unbothered look that didn't entirely reach her eyes "I'll have to borrow one of the Hogwarts practise brooms and just make do. It's not the end of the world."

"It wasn't me," he reiterated.

And then he added why he was so intent on making sure she was aware of that to the list of things he didn't know.

"I believe you," she murmured - somewhat sourly.

"Will it cheer you to know that she's been banned from the ball?"

"I already knew. Probably should've expected this."

"Probably. She despises you."

"Both of you do," she said flatly.

Her eyes finally rose to gauge his reaction to that statement, and Draco offered none - although that could have very well been just as damning. If he hated her as much as he wished he did, he'd have said so. If Potter had said that same statement to him, he'd have already agreed a thousand times over.

She was still pretty, he noted dully. Very pretty. Not that he'd expected the whopping few weeks they'd spent avoiding each other to change her, but there was none of that thing. The thing that always happened when a girl inevitably either bored him or found a way to annoy him - usually by being annoyingly boring. After that, they always somehow became plainer. It didn't matter what girl found herself being thrust in the direction of Malfoy Manor for the duration of the summer, or how beautiful she was in the beginning. She'd say something idiotic, or she'd have a stupid laugh, or an insipid habit of fiddling with her hair, and a girl who had previously been quite beautiful would very quickly become plain. Even unsightly.

Marilyn was neither.

"I'm going to the Yule Ball with George," she said.

But, apparently, she was trying to be.

"Of course you are," he scoffed, wrinkling his nose "I saw his white knight act in the hall that day. Bet he jumped at the chance."

"What day was that, again?" She challenged "Remind me, why was I in need of comforting? It's all a big foggy."

Draco stared balefully, sniffing and then plucking at the hem of his trouser leg "So you're together then, now? Is that it? Going to build a hovel and start an orphanage of your own?"

"No. We gave it a shot, but it didn't feel right," the airiness of her tone told him that that the phrase wasn't as innocent as it was meant to sound.

She knew what she was doing in telling him that. Another final addition was made, then, to the list of things he did not know - whether he was annoyed or pleased at that revelation, because evidently something had passed between them…but it hadn't been good enough for it to last. It hadn't, he thought to himself, measured up to their kiss. Of course, there was also the question of why he had any reaction at all. That last part was probably just sheer denial, though, and that denial wasn't even genuine enough for him to be blind to it.

Chapter Text

Sustaining his hatred for Baxter had always been surprisingly difficult - once his initial wave of fury ebbed, at least. That difficulty had only grown after his run-in with Moody, and then it had blossomed outright into an impossibility after their little chat over the remains of her broom. He'd avoided seeking her out again after that. Maybe because he feared what would follow hatred being an impossibility.

Initially, in the small moments where his resolve to hate her had wavered - mostly after her tears at his little display in the Great Hall - all he had to do in order to rediscover it was sit back and recall the moment he'd found out the truth regarding her blood status. If he could hold onto that anger, he could get through the rest of the school year with his sanity intact. Unfortunately, the former wasn't looking likely anymore, and therefore neither was the latter. When he looked back on it, he found himself getting more and more annoyed at Pansy over anybody - why couldn't Baxter piss him off like Parkinson did? Maybe she would one day. If he was around her as often. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably not.

But it wasn't like he'd ever find out. Glaring at the canopy of his bed - emerald green, but appearing black in the dim light - he ran the memory over in his mind for the umpteenth time, praying that this time might be the one where he rediscovered his anger.

Draco lounged in the Slytherin common room, well aware that dinner was underway in the Great Hall. As it was, he was making do with nibbling at a sandwich he'd stashed from lunch - it didn't matter, Baxter always had bits of fruit at her little practise sessions, and since he'd started showing up she always brought enough for the both of them. He left it unacknowledged, mostly because he didn't wish for her to stop. A ham sandwich and an apple or two wasn't much of a dinner, but if he attended dinner properly then he'd need to leave early to catch her before her ballet mistress turned up. He doubted the strict Frenchwoman would allow him to stick around once she arrived.

"I thought I might find you here."

Draco tensed when Pansy's voice sounded from the entrance to the common room.

"It's usually well after dinner that you sneak out to go see her. Once her lesson is over, I understand - but now you're going beforehand, too? My, it must be love."

"Whatever it is, it's none of your business," he sneered.

It wasn't love - he might've been a teenager, but he wasn't some hormonal idiot who thought one kiss constituted something like love. But it had been a good kiss, one that he very much hoped to repeat, and if it led somewhere…well, then, that would hardly be something to complain about. Not where a girl like Baxter was involved…and failing to deny it would annoy Pansy - into pissing off and leaving him completely alone, if he was lucky.

Then he'd have enough peace and quiet to think about how he'd ask Baxter to the ball - because he was going to ask her. Tonight. Time was running out, it was time he did so, but she revelled in being difficult so he'd have to find some sort of clever way of asking if she was going to do the wise thing and say yes. There had to be a good way of asking her that didn't involve them being stuck sat in Madam Puddifoot's slowly losing the will to live. No doubt the Weasley sod would do it in Zonko's once he finally plucked up the nerve, and Draco was intent to get there first if only so that she had to say no out of some misplaced sense of obligation towards the twit.

"You're right," Pansy sniffed "It's none of my business."

Draco watched her, unimpressed.

"And I'm glad it's not. I don't tend to concern myself with mudbloods and blood traitors."

"Excuse me?" He glared at her.

Balking at his reaction, she lost a little bit of her bluster and then laughed nervously before she sighed. Tucking her dark hair behind her ear, she lowered herself to perch on the edge of the sofa he sat on, turning to look at him with a frown.

"All right," she admitted "I didn't think you knew - I wasn't calling you a blood traitor…I wouldn't- I know you're not. I still don't think you know. You can't have known, can you? I won't pretend to understand the fascination with her, but it can't be so strong for you to overlook such a glaring inadequacy."

"If we're to remain on good terms, you should tell it what exactly it is you're accusing me of - or Marilyn, for that matter."

He adopted the calm, careful tone his father always did in these matters - the one that made people go pale and consider their next words especially carefully. He knew he still had a bit of practising to do before he could manage it quite as well as his father did, but it did the trick anyway.

"Draco," Pansy frowned and then sighed, tilting her head as though in sympathy "The ballet girl is a mudblood."

Draco scoffed "No she's not, she's a half-blood. Don't be so bloody ridiculous."

"She's not, Draco. She lied to you. I found out just today - from one of her classmates. The girl told me herself, quite confidently, that Baxter is a mudblood. Like you did, I thought that she was a half-blood and the Beauxbatons seventh year overheard- er, she became aware of my being misinformed and corrected me."

"Then she's wrong - or she's lying, or you bloody well made the whole thing up!"

"Why would I lie about something that's so easily fact-checked?" She insisted "What exactly has she said about her blood status? I'm willing to bet she phrased it all very carefully indeed."

"She-" Draco started, and then he paused.

She hadn't phrased anything carefully, because she'd never actually said anything on the matter. Every conversation they'd had concerning blood status had involved him speaking and her staying quiet - he'd always just taken that silence as agreement, that if she was a mudblood she'd make her disagreement known just as loudly and obnoxiously as Granger always did, but maybe…

His gaze returned to Pansy. While he wasn't naive enough to think that he could always tell whenever anybody lied, he certainly knew her well enough to know when she was lying. And she had a point, too, for even if she was angry enough or stupid enough to lie about this, it could very easily be verified - and she was confident enough in what she was saying to point that out. Draco's stomach dropped, and he discarded what remained of his sandwich.

Fury had followed. Fury that felt all the hotter for the glee that it had quashed. Fury that would likely still be prevailing right now had she not gone and cried when he'd exacted his revenge. Fury which might have returned with a vengeance had she just gone and damn well laughed when Moody put on his little show in the courtyard. Fury that he'd previously been able to rely on to blot out the fact that he wasn't sure this misunderstanding had been some sinister ploy on her part at all, and it grew increasingly difficult to believe that it was as each day went on. Fury that had been entirely stamped out without hope for a return when he'd spoken to her in the classroom the ballerinas had commandeered and been forced to face properly just how much he missed her.

Damn her - and the ridiculous carriage she'd flown in on. And damn Pansy for telling him. Not only because she shattered his blissful ignorance, but because of how delighted she'd been to do so. Nervous, yes, and wary of whatever reaction he might give, but only insofar as how that reaction might affect her. She'd been happy enough when she'd flounced in here to tell him, and that great joy had only faded when it first seemed to occur to her that he may curse the messenger.

Draco's glaring at inanimate objects intensified, mostly because his tactic to rediscover his short-lived hatred for Baxter had only fuelled his annoyance towards Pansy. She hadn't cared about the effect the news might have beyond the consequences it would reap - and then she expected him to lose sleep over her being banned from the ball thanks to her own stupidity. Instead, here he was, losing sleep over Baxter instead. If only there was something he could do - something that would give him the upper hand, something that would shake off this pathetic sense of guilt.

Scoffing, he rolled out of bed and padded towards his trunk, seizing a scrap of parchment, a quill, and an inkpot from it.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Goyle grunted.

"Nothing," he replied, making for the door so that he could write his letter in peace.

It wasn't too late for him to add to his Christmas wish-list - the letter could be in the hands of his mother within twenty-four hours. He'd do this, he'd feel better, and then he'd stop bloody well thinking about her. It would be as simple as that.

Despite it all, when the Christmas holidays began and the Yule Ball was well and truly breathing down their necks, Marilyn was feeling decidedly optimistic. It did help quite a bit that the loudest and dumbest of the blood purists had pissed off home for the holidays without the Yule Ball to keep them here - there'd even been talk of them trying to get their more careful friends to join them in protest, but few if any had taken that bait. This was more or less the Wizarding equivalent to prom, even the children of former Death Eaters weren't going to miss it because their pals didn't know when and where to keep their hate to themselves.

That was probably lesson one in being a blood purist twonk - know the clever time and place to express your horrendous views, lest they make things inconvenient. Lesson two would be how to properly long for the return of the glory days when you could talk about it openly and simply torture anybody who dared to disagree.

On Christmas Day itself, they were permitted to eat breakfast in the Great Hall, but had been warned that they'd need to eat lunch elsewhere while the hall was converted into a winter wonderland for the ball itself. Marilyn was fine with that - she'd choke down odds and ends beforehand for the energy it would give her, but she already knew that her nerves wouldn't allow her to eat a proper meal as the day dragged on. Especially not with this performance.

As was true tradition among Wizarding folk and Muggles alike, rather than pay much attention to the actual breakfast offered by Hogwarts, she and her friends shared a breakfast feast consisting of whatever sweets they'd been sent by loved ones - and she even had something to contribute to that, thanks to the gifts sent by her friends at Beauxbatons. Fleur Delacour had even gotten her a chocolate frog - something she suspected wouldn't have happened if not for her recent humiliation.

"Anything fun from home?" George asked as he tore into his fourth cauldron cake in a row.

"Hm? Oh, no," she shook her head "They don't really do Christmas."

"What? They don't celebrate?"

Not beyond the fact that it meant that for one day a year, their decision to have alcohol for breakfast was actually socially acceptable.

"Eh," she shrugged "It's not that they don't celebrate, they just…don't celebrate."

George's brow furrowed, but she would never find out whether he would accept it and let the matter lie, for they were interrupted when an owl swooped into the hall a little behind the rest that brought in the post - and it was easy to see why, seeing as how it toted a hell of a parcel in its claws.

It drew some nudges and murmuring, but they were saved from having to speculate as to what it was from a distance when the bird let go of it right above Gryffindor table and the parcel came flying down towards their heads. It landed among a selection of breakfast pastries, the brilliant white box becoming splattered with strawberry jam.

They all looked at one another, each waiting for somebody to claim it until Hermione finally sighed impatiently and plucked the card from the length of twine that tied it shut.

"Marilyn Baxter," she announced, reaching across the table to hand her the card.

Evidently she didn't think it as strange as Marilyn did - all she could do was stare dumbly.

"What? No - it can't be," she shook her head "My gifts from my friends back in France came directly to the carriage first thing with everybody else's presents."

"Apparently not," Hermione shrugged.

Marilyn stared at the card - half convinced it would turn out to say something like Marianne Blackwell or something, and that Hermione had somehow miraculously forgotten how to read. But apparently not. Frowning, she undid the twine on the box and lifted the lid, absentmindedly licking the jam that stuck to her fingers thanks to that action. The box was long - damn long. Maybe Madam Garnier had decided on a costume change for her last minute and it contained some sort of new dress for her to dance in. Rather than being met with lengths of tulle or lace, though, the box was filled with straw.

"Alright, is this some sort of prank?" She snorted at Fred and George as she dug a hand into the straw.

"I'm actually pretty offended that you think our pranks would ever be so boringly subtle," Fred shot back, although even he was leaning forward to regard the box with curiosity.

Her hand finally met something in the straw - something smooth and wooden. If she wasn't so committed to her denial and her confusion both, she probably would have worked out what it was after that. As it was, she refused to believe what the box held until she curled her fingers around it and pulled it out. A broom. A dazzlingly sleek, elegant, and therefore likely very expensive, white broom, embellished here and there with silver accents.

"Holy shit…" she breathed, turning it over in her hands - and nearly knocking out Harry for her troubles, unable to believe it.

Having successfully dodged the handle to the face that he almost took, Harry joined the rest in staring at it in disbelief.

"You don't play Quidditch, do you?" He questioned "What in the world are you going to do with a broom like that?"

"I, no…I…" she couldn't believe it - she wouldn't believe it.

"Look - there's another note," Hermione leaned forward and plucked it from the packing straw nestled in the box.

Marilyn wanted to drop the broom and snatch the card from her hand, but that would only be more suspicious - instead she froze and stared, hoping to Merlin for two things in particular. The first was that who she thought had sent it hadn't done so. The second was that if he had, he hadn't been stupid enough to sign his name to it.

When Hermione's brow furrowed, she feared the worst. But then she looked up and tilted her head.

"That's strange. They've put a post script, but they haven't actually written anything."

Lowering the broom back into the box, Marilyn accepted the card from her and peered down on it - two letters, simply P.S. written in the same immaculate script that the first card had featured. Handwriting that had become very familiar to her over the course of her Muggle Studies classes.

"Who do we know with the initials P and S?" Harry ventured.

"Professor Snape?" Ron hazarded with a snort.

Marilyn continued to stare at the card, her last conversation with Draco sodding Malfoy coming to mind.

"So much for that Pure-blooded superiority, eh?" She'd sighed.

P.S. Pure-blooded. Superiority. It had to be it - the second she remembered it, she knew it was. He was the only boy alive who'd do something so nice and include a card so stupidly arsey with it. She laughed - she couldn't help it - and then her eyes lifted of their own volition and met his across the hall, where he held eye contact for a few moments as he sipped from a cup of pumpkin juice. When he broke it, it was so he could allow his gaze to flicker down towards the broom, and then he smirked into his cup.

Marilyn was almost tempted to beat him over the head with it for being so bloody impossible. And she might have done - were she not still completely frozen in astonishment and disbelief.

Chapter Text

Maybe it was a show of glaring ingratitude, or maybe it was just what experience had taught her to expect when it came to Draco sodding Malfoy, but Marilyn's head was well and truly scrambled. Right when she had to be at her most focused, too. If she hadn't known better, she might have wondered whether that hadn't been his intention all along - but Draco's cruelty was not half so subtle when it surfaced, as she knew well enough. Whatever this was, it wasn't that. Of course, that just left her with the question of what it actually was, and that was a lot more difficult to sit and think about. So she didn't. Or…she tried not to. And she didn't do a very good job of that. Most of all, she took comfort in the fact that she suspected Draco was just as confused as to his motives as she was.

In the end, she made a big show in front of her Gryffindor friends of coming to the conclusion that it must've been her ballet mistress who had sent it - but that she'd done so anonymously so as not to fuel resentment among the other girls. They'd bought it with varying degrees of suspicion, but she didn't for a moment fear that they'd suspect anything close to the truth. That would necessitate believing that Draco had either a conscience or a heart, and she still struggled to believe that herself.

Avoiding him for the rest of the day was easy. The most nerve-wracking part was the walk to the dungeons so that she might join her sisters in preparing, and even then George and Fred had opted to walk with her so they could peek in and offer heartfelt words of encouragement before Madam Garnier ordered them to piss off and leave them be. To her fellow ballerinas she spun yet another tale - although one that was a bit closer to the truth. That the broom had been sent by a secret admirer, likely one who had witnessed her recent difficulties and felt the need to offer a show of support, even if it was anonymous. When one of them suggested with a giggle that perhaps it had been Viktor Krum, she didn't argue.

The broom…the broom was perfect. Sleek and elegant, the handle was wide enough for her to dance on, and smooth enough not to inhibit her without being polished to such a ridiculous shine that it made slipping a sure-fire thing. He'd absolutely nailed it, and she hated how much that brought a fierce blush to her face, even as they all went about their preparations. Her powerlessness against that blush came back to haunt her every time she met Madame Garnier's eye, her lips pressed thinly together while her eyes were knowing and disapproving all at once. Marilyn, very maturely, responded by playing dumb.

What she'd always found most difficult before a show was not practising. There was a happy medium to be found with it the day of - yes, they needed to do a hell of a lot of stretching and warming up, but the last thing they needed was to find themselves fatigued when the actual performance was upon them, so she needed to do something that she'd never been particularly good at, almost as a rule. She had to refrain from pushing herself - doing what it took to get warmed up and familiarising herself with her new broom, and then leaving it at that.

Once all that had been done, she took up a space in one of the corners of her room, sitting beside her costume, with the broom propped up against the wall beside her. She would return it after the dance. That way it wouldn't quite be a slap in the face, but nor would it look like she could forget all of the bad with one fancy gift. And anyway, who was to say it wasn't enchanted to buck of her off of the broom? No matter how much she tried to entertain such thoughts - mostly so then she couldn't be completely caught off-guard if it really did happen - it just didn't ring true. Draco was intelligent, and he could be a right nasty bastard, but he wasn't that scheming and manipulative. When he was angry he was really angry, and he couldn't hide it by being something close to nice in private just to pull off being terrible again in public. That, she suspected, had been why she hadn't seen him the night before his first big display. He wouldn't have been able to hide his hatred.

So where was that hatred now? Where did they stand? Where did she want them to stand? All questions she refused to ponder as she scraped her hair back into a bun, then dusted glitter over it - a subtle amount, if there was such a thing where glitter was concerned, because it wasn't like she was going to a rave. The make-up came next, and that was almost as much muscle-memory as the bun was. For the most part she zoned out for it, absent-mindedly dabbing dewy foundation over her face, followed by a coat of mascara, a soft pink lipstick, and then more glitter. The idea was to look ethereal and fresh-faced, they weren't taking part in a pantomime.

All of the girls around her were going through similar processes, all in similar states of quiet. It was always this way before a proper performance. No chatter, no gossip, no giggling. Just quiet. Originally it was because their ballet mistress insisted it be so, but after a while they began to understand and they no longer needed to be reminded of it, especially in a room like this free of little first years who hadn't been taught properly yet. This was the time for getting their minds right, nothing else. Everything else could wait. Maybe the way in which this had all been drilled into her was why she finally managed to shove Draco out of her mind.

Sure, with their (apparently alarmingly short-lived) hatred for one another cooling, and with those who had been the most openly hate-filled not even present for the ball, it might've been tempting to think that she somehow now had less to prove, but it didn't take very long with her to come up with a list of grievances to refute that. There were undoubtedly those who found the little stunt to be absolutely hysterical, but were smart enough to keep their mouths shut about it. Draco was still attending, wasn't he? He was the one damn well responsible for it. Then there was the fact that if she did well enough, no doubt it would reach the ears of those who hadn't been quite so clever.

Most of all, everybody in Hogwarts had witnessed her humiliation. The few who had not would at least have heard all about it. She would make sure that the same could be said for this. It was only right.

The others were garbed in pastel costumes ranging from hues of lilac to periwinkle, all designed to glimmer under the bright white light that the stage would be lit up in. Marilyn's own costume was similar, albeit in a very light shade of silver, with an identical bodice with various white gems affixed, but rather than a romantic tutu with layers of tulle that flowed with her every move, her costume boasted a pancake tutu instead - one that jutted out at her hips, exposing her legs almost in their entirety. All the better to show off her upcoming feat.

Decked out in her silver costume, white pointe shoes and white tights, she topped it all off by adding a layer of yet more glitter-laden body lotion, and then joined the others in placing a silver circlet atop her head. By the time they were done and she glanced around the room, she was sure they looked every bit the famous Beauxbatons ballerinas that the students from the other schools seemed so laughably fascinated by.

And she needed to buy into the hype to combat the nerves - for the nerves were there. Marilyn talked a big game almost as a rule at this point, but she was only human, and she was having very human doubts at that point. Ones that involved an unending slew of mental images of herself flubbing it in any and every way possible until the only way that she could calm her mind was to walk back and forth on the broom with her eyes shut, just to prove that she could.

The beginning of the ball came too quickly and too slowly, but Marilyn held her nerve. If there was any way that she was ever going to be able to prove a point to every fucker in that hall and succeed, it was this way. It wasn't like she was going in there and trying to sing or duel - this was dancing. This was her wheelhouse. It would be fine. Madame Garnier took the broom from her as the champions' waltz drew to an end, the music inside so loud that she could feel the vibrations through her shoes.

"It'll be there when you need it," she promised, turning it over in her hands "It's a fine broom."

It was the most in the way of a 'good luck' that she was going to get - but she was used to that. Offering little more than a bashful nod, she let the other girls bypass her until she was the very last in the line. It was time for her payback.

Draco watched the opening waltz with poorly concealed impatience. He had little interest in watching Potter fumble his way through the simplest of steps, nor Granger turning the colour of a cherry tomato every time Krum so much as smiled at her. What he was interested in, however, was when Baxter might make her appearance. She wasn't here - none of the Beauxbatons ballet girls were - but the teachers had been harping on and on about some special surprise for after the champions opened the ball, so it didn't take a genius to work out that they'd be appearing next.

Would his present be accepted? He supposed he'd soon find out - although he expected so. The look of wide-eyed surprise on her face as she'd opened the gift had been well worth the questions from his mother regarding it, and he'd watched with no small amount of satisfaction as she'd visibly put the pieces together and then been entirely unable to look at him for the rest of the meal thereafter. Maybe she'd be stubborn and use an old practise broom. Maybe her pride would force her to do so. But he was curious to see all the same…and a part of him that he refused to address hoped not.

The champions were ushered to the sides of the dancefloor with the rest of them, and then the double doors to the hall opened and the dancers entered. Elbowing his way to the front of the audience, Draco searched the line as they entered for Marilyn, but she wasn't near the front and he couldn't do much more to try and catch a glimpse of her without craning his neck, and that would be the very opposite of subtle. His patience was rewarded, however, when the dancers all fanned out in the middle of the dance floor one by one, until the last of their number was revealed in the centre - Marilyn Baxter. Damn her, she was beautiful. Were he less aware of who he was and his own value, he might've been awestruck at the fact that he'd kissed her.

As it was, it just seemed terribly correct - that a girl so beautiful and poised should end up in his company. And if he hadn't been so busy waiting for the dance to begin, he would have noticed his lack of consideration for her blood status in that thought. There should have at least been some form of acknowledgement of it in there - a mudblood or no, or even a more tame despite her being a Muggleborn. Instead, he simply watched and fought back a smirk as she stood at attention, one leg tucked slightly behind the other, her chin in the air, utterly poised as she waited for the music to begin. She didn't so much as glance at him - nor at the stupid Weasley git when he let out a whistle that was quickly silenced by a stern look from McGonagall.

Then the music started and there was silence. The ballerinas all moved in perfect unison, twirling and kicking in perfect mirror images of one another…with the exception of Marilyn. Her choreography was fairly uncomplicated and not particularly flashy (for her standards, anyway) - yet - serving mainly to emphasise the seamless unison with which the others danced by twirling and weaving between them, giving the others their time to shine before the finale. It was generous of her.

Draco had attended a few different ballets - mainly having been given little choice by his parents in the matter. Usually he spent the duration of them zoning out, maybe raising an eyebrow at the most impressive parts but that was the extent of it. It had just never really interested him. Until now. The ones he'd seen in the past - the prima ballerinas - all tended to have one of two expressions on their face, those either being some melodramatic look of yearning-slash-sadness, or a wide borderline manic grin that surely must have made their faces hurt as much as their feet did by the end of the night.

Baxter went for neither extreme. Instead, she floated across the dancefloor with the barest traces of a smirk playing on her lips - a warm smirk, with mirth sparkling in her eyes as though she was sharing an inside joke with the entirety of the audience. It was utterly lovely, distracting him even from the borderline sinful expanse of strong and slender leg which she displayed compared to the rest of them, and he had to keep on reminding himself that to the outside observer he wasn't supposed to show any level of joy towards her existence at all.

The older girls being the focal point of the performance went on just long enough for him to begin growing restless, even wondering if she'd nixed her little solo venture entirely, but when Marilyn disappeared behind them and they all converged in a circle to entirely block her from view, he perked up, his back straightening as though the extra inch of height might let him peek over them to see her. He hadn't seen the broom yet - had she taken it out entirely? Or would she use a different one? Maybe it would be for the best if she rejected the gift - then he could cut all ties entirely without any regret and move on. And yet he still couldn't quite hope for that outcome.

The top of her head appeared first, rising up slowly and poking up above the tightly scraped back buns of the other girls. A few head-tilts and muttered questions arose from that, but it made sense that nobody had clicked on yet. It could've always been a levitating spell. Not that any of the Beauxbatons girls needed that to look like they were weightless - because even he had to hand it to them, they were very good. The hours they put in and the way that severe professor of theirs worked them more than showed.

Only once her forehead was visible above the heads of the rest of the girls did they part, teetering back and forth on the tips of their toes to reveal her, and that was when the reactions surfaced. Draco had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling - mostly kidding himself that it was because of the stupid looks of surprise on the faces of those gathered, and not because of the dazzling white broom she balanced on, standing on on the ball of one foot.

It was little more than a foot off of the ground so far, but that was no less impressive for how she jumped on it, albeit not en pointe yet - small little backwards hops that matched the way the plucking of the strings that she danced along to, one leg stretched out behind her, her left hand raised high in the air while her right was extended forward to help her maintain her balance. Well, that was what he'd assumed - but then she turned her wrist so that her palm faced upwards and the broom rose in turn another foot in the air, then another on top of that. Much higher and they'd all be staring up her skirt. Draco didn't much like the idea of that - all those gathered gawking and nudging one another and snickering.

Thankfully, she stopped rising then, the broom perfectly still in mid-air. But before the novelty of this grand reveal could wear off, she bent at the knee and leapt higher than before, twirling mid-jump in the air so that she could face in the other direction, landing en pointe on the other foot. The smirk on her face threatened to morph into a grin at the reaction that drew from the crowd. It was then that Draco realised he had no idea at all what the other dancers were doing, but he couldn't drag his eyes off of the blonde long enough to find out. He didn't really care enough to find out, worried about what he might miss if he looked away.

It shouldn't have impressed him. Not this much. How many times had he sat and idly watched her rehearse over and over again in that dungeon classroom? More often than not, really - back before everything had gone pear-shaped. But while there was something of a novelty to the rehearsals, they weren't usually particularly thrilling - just the same move over and over again ad nauseum, with small changes that probably mattered a great deal to the actual dancer but that a casual observer hardly noticed. He hadn't even seen the full thing practised entirely, and she'd made some changes since then. Had he had anything to do with that?

She was lifting her hand again now, but rather than the broom slowly lifting in its entirety, only one side did until it sloped at an angle and she danced backwards up it with perfect ease where anybody less skilled would have surely slipped by now. Then when she reached the bristles of the broom, which now pointed at such an angle that it was almost vertical, paused for the briefest of moments, and then began to dance to the other end of the broom. Rather than hopping this time, she brought both legs beneath her and dance across the broom in a series of quick little spins - any of which could have sent her hurtling to the floor if her placement had been at all off or ill-timed. Even more impressive was how the broom continued to move as she did so, tilting in the other direction now so that the tip of the broom rose upwards all while she spun towards it, the playful smile on her face never budging at all. It was growing into less of a dance and more of a feat of gymnastics, little giving away just how difficult this all was other than the tension in her legs that the dazzlingly white tights highlighted with every movement, along with the sweat that glinted across her brow almost as much as the glitter she was doused in.

Only when the broom was at such an extreme slant that it was almost pointing entirely upwards did she stop, and he knew what would come next - she'd slide down it, land on the floor, and strike some sort of elegant pose, content in having made her point. And he was wrong. Instead she bent at the knee again and jumped even higher than before. As she did so, the broom did point entirely upwards now, just in time for her to land on the very tip of the handle, on the tips of the toes of her right foot, her left pointing up towards the ceiling behind her while her arms met above her head. The music stopped, and she was entirely still. The audience was not.

Weasley - the one she was so bloody attached to - was the first to break the silence in his typical obnoxious and uncouth manner, letting loose a whistle and some sort of belligerent shout. But Marilyn must've been used to blocking out his stupidity by now, for she scarcely reacted at all, holding the pose until the leg holding her upright threatened to tremble. It was then that the broom finally began to slope at an angle again and she hopped down onto the length of it, sliding downwards and landing elegantly onto the floor with a pleased little smile, plucking the broom from the air afterwards.

All of the girls formed a line then - the dark-haired girl, Chloe, looking particularly displeased with the ongoing applause if the pursing of her lips was anything to go by - and sank into elegant curtseys. As they did so, the skirts of their costumes began to glimmer and lengthen, transforming with the work of but one spell into evening gowns. Despite her best efforts to appear unbothered, Marilyn's smile morphed into a grin…and Draco struggled not to return it when their eyes met, his arms firmly crossed so as not to be caught clapping. He had to hand it to her, she knew how to make a point.

Chapter Text

Having to attend a dance casually after having just performed for her bloody life (or, well, her reputation - which had oddly grown to feel just as important as of late) was not something that Marilyn exactly looked forward to in the run-up to her performance. She was certain she'd be exhausted, not just from the dancing but from all of the emotions leading up to it, and the aftermath of it all, for better or for worse. Instead, it wasn't half as bad as she'd feared.

Riding on a high, her hands had practically been vibrating with all of the leftover adrenaline coursing through her when she spotted George in the crowd and approached. The low, ridiculous bow he dropped into once she was before him would have been utterly stupid if performed by anybody else, but he pulled it off with a cheeky grin along with an absolute lack of care over whether it was indeed ridiculous. One could get away with a hell of a lot when toting an attitude like that.

She danced with George. Then Fred - to keep things fair, they'd joked. She'd even shown off a little, rising up en pointe, twirling and spinning and jumping just to make sure they really got their money's worth when it came to being seen dancing with one of the Beauxbatons ballerinas. After how kind they'd been with her, it was the least she could do. They'd even tried to wind up Ron by suggesting she dance with him, likely hoping to see their little brother's face turn crimson, but instead he'd grumbled something about not being in the mood before slinking away with not so much as a blush. That had her confused for all of five second before she noted the curl of his lip as he watched Viktor Krum spin Hermione around the dancefloor while the only female in the golden trio let loose a series of very uncharacteristic girlish giggles. Oh.

Good for her - that was all that Marilyn thought as she stepped out of the Great Hall, which was steadily growing more and more humid - no small feat for such a large room. When she left him, George was dancing with Esme. Good for him, too. Crossing the corridor, she slipped out of the castle's great double main doors and stepped into the freezing night air. The doors had been left open, lighting up a strip of the stones in candlelight which in turn made the snow that caked the courtyard a dazzling white.

Picking her way down the steps, she veered left and stepped out of the patch that was illuminated by candlelight until she was in the shadows, sitting down carefully on a stony ledge.

"Baxter."

Marilyn tensed slightly when Draco's voice sounded somewhere off to the side - although not for the same reasons she would have a week or two ago. He must have gotten there before her.

"Draco," she returned, continuing her scrutiny of the starry snow strewn landscape that Hogwarts was situated in "Thank you."

His shoes crunched in the snow, giving his movements away as he shifted unsurely for a few moments. Was it her thanks that had thrown him off, or her use of his first name when he'd used her surname? Then again, it was entirely likely that he simply had no clue how to act with somebody after he'd done them a solid…especially having done that solid after having been an absolute prick. Was there an etiquette guidebook for that sort of thing among the pure of blood? A section reading "what to do if you find yourself being kind to a mudblood" - which was probably followed by "step one: throw yourself into the nearest lake, there's no coming back from that".

"What for?" He asked finally.

Playing dumb, or trying to see if she knew for certain? It wasn't like he'd tried especially hard to hide it.

"You know what for," she said - with no bite to her words "I don't know why you did it, but it was good of you. I'm grateful."

He didn't offer much of a response to that - but when he came to stand by her side she turned her head to look at him and found a troubled sort of furrow in his brow, and she suspected then that he didn't know what to say in response at all.

"How did you do it?"

"I told my mother I wanted another," he shrugged - like it was that easy.

For him, it probably was. And who was she to judge it now, when she was the one who'd benefited from it? Should she have refused the broom and used one of the spare ones? Her pride said yes, but it was the only party of her that did. It just seemed like a way of reigniting whatever spat had been raging between them, and she had no stomach for it. It was easy to say that now, though, that it had gone well. If it had been yet another prank - however unlikely - she'd be standing here with a few fresh bruises cursing his name. The fact that it hadn't ended like that was a curiosity in itself.

"You can have it back now."

"Don't be ridiculous, it was a gift."

"I'm not being ridiculous - and I'm not trying to be ungrateful. It's a beautiful broom, but I don't play Quidditch and I don't do much flying. I've used it as much as I'm going to, and it'll just go to waste now. And questions will be raised about where it came from. It'll cause problems - potentially for the both of us."

"Just say it turns out your parents sent it - they, I don't know, scraped together and saved up."

Marilyn snorted. It was difficult to be offended by his assumption that she'd never be able to come by a broom like that with her own means considering the assessment was a painfully accurate one.

"That'd be even less believable than Santa Claus himself swinging by and dropping it off."

"They're not big on Christmas?"

"Eh," she shrugged "Not really big on being parents, full stop."

A troubled furrow began to take root in his brow, but it was likely more down to the fact that he had no idea how to respond to such a statement. Marilyn couldn't blame him for that. She meant it as a straight-up fact (and it was a straight-up fact), but it could easily sound like some sort of big emotional confession to the unaccustomed.

"The castle's stunning tonight," she offered a lifeline.

"It is," he agreed.

And, though he still did his best to sound somewhat indifferent, it spoke volumes about just how well the Hogwarts staff had done that he didn't make any sort of disparaging comment, nor even a condescending 'they tried their best'. Marilyn didn't try to pre-emptively beat any silence that tried to settle after that - doing so could often be more awkward than just letting it lie.

"Do your feet hurt? You danced a lot."

A dig? He'd seen who she was dancing with.

"So did you. Romilda Vane, wasn't it? Is she related to the Clarabella Vane?"

"Distantly."

"Ah," she said "There are these special ballet shoes you can get, you know. They soothe the feet as you dance, allowing you to dance longer before the pain really sets in and you have to call it quits."

"Your ballet mistress doesn't seem the sort to allow that."

Marilyn grinned "She doesn't. My feet are fucking killing."

Digging her feet into the snow to illustrate her point, she gave a sigh that bordered on outright wistful as she felt the cold seep through the silk of her shoes, and then her tights, soothing the throbbing that emanated all throughout her feet and threatened to even travel up her legs from there. But it was all worth it. Hell, if the pain doubled - tripled, quadrupled - she'd still find it worth it. Maybe that said worrying things about her priorities, but she absolutely didn't care; not only because she'd succeeded, but because those sort of priorities meant she had what it took to make it with this whole thing. She had a future in it. And that was good, because if her future wasn't ballet, she had no idea what it might look like at all.

"I suppose you're done dancing for the night, then."

"Is that an invitation?"

"So what if it is?"

Blinking in surprise, she turned to face him. In return, he offered an exasperated roll of his eyes as he grumbled out.

"Nobody's out here - and even if they came wandering out, have you seen the amount of flasks making the rounds tonight? They won't remember anything. It's not like anybody but us will know."

"Highly flattering, that."

"Oh, please. Do you seriously mean to tell me that you'd jump for joy if either of those two Weasley prats you're so fond of saw you out here with me? Or Granger? Potter? They'd be no more thrilled to see you dancing with me than any of my friends would be to see me dancing with you, so it's no use playing high and mighty."

He had a point there. Of course, her friends would have a problem because of what he'd done, while his would be unimpressed because of who she was, fundamentally speaking. Those were two very different things. But Marilyn wasn't in any mood to argue. The music was drifting out from the castle, the stars were shining, and even the snow sparkled along with her body glitter and her dress. Everything felt damn magical - even more magical than the whole school of witchcraft and wizardry kind of magical that usually filled their days, and that was saying something.

Turning towards him, she eyed him for a few long moments. He did look very handsome tonight - in what was sure to be his poshest dress robes with his hair all immaculately combed back and his goddamn immaculate bone structure, he looked like the hero of some sort of romantic period drama. Okay, maybe the anti hero.

Bowing her head, she exhaled softly and held out her hand. Draco faltered for the slightest of seconds, and then took it - surprisingly gently - before standing and helping her up. It was a good thing, too, because of her stiff and tired muscles. They tended to be fine if she kept moving, but it was remarkably difficult to get going again once she'd stopped - it was all about momentum. Clambering to her feet, she worked some of the stiffness out, her skirts swishing about her as she bent and straightened her legs a few times in quick succession.

"Am I to prepare myself for a particularly strenuous dance if you're warming up like that?"

"I don't know what kind of things your lot get up to at your fancy soirees. The foxtrot? A Viennese waltz? The rumba?"

"One free of all of your hysterical little jokes?" He suggested drily.

"Ballet's the only one that fits that bill, and you don't seem the tight-wearing type. Not the leotard kind either, really."

"Thank Merlin for that."

Were she less content, she might've found it disturbing how easily they slipped back into their teasing and joking. They stepped even further out of view of the castle's doors until they were obstructed from view entirely, tucked into one of the corners. The music was no quieter here than it had been by the doors, and barely even more muted than it had been in the hall itself - it must've been audible from the top of the astronomy tower.

There was a moment then where they both sort of paused, each waiting for the other to step forward and bridge the gap between them. While neither of them could probably be described as shy, she was pleased to see that she wasn't the only one feeling a bit unsure of their brand spanking new reconciliation. Had they even reconciled? It was difficult to tell with Draco where one stood - until you were on the wrong side of him, and then you really knew. So the fact that she was unsure must've been a good sign. Harry likely didn't share that sense of confusion. Still, she was sure she could be forgiven for being tentative around the boy who'd embarrassed her in front of the entire school very recently.

But she didn't have it in her to hate him. Maybe it was her victory, maybe it was the beauty of the night, maybe it was just the sodding Christmas spirit, but she looked at him then and she didn't hate him. Her skirts brushed his shoes as she stepped forward, lifting her left hand towards his shoulder. Draco's hands came up as if on reflex then, one falling gently to her waist and the other taking her hand.

The music playing wasn't really up to a waltz, it was much too slow for it, nor was the terrain beneath their feet suited to any sort of impressive footwork, and after a few moments of awkward faltering and fumbling that absolutely did not live up to her mental image of how their dancing might go, Draco let go of her hand. Dropping it down to her side, she stepped back and tried to think of something to say that might dispel the awkwardness but his hand instead came to join the other, resting at the other side of her waist. Ah.

His lips parted slightly and for a moment she thought he was going to ask if this was okay - before he must've decided that to ask such a thing was terribly wet, and so he left the question unvoiced, technically, but still lingering there. Marilyn lifted her other hand to his free shoulder, too, in answer.

"Is this to be my payment for the broom?"

They began to sway slowly back and forth to the music, the dancing more of an afterthought to the proximity.

"I thought the broom was to be repayment for…what came before it."

"I thought what came before it was repayment for what caused all of this. Our little miscommunication."

"Perhaps it's time we stop keeping score. It's all getting awfully muddled," he murmured.

Marilyn huffed a soft laugh "It's always going to be muddled."

"Best not complicate things further, then."

"Are you talking about the dancing or the score-keeping?"

"The score-keeping," he said "Although this likely isn't the best idea, either."

"Probably not," she agreed.

But neither of them moved to put any distance between them. And she suspected he was masking his relief at that just as much as she was. Whether either one of them was at all successful at doing so was another matter entirely, but she didn't really have it in her to care.

"…However…bad decisions don't always have to be…bad…" he said.

"I suppose not. Not as long as everybody stays fully aware that it is a bad decision."

"There's no danger there. If it's all conscious. Neither of us are prone to denial or delusion."

Which sounded a whole lot, in itself, like denial and delusion. So what did that make her when she nodded her agreement? A fool. A damn fool. A damn fool who was now being snowed on, it turned out, as fat snowflakes began to slowly drift down towards them, settling amidst Draco's already very pale locks and melting on Marilyn's bare shoulders and arms. She told herself it was for that reason that she stepped even closer, seeking out warmth. So much for that lack of delusion.

"I'm not dancing with you to settle a debt," she admitted quietly.

So quietly, in fact, that she'd sort of hoped that the sound of the wind or even the music might drown the words out. The snow, however, made everything around them still and quiet in an ethereal way that made her feel like one of the characters in the ballets she danced so obsessively.

"I know that," he replied just as softly "You don't do things because of some sense of obligation, or to climb a social ladder, or because of somebody's family name. You never do anything you don't absolutely want to do."

Was that really how she appeared? Was he right in that observation? If he wasn't, she did a piss poor job as disproving his little theory when she rose up to the tips of her toes and pressed her lips against his.

Chapter Text

The timing of the Yule Ball combined with, well, certain decisions that Marilyn made during the Yule Ball could not have worked out better. Any time she caught herself - or was caught by anybody else - smiling or zoning out while smiling like an absolute idiot, she could just wave a hand and blame the success of her performance. It was a great excuse, not least because it would've been true under any other circumstances, and that was a feat in itself because it saved her from thinking about any uncomfortable questions - the answers to which would only ruin her good mood. No, she'd save those for when the Christmas holidays ended. That was certainly looming, and while she was determined not to all out dread it, she wasn't exactly looking forward to it, either.

The days that followed the ball were quiet, and she spent them mostly hanging around with the Gryffindor group and steadfastly avoiding looking even in the general direction of Draco. Well, other than when they were stealing off to secluded classrooms to kiss like it was going out of fashion before they parted ways, but even in those instances her eyes were mostly shut, so she still wasn't exactly looking at him then, either. Although the kissing probably negated the not looking thing. Maybe.

It was difficult to say whether any of her friends realised what was going on. Harry was preoccupied with the second task of the TriWizard Tournament (and it wasn't like they were particularly close, anyway), while Hermione and Ron had both been in matching foul moods since the Yule Ball. Fred and George - George in particular, really - were more of a risk, but she knew that worrying about whether they'd noticed anything would make her act weird, and her acting weird would make them notice, turning the whole thing into some horrible self-fulfilling prophecy, so she didn't venture down that route at all. Yet another thing to avoid thinking about. She'd raise denial into an artform by the time she was done here.

Moving carefully through the mass of rocks and great hulking tree roots six days later, she watched her footing carefully - anything that wasn't coated in ice was caked in slippery moss, and the bottle she was carrying wouldn't survive a tumble. There was also injury to think about, but it wasn't like she had a big performance coming up now so that mattered a bit less. Perspective, priorities, all that.

It was difficult for her to find her way without growing paranoid that she was about to get lost. Everything looked different in the snow and the ice, the shallows of the lake frozen into an entirely solid white which only turned grey and then black much further out towards the centre. It never melted entirely solid, it was too big for that. Dumbledore had made a point of warning them after the Durmstrang students had been caught daring each other to walk further and further out to see how far they could get without falling through.

Marilyn usually loved the snow, but the way it changed the scenery was seldom paired with all of the Hogwarts' staff's constant warnings about the Forbidden Forest and the life-ending potential of getting lost within. But she kept the lake to her left, and walked just into the treeline enough so that she couldn't be spotted too easily by anybody at the other sides of the shore, and mostly she just hoped she'd run into Draco before she got hopelessly and utterly lost. Wouldn't that be a fantastic way of punctuating her victory? Showing them all just how great she was, and then vanishing without a fucking trace. They did say to always leave them wanting more.

It was at the tail-end of that joking, albeit rather macabre, thought that she finally caught sight of that impossibly bright blond hair and let loose a short sharp whistle in greeting. Draco's head turned lazily, as if never even considering that he might get in trouble for being out here, and he nodded his greeting.

"You took your time."

Ah, the stuff of illicit secret interludes (because phrasing it as a romance would make her vomit) in every mass market paperback everywhere.

"I was retrieving this," she said, slipping the bottle from beneath her arm and presenting it to him.

His eyebrows rose about as much as they could without surrendering his permanently unfazed facade,

"This is good stuff. French. Did you steal it from your Headmistress?"

"No, I don't have a death wish."

"Mmm. It'd take either a lot of bravery or a lot of foolishness to piss off a woman of her monstrous stature."

"Don't be nasty."

"You're nasty all the time."

"Yeah, but I'm funny when I do it."

"I shall strive to one day reach the heights of your comedic mastery."

"Many have tried," she hummed.

"Your ballet mistress, then?" He lifted the bottle.

"I'd piss off Madame Maxime ten times before I even considered pissing off Madame Garnier. It wasn't stolen at all, it was a gift."

"From whom?"

Whom? Jesus, she was sneaking around with the poshest bastard to stalk the halls of Hogwarts - and that was saying a lot, considering it was a bloody castle.

"Chloe."

"The one who hates you?"

"That's the one. Her good taste only extends so far as wine."

He rolled his eyes, and Marilyn smiled in return.

"She got it from her parents for Christmas, and she passed it onto me - coincidentally, she did it in front of all of the Beauxbatons students who are miffed at her for…what she did. Chloe gets her redemption, I get drunk, everybody's happy."

"Particularly you, depending on the strength of the wine."

Marilyn snorted in response, and then made a very ladylike display of uncorking the bottle with her teeth. That earned her another eye roll - for it was rather less impressive than the spell he'd used to do so last time…which was exactly why she'd done it. Pulling their cloaks tightly about themselves, they took their time using heating charms to melt the snow away from the tree roots before nestling down into the space they'd made. Taking the first swig of the wine, and then another for good measure, she handed the bottle to Draco as he made hismelf comfortable beside her.

"This is quite a way to celebrate the little break you've got from ballet for the time being," he said after a few moments of silence.

"That's not something I ever really celebrate."

"That's because you're bizarre."

"I've really missed our little chats, Draco, they truly do warm the heart."

"Why wouldn't you celebrate having actual free time now? I heard one of the seventh year girls all but crying over breakfast because she could eat whatever she wanted, too."

"Eh," she shrugged "The novelty of that wears off after the first day or two. The food you miss when you're training is never as good as you convince yourself it'll be. The free time is mind numbing. It's all too empty after you've spent ages achieving a goal. Usually it's best to have the next big goal lined up immediately after, or else you end up feeling low in the aftermath."

"That's absurd."

"Of course it's not. The adrenaline and the determination and the discipline that it takes to get you there is part of the thrill. Then you achieve it, and none of that is there anymore. It's bound to leave you feeling off-kilter. All that empty time, it gets suffocating. Utterly bloody unbearable, really. People need goals - ambitions. The ones worth anything, anyway. Anything less than that and you're just begging for mediocrity to come along and bite you in the arse while you distract yourself with empty shite."

It wasn't something she was really in the habit of speaking about - mostly because, well, it was just a fact, wasn't it? She didn't speak about breathing air or drinking water, either. By the time she was done talking, though, she had the horrible feeling that she'd started to sound like some sort of cringe-inducing motivational speaker. She hadn't even had enough wine that she might be able to blame it on that. When she turned her head towards him next she was ready to crack a joke to distract from all that she'd just said, fully expecting to find him looking either bored or downright mocking. Instead…instead she couldn't place the look on his face. She blinked, then her brow furrowed and he looked away.

"We're getting back into greatness isn't greatness when it's expected of you territory," he pointed out softly before taking a few quick gulps from the bottle.

"Yeah, well, a lack of recognition isn't an excuse for being shit. That's just pathetic."

Draco grinned at that, and she fought against the urge to stare because he always looked so different when he smiled - a true, genuine smile that lit up his whole face, rather than a nasty smirk with no mirth at all to it. If he could smile like that around anybody, he could very well easily convince the whole school that he was the nicest guy to attend Hogwarts. Up until he spoke, that was.

"Is that to be your New Year's resolution, then?" He asked, handing her back the bottle "To not be shit?"

"New Year's resolutions are for the mediocre, too. I don't need a new year to start to have a goal."

"My, you must be the life and soul of every New Year's Eve party you've ever attended."

"I can appreciate the moment just fine," she rolled her eyes "I just don't need January to start in order to make a new goal and stick to it. But…as a moment, I enjoy it."

"Yes, I can hear that."

"I do! It's an opportunity to reflect. To take stock. To look ahead. All that good stuff."

"As I said, Baxter, life and soul."

She laughed quietly. That smile stayed on his face as she did so and he leaned back. The little groove they were taking shelter in wasn't particularly wide, so his action meant they were pressed tightly together in a way that was just shy of discomfort. A couple of weeks ago, it would have been very uncomfortable. But now Marilyn found herself leaning against him, even if they both pretended not to notice how they sought out contact with the other. The same way they more or less pretended that none of the horrible shit between them had happened…with the exception of a handful of vague references and the occasional joke. Again, denial into an artform.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she teased "I didn't realise you're middle name was The Sesh, I should have known."

"The Sesh?" He echoed.

"The session."

He looked no less confused, and so she clarified "Y'know, the party."

"You're suggesting I don't know how to party?"

It was difficult to tell whether he was genuinely offended by the notion or if he was just teasing.

"I'm saying what your lot classifies as a party is nowhere near the actual thing. All caviar and classical music, probably."

"You've never seen one of our parties."

"And I never will."

And that was what induced the risk of an awkward silence. The source of that horrible shit that had gone on between them at its bare bones - her blood status and his shockingly vile views towards it - was what they ignored most of all. Religiously, almost. "Remember how you think people of my blood status should be subjugated, haha, that's wild" could be laughed off even less easily than "remember when you went out of your way to humiliate me in front of the entire school, good times", and that was really saying something. It was just a complicated one, wasn't it? On the asshole scale, he was definitely worse off than she was with everything that had gone on, but there was no denying that she'd had a hand in it by letting the charade go on as long as it had. There was a definite natural selection element to that, wasn't there? She'd played with fire, she'd gotten burned. And now here she was, sticking her hand in the flames again.

Sure, now was different, but that didn't change the fact that if she got burned a second time she'd never forgive herself for allowing it to happen. But there wouldn't be a third. Her assurance of that fact to herself was dampened a bit as she leaned into him a bit more.

"I'm surprised she was allowed to keep it," he said when the silence threatened to settle.

"Hm?"

"The wine."

"Ah - well, they're all very European, aren't they? Most of them were probably sipping wine at dinner before they could even read or write."

"Doesn't seem conducive to the learning to read and write," he replied drily.

Marilyn snickered.

"What do parties with your lot look like, then?" He asked "Like this?"

It took her a moment to see past his ever-imperious tone and realise that he actually seemed to be genuinely curious.

"Sometimes," she admitted "Usually with more people. It's a staple of a Muggle working class childhood to get drunk in a park somewhere with your friends. Hang around outside a shop, ask somebody who's of age to buy you a few bottles of cheap booze."

"Why would they do that?"

"Well you give them the money for it, and if you pick who to ask properly it'll usually be somebody who remembers asking strangers to do the same for them as a teen. Usually you need to go with either uni students or little old ladies if you want 'em to say yes. Middle aged rockers work, too. A tip from me to you right there."

"I'll keep it noted. So you do this even in winter?"

"Well sometimes somebody's parents will fuck off somewhere for a weekend - we call them empties because, you know, empty house. That's when things get a bit wilder."

"You surprise me. You don't seem the sort."

"Gets me out of the house for a bit," she shrugged "What I do depends on if I'm dancing or not. When I have to behave I'll have a bit of wine then find somewhere quiet to hang about. Try not to get spewed on."

"I think I'll stick to mine, thanks."

"Who said you were invited?"

He snorted, then he hesitated and then he admitted "It's really not that different."

Her shock over that admission was dampened by the fact he seemed as bemused by that fact as she was.

"Oh, come on," she didn't believe him for a second.

"The surface of it is, obviously," he said "But there are some vague, minor similarities. At the parties my parents throw, once I've shown my face for a suitable amount of time, a bunch of the younger ones always steal off to the gardens with a few bottles of champagne and make our own party."

"You little hoodlum, you," she teased.

"It's better than answering the same questions for the fiftieth time that evening alone. So what are your plans for the future? What do you want to do? As if we all don't know that the answer best well be 'whatever it is my parents are currently doing' and leaving it at that."

"So you all sneak off and get absolutely mortal? I'm struggling to picture it."

"Mortal?" He echoed with a snort "You're so bloody northern. But yes. The trick is to not be the one who's worst off. It's difficult for my parents to be unamused at me for slurring a word or two when Crabbe is vomiting into their topiaries."

"Topiaries? You're so bloody southern."

"That's not south-specific. The word you're looking for is posh," he sniffed.

Marilyn grinned then. She rather liked him when he wasn't taking himself too seriously, rare an occasion as it was.

"I suppose it makes sense," she shrugged "All those good pure-blooded sons and daughters having to be all buttoned up and well-behaved all the time."

Draco looked at her strangely again then, and Marilyn suspected that encountering basic empathy was just as much of a novelty to him as some of her more northern slang was.

"I suppose," he said finally, fiddling with the rim of the bottle for a moment before handing it back to her.

Marilyn took a few gulps from it, needing to do so if she was going to raise the topic that she wished to. It could go pretty badly wrong, and she thought she already knew the answer, but she had to be sure. Then she could formulate a plan for going forward. Or, well, she wouldn't end up being confused and looking like a tit. Although the more the days went on now, the more that seemed like a given.

"Everybody'll be back in less than a week," she pointed out.

"Unfortunately," he said flatly.

Well. That sort of answered her question. Didn't it?

"What's going to happen then?" She pushed.

"We'll go back to dealing with homework. Either Diggory or Krum will win the tournament. Those two clones you love so much will go back to finding new and unusual ways of being the most annoying human beings to ever stalk the halls of Hogwarts," he rattled off each scenario in startlingly quick succession, evidently having given the matter a lot of thought "Hopefully Potter will perish in one of the upcoming tasks."

"Charming."

"Are you asking where we stand?" He asked sharply.

"Oh, don't ask it like that," she grumbled "I'm not asking if you're going to declare your love for me in front of the whole school for all to see - so Snape can applaud and Pansy can cry and Fred and George can…oh, I don't know, drag me to the school shrink for immediate psychological help."

"Good, because that would be a damn foolish question."

"I know. It would cause just as much trouble for me as it would for you, so calm it. That's not what I was asking. I was trying to find out if you had a plan."

"For what? Can't we just go on as we have been?"

"That'll be a lot more difficult to get away with when everybody's back. We're lucky we haven't been caught yet as it is - we nearly were in the broom cupboard that time."

"But we weren't."

"And I got cobwebs all over my uniform."

"We'll stick to cobweb-free broom cupboards from here on out."

"You're impossible."

"I mean it! What has to change? What were you hoping for? A…a cessation?"

"An armistice?" She returned drily.

"Now that would just be boring," he replied at a deadpan "What's your plan, then?"

The way he tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear as he spoke took a great deal of the potential bite out of his words.

"I don't know," she admitted "We'll…we'll need to either stop, or be very careful."

"No, I was planning on being reckless and stupid."

"We've been plenty of that lately," she snorted.

It was then that he apparently realised that mocking her wasn't getting him anywhere and that a different approach might come in handy.

"It's a youthful indiscretion," he pointed out quietly, turning towards her and leaning in until he was all but nuzzling at her neck "We're all entitled to at least one. We're being smart about it, and we're being discreet. It's what? A few more months? Then everything will…everything will go back to normal."

Was it fanciful thinking when she noted how he didn't sound all too thrilled by that prospect? Was she hearing what some small and pathetic part wanted to hear? Or was he just as confused and lost in all of this as she was? None of the answers seemed particularly warming. But…he had a point. Didn't he? Everybody was entitled to a bit of teenage stupidity. Hers was long overdue. She worked hard, she performed well, she did what she had to. But she wasn't a robot. Wasn't it about time that she acknowledged that? What girl didn't dream of some fairytale moment - dressed up in a ballgown, kissing a handsome guy in the snow? Okay, usually the fairytale princes weren't from hateful families who formed their beliefs on whether others should live or die based on blood status, but who in reality was perfect?

Turning her head until their noses brushed, she found herself hoping that she'd feel nothing. That she'd find herself thinking with the utmost clarity - maybe even able to laugh and convince herself that she was toying with him for a bit of fun. Give me a sign. Any sign. If this is a bad idea, if it's a good one, tell me. Now that was a fanciful thought - especially for somebody who didn't really believe in anything in particular. Not as far as gods or goddesses went, anyway. His eyes glinted in the dim lighting, as glacial in colour as the snow and ice all about them, but with a warmth that worried and thrilled her all in one. Returning his gaze evenly, she slowly arched one eyebrow. If he wanted to kiss her, he could bloody well do so. She wasn't going to initiate it every time. Despite what her current problems suggested, she did have some amount of self respect.

He leaned in closer still, his nose nudging hers until even just the slightest breath would close the gap between their lips. Still, he continued to watch her. With their close proximity came a level of unguardedness and she saw then everything she herself was feeling - desire, curiosity…worry and trepidation. She wondered then if Pansy saw all this when they were together, but knew automatically that the answer to that was no. Then, another question came up. What was he seeing in her own eyes right now? No answer came readily in response to that one. She stopped worrying about it when his lips met hers, though, and tingles erupted all throughout her limbs. It was difficult to even pretend it was in response to the cold - the wine was already kicking in and making it hard to feel any kind of chill.

Sighing, she kissed him back readily, her eyes fluttering shut as fireworks began to erupt off at the castle. Maybe that was her sign. But was it a good or a bad one?

Chapter Text

School did start back up, and things went more or less back to normal. Classes resumed, and now if Marilyn caught people looking at her or whispering about her it was usually followed up with a compliment on her performance. Once young Hufflepuff even approached her and asked for an autograph - an autograph, of all things. Sure, it was a crumb-riddled dinner napkin that he asked her to sign, but the encounter still bowled her over. Pansy came back looking distinctly tan, for apparently her parents had treated her to a Christmas abroad to make up for Hogwarts' cruelty towards their darling daughter, but she looked no happier for it. Whether that was because word reached her of Marilyn's triumph, or because Draco was back to barely looking at her, it was difficult to say. If Marilyn was bowled over by having given her first ever autograph, Draco's behaviour threatened to send her to the hospital wing entirely.

While she'd never admit it to anybody other than herself - or out loud at all, really - she'd been fully prepared to spend the new term watching him and Pansy sucking at each other's faces and calmly pretending both not to notice and not to care. There wasn't much of an alternative, was there? An argument would only lead to tedium, and she knew what he would argue before there was even any cause for argument at all. She'll know something's up if I act differently. It's not like we're exclusive. What did you expect? Why do you care?

Those last two questions were tied in terms of what she'd most hate having thrown at her. Mostly because she couldn't answer them.

But, happily, no argument came. Because no cause for argument came. And so Marilyn's biggest source of conflict was that she was presented with no source of conflict at all. Apparently she didn't know how to just be happy.

At least, she noticed once the first week back at lessons drew to a close, he was playing it smart. He showed none of his former disdain for Pansy that he'd been so happy to wear on his face back when they'd first become involved in this little entanglement. She would speak to him and he would respond. At best he'd look mildly interested, and at worst he'd look bored, but none of that was out of the realm of the ordinary where Draco was generally concerned.

Still, Pansy was aware of his change in attitude towards her - she might've been a nasty and vindictive little cow, but she wasn't an idiot. Marilyn had heard her complaining to a friend one day a few rows behind her in Muggle Studies, bemoaning his decision to shoot the messenger and put distance between the two of them. The fact that she'd once again been cast off from the prime spot beside him, replaced cruelly by Crabbe, was evidence of that.

"He's embarrassed," her pal had replied "That's why he's acting weird. Boys do the strangest things when their egos are bruised. Just give him time, he'll go back to normal."

Pansy's responding sigh signified that she wasn't so sure - of the solution her friend posed, or of her psychological insight into the teenage male psyche, it was difficult to say. The important thing was, though, that she didn't suspect the truth. How could she? Marilyn knew the truth, she was one half of the equation involved in the truth, and she still struggled to understand it most days. In fact, most of her level of understanding was gained when she accepted the fact that she did not understand it. Maybe she never even would.

Headaches and Pansy aside, there were other problems. They didn't have nearly as much free time with school starting up again - and while Marilyn's dancing was not nearly so time and energy consuming anymore (there would be a farewell performance, it was deemed, but in the name of fairness she would be at the back with no flashy moves, and so dancing was more or less going through the motions now), when time was not an issue, privacy absolutely was. Not only did they have the whole of Hogwarts to contend with - students and staff - but they also had the combined forces of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang seventh years, too. The risk of being caught was only exciting when they remained uncaught, and the longer this went on, the less likely that seemed.

The last call had been their closest yet, springing apart and feigning a heated argument when - by sheer dumb luck - the fifth year boys who had just rounded the corner happened to cough before they did so, saving themselves from an eyeful they didn't know they were about to get. The whole time, Marilyn prayed that her lips were not swollen, and that her state of disarray could be put down to anger.

It was that which had prompted their little break. Just to regroup, have a period of time where they knew for a fact they would not be seen together, and to focus on other things. Of course, it was therefore sod's law that said break meant that Draco was all she could damn well think about. It was a challenge not to miss him last time, and she'd hated him then. Or at least she'd tried to hate him. Now? Now it was impossible - and that was pathetic.

Suddenly she found her mind filled with inane, pitiful worries that would crop up as she readied her school bag for the day ahead, bathed after a particularly strenuous practise, or tried to fall asleep with her schoolmates in the Beauxbatons carriage. What if this was the end of things? It would probably be easier if they made this little adjustment period a permanent thing - for everybody involved. And given that they'd barely so much as made eye contact in that time, it would be a way of doing it without dragging out any awkward goodbyes or having an argument instigate it. A way of cutting ties before they were fully, well, tied. Minimum mess, minimum bad decisions. He could return to Pansy - he'd surely realise, given time, that she was a more convenient option. A more natural option, given their shared beliefs. And how could she forget those beliefs? What, was she stupid enough to think that she could change a lifetime of hate by batting her eyelashes at him?

The thought - the question - that plagued her the absolute most, though, was a simple one. Was he thinking about her half as much as she was him?

Probably. It wasn't even an arrogant conclusion, just a logical one. She was a Muggleborn - and with any other of her kind, Draco wouldn't piss on them if they were on fire. She must've really wormed her way under his skin if he was associating with her at all. That sort of thing wasn't forgotten in two measly weeks.

"What's got you smirking like that, then?"

The unfortunate aspect of sharing a study period with George was how little attention he liked paying to his homework, and how much attention he liked to pay to winding her up. She couldn't even escape with the excuse of sitting with her own schoolmates, either, for on these study periods house-specific tables were unheeded and all the students gathered were herded onto the two central-most tables in the Great Hall so that the teachers might patrol more effectively to make sure everybody was on-task and not slacking.

"How incredibly charming and good looking you are," she answered his question without so much as glancing his way.

As she did so, she made an effort not to drop the smirk too quickly. That would only look suspicious.

"Liar."

"Excuse me?"

"That would be worth a full blown smile at least - you were smirking, so you were thinking about somebody infinitely less charming and good looking than me."

"All right, I was thinking about Fred."

"Just because I find myself obligated to pretend I give a fig about how the Order of Merlin was founded at the moment doesn't mean I can't hear you," Fred said flatly across the table, not once lifting his gaze from his essay.

"If you wanted to distract me from my prying by mocking my brother, Ron would've been a better bet," George confided.

"He's not here."

"So you could've been especially cruel, then."

He said that like she didn't know damn well if she had been, he wouldn't have found it funny at all. That was the way with siblings, wasn't it? George continued to regard her with narrowed eyes - but it was a comical, exaggerated sort of suspicion. That either meant that she was safe, or that he was lulling her into a false sense of security. Marilyn, however, was fairly certain it was the former. The real suspicion had surface sometime around New Year's, and the virtue of she and Draco enforcing a little firebreak meant that strange looks and odd comments had faded into curiosity, and into what they were now. Jokes.

"What is it you've got planned next, then?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"I didn't mean here."

"Where, then? The moon?"

"Yes, I thought you might've decided to go and find the rest of your people."

"That's Uranus," Fred opted for the low-hanging fruit he was presented with.

"Yeah, your mum was my neighbour," she volleyed with a classic.

"Oh, trust me, you don't want to be taking the name of Molly Weasley in vain. She can be cruel and unusual when she wants to be," George sighed with a great deal of mock-wistfulness.

"You speak as though from experience."

"You speak as though you've forgotten exactly who it is you're talking to," Fred pointed out.

And that was very fair.

"I meant in your plan to dominate the world one twirl at a time," George dragged the conversation back to the topic at hand.

"Oh. That. There is no plan. Not for the rest of the year, anyway. Rehearsal, staying on my game, playing at being a good team player, that's it."

"So what plan do you have?"

Maybe that suspicion wasn't entirely gone, then.

"Who says I have any plan?"

"That smirk."

"I told you, I'm going to seduce Fred."

"Tell me when the Order of Merlin was founded and disbanded and I'm all yours," Fred muttered "It's not in any of the recommended reading. Bloody useless. Where's Hermione when you need her?"

"Founded sometime in the Middle Ages, ended after Merlin died," Marilyn replied "It's not in the books because we don't have exact dates - if you point that out, there's no risk of it looking like you're not being vague on purpose to hide that you just don't actually know."

"Great, I'll see you in the broom cupboard by Gryffindor Tower at midnight."

"Romantic, I like it."

"If you like that, just wait 'til you see Moaning Myrtle's bathroom," he replied.

"Keep talking dirty to me like that and we won't even make it there."

Three things happened after that in quick succession. McGonagall, who Marilyn had not realised was in earshot, bit out a curt 'that's quite enough of that, thank you Miss Baxter, Mr Weasley', and Marilyn felt her cheeks blaze, muttering an apology as Fred offered his Head of House a cheeky grin. Only when the severe woman had swept down to the other end of the table did he shoot her a wink.

"Don't worry, darling, she's just jealous."

Any response she was about to formulate was lost when the sound of a book smacking shut a few places down reached her ears and a mop of platinum blond hair rose above the rest as Draco took up his book and his bag.

"She's not the only one," George commented lightly, making no effort to lower his voice.

"Mr Malfoy, you've another half hour left of this study period," McGonagall warned sharply.

"I'm going to the library. I'll have Pince sign a note," he didn't wait for McGonagall to agree.

Maybe he was thinking about her after all.

Draco was annoyed. And he was annoyed that he was annoyed. Then, rather headache-inducingly, being annoyed at himself for being annoyed served only to spark more annoyance. It was rather a vicious cycle. That annoyed him, too. But did she really have to go on like that? All…all joking and flirtatious with those two idiots? Yes, she'd alluded to having discovered that nothing of that nature lay between herself and Idiot One - an admission that brought him yet more annoyance the more he considered it thanks to the questions it brought up - but that did not mean she hadn't decided to test out that same hypothesis with Idiot Two.

Striding through the corridors, he went straight past the library and on towards the staircases instead. He'd never had any intention of going to the library - and if McGonagall asked, he'd say he'd shown his note to Snape. Snape would cover for him. He didn't even really know where he was heading, truth be told. There was no destination in mind, only a goal - avoid people. He'd reach a crossroads and choose the least populated corridor before continuing on, up and up until he was on the sixth or seventh floor, pacing around to try and expel some of his miffed energy, his mind replaying how that stupid lanky bastard had flirted. And how Baxter had flirted back.

It was a joke. It must have been a joke. It was clearly a joke. That was how she was - but that was how she was with him. It irked him, to put it incredibly lightly, to see her replicate her manner of being with others. Any others, really, but especially those two goofy-looking gits. It led to troubling questions - ones like whether that was just how she was with everybody. If the answer to that was yes, it meant that he was likely much more caught off-guard by this strange spark between them, whilst to her it was just normality. If the answer was no…it meant those two idiots were somewhat special to her. Neither answer left him particularly happy. The tapestry on the wall opposite seemed to mock him - Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls how to do ballet.

Either way, though, whichever answer was the right one to his question, his problem remained the same. This required separation had gone on long enough, and to end it they needed a place. A place where they could be comfortable - undisturbed. Where they wouldn't have to worry about everybody and their mother happening across them at any given moment. Where they could spend time together uninterrupted. A safe haven. But where? If there were any quiet spots in Hogwarts, they were already known to most students here because they were quiet. Such spots were commodities among teenagers. It was no use. It was-

He paused, something in his peripheral vision catching his eye. A door that had not been there before.

Chapter Text

When Marilyn was yanked by the arm into a dark corner of the courtyard on her way out of the castle after practise that night, she was already lashing out with her nails before she even knew who it was who'd grabbed her in the first place. Luckily for him, Draco caught her by the wrists before she could do much damage - and before she could snatch her wand from her pocket.

"Feeling feisty tonight, are we?"

"You're in a good mood," she narrowed her eyes at him as he smirked at her.

"You can tell that from all of the five words I've just said?" His eyebrows rose in questioning.

"Given that none of those five words were insults, yes."

The corners of his lips downturned as if to say 'fair enough', but then it was replaced by that same smirk again. It wasn't even a particularly nasty smirk, either, which was somehow more worrying.

"I have a surprise for you."

And that was when she went from worried to downright scared.

"For me?"

"Yes, Baxter, for you - or else I wouldn't exactly be telling you about it, would I? Wait here for five minutes, and then come to the seventh floor. The corridor that has the tapestry with the trolls doing ballet. D'you know it?"

She did - surprisingly. Mostly because an amusing number of Hogwarts students had it as their one ballet reference and thought it would be a great way of initiating conversation with her. Marilyn barely got out her responding nod before he was giving a lopsided smile that was just a tad too genuinely cheerful. It struck her for the millionth time then what a different person he looked like when he was cheerful like that. When he offered a smile not prompted by nastiness or delight at somebody else's misfortune. It was tragic. The world would've been his for the taking, given his looks and his intelligence and how genuinely charming he could be when he actually wanted to be so, if his values were just a little different.

Then again, she mused once the five minutes had gone by and it was time to start walking, she supposed in his view the world was indeed already his for the taking. It was just a world very different from hers. Maybe that was a good thing. In his view it likely was a very good thing…but Marilyn didn't envy it. It wasn't particularly enviable, after all. He could have whatever it was he wanted in life so long as what he ended up wanting dwelled within the firm perimetres of what his parents wanted him to have. What was befitting a good pure-blood son.

Marilyn's future had a lot more left up to chance, but at least she had a lot more choice in what that future was. Ah, the perks of being a child of neglect. Give her absentee parents over overbearing ones all day every day.

The corridor Draco had cited was empty when she reached it, but that was no surprise because there was nothing actually in it. Lessons were done for the day and it didn't seem to act as a go-between towards any of the common rooms, so there was little reason for people to pass through here now. Well, there was usually nothing in it. As Marilyn slowed to a stop beside Draco where he leaned against one of the walls, she blinked in surprise at the gigantic double doors on the wall opposite.

"Was…that always there?" she asked doubtfully.

With moving staircases, enchanted ceilings, and poltergeists it was difficult to tell what was the norm in Hogwarts, even by the Wizarding world's standards. She didn't want to ask just to be met with an eye-roll and a snarky "What, you haven't heard of the Tuesday room before? The one that's only accessible on Tuesday evenings? Better bring snacks, because if you're in there once it turns Wednesday you're absolutely fucked".

But Draco's shoulders squared and his chest puffed up as he responded "I discovered it."

"You discovered it?" she asked doubtfully "It's a room in a school, not an uncharted island."

It spoke volumes about the good cheer he was in that her doubt earned her little scorn other than an eyeroll. She wasn't going to get cocky by putting it down to where she stood in his graces instead of just the mood he happened to be in.

"Hogwarts is different," he shook his head "It's not just some old classroom that's fallen into disuse, it's…well. You'll see. Come on."

Maybe the way he glanced about to check for witnesses before he took her hand should've robbed the moment of its heart-flutter inducing, Disney-like feel, but she still had to fight a blush as his fingers intertwined with hers. She took solace in the fact, though, that he wasn't entirely immune either - a pink flush dusting high upon his cheeks as he pretended to be otherwise entirely unaware of the implications of the gesture.

The door opened surprisingly quietly and easily, given the sheer size and weight of the bloody thing. Once they slipped inside, she turned to shut the door behind them and only then did she take in the room - and once she did, she was absolutely lost for words. It was an impressive room, easily double the size of the classroom she and her fellow ballerinas had monopolised to practise in down in the dungeon, but while that room was dark and dank, this one was anything but.

For one, this one had windows. Big massive windows that spanned from the floor to the impressively high ceiling, flanked by deep emerald green curtains thick enough to block out any trace of light if pulled shut. The wall to the far left played host to a grand fireplace taller than either of them both in terms of height and lengthways - more impressive to Marilyn, though, was the giant curved sofa, the same shade of green as the curtains and easily well big and cosy enough for anybody to comfortably sleep on should they see fit.

"It's like our own little common room," she breathed a laugh "You're sure nobody knows about it?"

"I've been here four years, Baxter," he pointed out "Have you any idea of the utter scenes that play out over particularly good study spots in the library or out on the grounds? If this was the sort of place that was always just about, it would never be empty. It gets stranger, too, though."

She didn't see how it possibly could, but given that it was a good sort of strange she went along with it quite happily when he took the hand he still held and led her to the other side of the room. So distracted had she been by just how tempting the sofa and the fireplace looked that she'd barely even glanced towards the other side of the room. When she did, though, and her eyes registered exactly what she was seeing, this little room went from being a fun little curiosity to something else entirely.

The right hand side of the room was divided into two halves. The one closest to the window boasted a study spot - a wide desk easily big enough for four to sit at, and a supply of ink, parchment, candles, and books.

"The only books there are all on topics at least one of us is taking for our OWLs," he said "And if that wasn't enough to spark suspicion, there's…that."

The that which he was referring to was the section left thus far unexplored - not that there was a lot to explore, but that made it no less shocking to her. A practise space. The stone floor was covered in a section of wood much like the one Madame Garnier conjured for them to practise upon, with mirrors lining the wall of the corner that was not windowed. More than that, a barre was affixed to the mirrors, too, along with a free-standing one pressed into the corner. Both looked to be absolutely perfect for her height.

If Marilyn hadn't known better, she'd have accused him of doing all of this. But even if he'd taken it upon himself to pursue a future in one of those Muggle TV shows that flipped houses for people, there was no way he could've done all of this.

Finally letting go of her hand, Draco strode to the windows and peered out of them "After I first found this place, I went out onto the section of the grounds to try to spot these windows and they…they weren't here. It's not on any maps of the school that I can find in the library, either. For all intents and purposes, this room doesn't exist."

"How in the world did you find it?" she asked - almost afraid to sit down or touch anything lest it all suddenly vanish.

"It was more difficult the second time," he replied sourly "I had to recreate exactly what I'd done the first time, and that hadn't been deliberate. You need to pace back and forth a few times and…and think."

"Walking and thinking are the super strategies that keep this room hidden?"

"You've been here long enough that you shouldn't be surprised that the latter part isn't much of a given," came the dry response "It's not just any sort of thinking, though, it's specific, you have to think about…" he stopped abruptly, pursing his lips "Anyway, it'll do rather nicely for what we need, will it not?"

"What do you have to think about?"

"Something to do with what you need the room for, something like that, I don't know."

"So…you were pacing the corridor and thinking about me?" she asked, resting a hand gentle upon the smooth wood of the barre.

"No, I was thinking about Chloe, she seems less apt to ask inane questions," he scoffed.

"You're too young for Chloe."

"You're too young for the Weasleys."

"Ron's in our year."

"You know what I'm talking about."

Marilyn smiled - not even the sort of smile she usually gave when she was succeeding in needling him. Mostly because she was touched. Whatever he'd been thinking about in order to conjure this room had given him all this; a setting which was an eerily happy medium for the two of them. While he couldn't take sole responsibility for it, he'd still had a hand in it in some vague sense. It was difficult to be miffed at his thinly veiled accusations in the fact of that…especially when the gripes he was voicing were eerily similar to her own thus-far unfounded fears concerning one Pansy Parkinson. She was just a bit better at hiding her jealousy. Hopefully.

It was tempting to prod at him with a 'why do you care?' if only out of curiosity to see how he'd answer. But if one was to get a heartfelt confession from Draco Malfoy, it wouldn't be from antagonising him - and the fact that they now stood in this room together was sort of one in itself, wasn't it? She wouldn't throw it in his face.

"George is just a friend," she said finally.

"And the other one?"

"Fred?"

"It would have to be, wouldn't it, unless there's a third gormless clone."

"Fred is less of a friend than George, to tell the truth. I get the feeling he mostly tolerates me because George finds me funny."

She knew he was bothered when he didn't take the opportunity she'd just handed to him on a jewel-encrusted, snake-emblazoned platter to snort out a 'I can't imagine why'.

"You seemed to be getting on just fine down in the hall."

"Fred makes it easy," she shrugged honestly.

"And I?"

Only Draco Malfoy could make a request for reassurance sound like an interrogation - or a telling off from a teacher.

"And you…" she thought about it for a brief moment before snorting "You like to make it very difficult. That's a bit more fun."

He smirked then, pride lighting up his eyes, and she knew it was the right answer - because he lived to be bloody contrary. Difficult, indeed.

If the magic room that had presented itself to them in Hogwarts was supposed to be some sort of safe haven for them, it more than succeeded. Calling it the magic room seemed pretty stupid considering that it was in a magic castle - mostly Marilyn referred to it as their room in her head, but that was…that was a bit much. Wasn't it?

Well, whatever it was, it was a blessing. It was brand new territory for them, being able to spend time together without worrying about being caught for some reason or another. In the best possible case scenario, before the shit had really hit the fan, teenagers were still terrible gossips. Teachers, too, for that matter. Even hidden away in the forest, they were worried about being caught and subsequently flung into detention, but here there was none of that. The most nerve-wracking part was trying not to be seen entering the room itself, but even then the risk was drastically minimised…and just there enough to add a bit of excitement to her flurry of bad decision making.

It was almost embarrassing, really, how often she retreated to their room. And she could tell herself, even to herself, all day and all night that it was just a nice chance to get away. Chances at peace and solitude were few and far between at boarding school, and she'd been provided with one that was near enough always guaranteed. That, however, didn't explain the disappointment she felt on the times she slipped into the room only to not be met with the sight of bright blond hair and green robes. What mostly eased the sting of the voice in her head that liked to scream 'what are you doing, you daft cow?' during such instances was the happiness she always spotted on his face when she entered, or he walked in and found her sitting on the sofa. Oftentimes he quickly covered it up afterwards, but she wasn't so delusional as to imagine its presence completely.

They fell into a nice little routine. Marilyn would tell the ballerinas that she was off to hang out with the Gryffindors (while telling the Gryffindors the opposite), while Draco would tell his friends…well, he'd tell his friends to mind their own bloody business, from what she could gather, and then they'd steal away to the seventh floor. But they'd always stagger out their arrivals so as not to be suspicious, obviously.

Once inside, the outside world was left at the door and they got to just be. They studied, they talked, Marilyn practised - and felt guilty for the praise she was gaining from Madame Garnier all the while for having ceased spending every waking minute in the rehearsal room. When they left, it was with the utmost reluctance, and it was difficult not to resent the rest of the castle afterwards. Yet another way she was losing her bloody mind. The end of the school year was going to be a nasty shock, but if she kept going the way she was between now and then, it would probably be what was needed - going cold turkey. Plus, she'd have going home to contend with. That would be fun.

It was on one of her journeys up to the seventh floor on a grim, grey and rainy day that Marilyn was stopped halfway up one of the quieter staircases that led up to the fifth floor by a hand grasping at her upper arm. Whirling around, she wrenched her arm free while her other hand reached for her wand, but she stilled when she was met with the sight of Hermione, breathless with the newest edition of The Daily Prophet wedged beneath her arm.

"Jesus," Marilyn blinked, trying to shoo away the oncoming adrenaline rush "Sorry, you gave me a fright."

What was it with Hogwarts students and frightening the life out of her like this?

"I've been chasing you since the third floor," came Hermione's out-of-breath response "I did call, but you were miles away, apparently."

"I usually am at the minute," she replied, trying not to sound too guilty "Sorry. All the excitement, what with the second task being in a couple of weeks and all. Has Harry figured out the clue yet?"

"I…Yes, he has."

"Ah. Good, then. I don't know if Fleur has yet, we don't really speak much and she plays it all a bit close to the chest. Don't worry, I won't pry for details or anything, what with me being the enemy and all."

Her half-hearted attempt at a joke fell flat when Hermione frowned at her "Why would you say that?"

Marilyn returned the strange look - all right, it hadn't been her best joke, but it wasn't one that was particularly hard to work out. She illustrated her point by offering a pointed look down at her blue Beauxbatons robes.

"Oh - ha, yes, right," Hermione forced a laugh "I'm sorry, I…I don't know what I was thinking. I was only chasing after you because we were all going to meet in a bit by the lake to discuss plans for the upcoming Hogsmeade trip and George thought you might want to be included."

"I can't, sorry, but it's sound, I'm good with whatever, I'll just follow along with what it is you lot want to do," she shrugged.

"Do you mind if I ask what prior engagement you have that's so pressing?" Hermione's voice was sounding less forcibly jovial and more suspicious.

"Oh, erm, a meeting with Madame Garnier. To discuss my…legs."

"Your legs?"

"Yeah. They're sort of important for ballet, y'know? Best to keep a close eye on them."

"Right," Hermione didn't even pretend to believe her.

Marilyn didn't mind, though - she just needed her not to call her out on it. She was already turning back towards the stairs, and planning what roundabout route she might take if Hermione saw fit to trail her. The Gryffindor's plans, however, didn't seem to be quite that subtle.

"Because I thought you were off to see Malfoy again," she called after her.

Torn between playing dumb and hissing at her to keep her voice down, Marilyn instead settled for stopping still and then slowly turning, regarding the girl in worried silence. It was all the answer Hermione needed. If she'd even needed one at all.

"Every time you disappear, he's nowhere to be seen either. Every time."

Still, Marilyn said nothing. She didn't know what to say - she didn't know what to do. All she knew was the panic and the dread slowly welling up within her.

"Who…" she breathed and then coughed, restarting with a bit more strength to her voice "Who else knows?"

"Nobody. Well. Not of our lot - if they've noticed, they haven't commented on it, and that wouldn't be like them, would it?"

Nodding slowly, Marilyn hovered awkwardly but then sighed. It was clear this conversation wasn't nearly done, and so when Hermione jerked her chin for her to follow her before overtaking her on the stairs and leading the way to a tucked away corner of one of the hallways. Nestled between a pillar and a window, Marilyn folded her arms to stop herself from fiddling before speaking quietly.

"What are you going to do?"

"Do?" Hermione echoed "What could I do? It's your business, I'm not…I'm not here to threaten you - and if you thought I was, you've definitely been spending too much time with him, that much is certain."

"What, then?"

"I…I wanted to talk to you about it. To ask if you've lost your mind, if I'm being entirely honest. But mostly to talk."

Wise far beyond either of their years, Hermione was regarding her with a look that Marilyn had previously only seen on the faces of teachers. Not quite you're in so much trouble, but more you might be in trouble, but I know this isn't you so please tell me what's going on at home to make you act like this. Stern but sympathetic - there was a nuance to it. Although depending on her answer, she knew it could lean more one way than the other. The sympathy would vanish right quick if she was to hit back with something along the lines of "Hermione, have you seen his hair?".

"I don't know what to say," Marilyn admitted.

"Explain it. It doesn't make any sense - he humiliated you in front of the entire school, and then suddenly it's back like nothing happened? I don't understand it. How can you even stomach being in the same building as him, never mind…"

"He sent me that broom," she said - as if it explained it all.

"I've pieced that much together," Hermione replied "That's nothing - that's Malfoy throwing money at a problem, as usual."

Well, if that was supposed to have been her trump card she'd have been absolutely scuppered.

"By that reasoning, he viewed where we stood with each other as a problem," she pointed out softly.

"Yes, what could possibly motivate Malfoy to want to be back in the good graces of the pretty Beauxbatons ballerina?" Hermione rolled her eyes "He's playing with you, Marilyn. This is what he does with people."

"He doesn't view us as people - Muggle-borns. We're to be sneered at, not played with. Not talked with. Not…"

Not kissed.

"And this is all meant to be an argument in his favour, is this?" Hermione stared at her like she'd gone mad.

And that was probably a very fair assessment.

"I didn't mean- you're not getting it."

"Then help me get it, Marilyn."

"Ordinarily. Ordinarily he thinks all of that. But not now. Not…" not with me, but she wasn't daft enough to voice that either "I'm making him see things differently. I'm making him doubt. He is, I know he must be. He's really different behind closed doors, you know. He's not the same person. He's a prick at times, yes, I'm not blind to that, but he's not all bad."

"And if that's the best thing you can say about a person, what does that suggest about them?"

"You don't know him like I do," she murmured, and hated how daft and cliche it sounded all the while.

Hermione didn't seem convinced at all - and she could hardly be blamed for it - but that was when the sympathy did win out, her dark eyes filling with sadness as she regarded her, even if that sadness was highly exasperated.

"You know what you sound like, don't you? Like any woman who's had to justify staying with somebody who treats her badly for his own amusement."

"It's not like that."

"Yes," Hermione said dully "Well. Here's what he's like in front of closed doors. I won't tell anybody what I know, not now, but somebody will find out sooner or later - and that's if he's not playing some new game. You should remember the other side of him."

It was then that she finally pulled out the copy of The Daily Prophet she'd had tucked beneath her arm for the duration of their conversation, already opened to an article by Rita Skeeter, the headline of which read "Dumbledore's Giant Mistake". Marilyn accepted it wordlessly.

"I'll see you later," Hermione sighed and then took her leave.

The farewell was likely meant to act as reassurance that she hadn't fallen out with her, but it was overshadowed by just how heavy the newspaper in her hand felt.

Chapter Text

When the door to their little safe haven clicked open, Marilyn felt a weary sort of resignation wash over her.

"I didn't know if you'd be here," Draco said in the way of greeting "I'm earlier than usual. Goyle challenged Crabbe to an eating competition and I couldn't stomach the sight, so I had to excuse myself."

Humming in response, she didn't look up from the paper.

"I suppose I have to thank them, though," he continued, dropping his school bag and slumping down onto the massive sofa at her side "It provided me with an incredibly valid excuse to leave, so at least it won't look suspicious."

"Crabbe and Goyle don't seem the sort to get overly suspicious," Marilyn replied dully.

She was sitting sideways on the sofa, curled into the centre of it with her knees drawn upwards before her, so when he sat down with her he was more behind her than at her side. Usually when one of them joined the other, some sort of gesture would follow - one that was much too casual and incidental to, well, be anything close to actually casual or incidental. Ordinarily, she would lean back into him, or he might toy with a lock of her hair. Something.

"No," he snickered "I suppose you're right. But Blaise would. Nott might. Perhaps Flint. Definitely Pansy - she keeps an annoyingly close eye on my comings and goings."

As predicted, he did toy with a strand of her hair then, but she didn't lean into the touch, nor did she lean against him, or really do anything at all that translated in their own little shorthand that all was well.

"How flattering," she murmured.

He scoffed his minimal amount of amusement at that, and then a brief silence passed between them during which she was very much aware of how he watched her, taking stock of the difference in her behaviour.

"What are you reading?" He asked finally.

"Your masterpiece."

"My what?"

"An alarmingly large and ferocious-looking man, Hagrid has been using his new-found authority to terrify the students in his care with a succession of horrific creatures. While Dumbledore turns a blind eye, Hagrid has maimed several pupils during a series of lessons that many admit to being 'very frightening'," she read aloud "'I was attacked by a hippogriff, and my friend Vincent Crabbe got a bad bite off a flobberworm,' says Draco Malfoy, a fourth year student. 'We all hate Hagrid, but we're just too scared to say anything.'"

She knew Draco far too well to think he might be the slightest bit chagrined by her reading, but even she hadn't quite expected him to start snickering like she'd reminded him of a particularly funny joke. Sighing, she dropped the paper down onto the space on the couch beside her and turned to regard him. The exasperation on her face failed to quell his amusement.

"Flobberworms don't have teeth, Draco," she pointed out.

That transformed his snickers into all out chuckles, grinning as he shook his head "That's what so bloody funny - and that daft cow still put it in! It's hysterical!"

"And when have you ever been too scared to say anything? To anybody? Ever?" She challenged "You went to this woman and you told a pack of lies, knowing she'd print it and it'd impact this Professor Hagrid."

"Oh, come on Baxter," he rolled his eyes "Don't tell me you're one of the idiots who idolises that great lumbering oaf."

"I'm not friends with him like they are, I don't really care for him one way or the other, but this is his job, Draco. His livelihood. His reputation. You can't tell lies about it and spin it into something it's not just because you personally don't like him."

"Apparently I can, Baxter," he said smugly.

Marilyn groaned her annoyance, words utterly failing her "This is a man's life, Draco. You're allowed not to like him-"

"Oh, am I? I must say, that's a relief, thank you."

"-but to- to set off some sort of smear campaign because of that dislike isn't right. The man isn't terrifying - students don't cower away from him in the hallways or, or go pale when they see him approaching. He's harmless. He's a bloody teddy bear."

Over the course of her would-be telling off, Draco's laughter petered out until he was regarding her defence of Hogwarts' groundskeeper with a curled lip and visible disdain.

"A teddy bear, is it?" He challenged, scooting away from her on the sofa and rolling up the right sleeve of his robes.

Marilyn watched, bewildered, as he then unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and rolled that up next, revealing a pale forearm…and three even paler scars. They were difficult to see, she wouldn't have spotted them without having been looking for something, but given the fantastic abilities of magical healing, the fact that they were there at all spoke for how nasty they must've been when the injury had first been inflicted.

"I got these when that fool set a hippogriff loose in a class of third years," he sneered "A lack of wisdom can be just as dangerous as an excess of malevolence. Especially in one who is supposed to be responsible for our care and safety during his pathetic excuse for a lesson. And then he let the bloody thing escape rather than having it put down - deliberately, probably, so it can go on being a menace to society. That's his favourite sort of beast, you know."

"I heard the stories about that," she said doubtfully "You didn't exactly follow instructions."

That was mostly her diplomatic way of saying 'you did your thing and provoked it, didn't you?'

"Yes, because introducing an animal that comes with a strict list of instructions and guidelines, one which becomes lethal if all of those guidelines aren't followed to the letter, no less, to a group of teenagers couldn't possibly go wrong."

He…he had a point there. Still, he was not done.

"They all cry and clutch their pearls whenever Snape gets a bit strict or makes a comment, but that buffoon sets loose dangerous animals that leave students scarred or burned and it's 'oh, isn't Hagrid eccentric, isn't he funny' just because they like him. Because he vies after their approval like he's some grotesque overgrown first year. If it was a teacher they personally liked less doing the exact same things, Granger would be the first one drawing up petitions to get him sacked. It's a farce."

Marilyn sighed.

"What? You disagree?" he challenged, eyebrows shooting upwards in open challenge.

"With what you did? Yes. Always. It was…it was underhanded, and it was a lie. But with all of the points you've just made?" she hesitated, then offered the matter a few seconds more thought before sighing again "All right. I'd be miffed, too. I still wouldn't have done that, though."

"Then you're a pushover."

"The fact that I'm sitting here with you sort of gave that away, didn't it?"

As soon as she said it she knew, depending on how inclined he was to have a sense of humour in that particular moment, it could very easily spark an argument. In fact, she was aware of that before she'd even said it, but she refused to allow it to stop her. It was true. If he didn't like it, he could suck it. She was taking another chance on Draco, but she was by no means going to appease him like so many others he surrounded himself with. Sometimes he seemed to rather like that…up until he didn't. But she wouldn't be cowed, and she would never be a bloody sycophant.

All of that considered, she was still relieved when he gave a begrudging huff of laughter - mostly because she really couldn't be bothered with a big argument. It was fun to bicker with him, not to argue. Bickering was amusing, arguing was exhausting. To anybody else she might've had to explain that, but not to Draco - he understood it implicitly, right since they'd first started talking, it seemed. The contrast between that and his being such an imperious little git was just the cherry on top of it all. Maybe that was why it was so absurd to her that he seemed jealous of Fred - Fred was the way with her that he was with everybody. So was George, really. Draco was only this way with her, from what she'd seen. That was nice.

"So," she sighed, hoping to ease the atmosphere a bit before any awkwardness could take hold "What are we doing for Valentine's Day?"

The look of horror on Draco's face might've been offensive if it wasn't so utterly hysterical - his eyes widening comically and his jaw slackening. Luckily for him, that was all it took for her to drop the teasing, laughing with a shake of her head.

"You should see your face," she snorted "Do you think I'm that daft?"

"I didn't until you defended Dumbledore's pet idiot," he returned with an eye roll "I thought you were envisioning a trip to that ridiculous tea shop where we could gawp at each other like a couple of prize prats."

"Pansy and Hermione could chaperone."

"They'd certainly do a good job of keeping room for propriety between us."

"A minimum of twenty feet apart at all times."

"We can talk in notes - charm paper aeroplanes filled with smutty words to fly across the room to one another."

Marilyn snorted, shaking her head with a grin she couldn't at all banish from her face "Say smutty again, just like that."

He rolled his eyes at her for what must've been the billionth time overall, but then her amusement was quashed by a hopeless sort of fondness when he leaned in close to her and muttered the requested word lowly in her ear.

Maybe Hermione's concern wasn't completely unfounded after all.

Whether Hermione's feelings could truly be classed as concern or as judgement, she kept it to herself. As far as Marilyn could tell. But while she was tempted to overthink every minor interaction - how the twins greeted her at breakfast, the way Ron asked whether she'd done a piece of homework they both had due, the works - she knew deep down that it was the sort of thing she wouldn't have to question when the axe came down. The greetings then would be 'have you lost your sodding mind?', and homework likely wouldn't even be discussed at all. They weren't the sort to show their scorn in the form of a 'good morning' that sounded a fraction less enthusiastic than usual.

The newest trip to Hogsmeade was quickly upon them, and with it being so close to Valentine's Day, most of the students had pre-existing plans. George had promised to share a butterbeer with Esme in The Three Broomsticks (outright refusing to step food in Madam Puddifoot's) before he'd meet up with Fred to get up to whatever mischief they had planned for that particular day. Hermione had shyly agreed to spend the day with Viktor Krum - an admission that sent Ron into a spell of unusual quietness, punctuated by the occasional grumbling insistence that he was not in a bad mood whenever Harry dared to ask.

Given that she just didn't have the sort of friendship with Harry or Ron that would find her spending solo time with them as she might with George or Hermione, it left Marilyn with the trip to herself. That was just how she liked it.

In the morning, she got up and wrapped up in her cosiest Muggle clothing - a deep purple jumper, a navy blue winter coat, thick fleece-lined jeans and boots that wouldn't have her falling on her backside thanks to the ice that still hadn't quite fully retreated - and then she headed out. It was a pretty huge mercy that enough time had gone by since both the Great Hall Incident and the Yule Ball that her presence had once again lost all novelty to the other students, and so she went largely unbothered as she took her time browsing the shops and just enjoying her own company.

It was nice - a change of pace that offered a bit more peace than the castle usually did, despite the fact that half the castle seemed to be here anyway. Maybe it was the change in setting, or just all the distractions, but it was much easier to be left alone out here. She slipped into Madam Puddifoot's just long enough to treat herself to a hot chocolate to go (and to be mortified at the idea of being seen there by George or Fred, neither of whom would ever let her forget it) and then she hiked up to the quiet little pathway that overlooked the Shrieking Shack and simply basked in the silence and the solitude. It was bliss. Some had bubble baths and candles, she had drizzle and haunted houses.

Time ticked on in the way it tended to do when paid no mind until Marilyn had no idea how long she'd been hanging around - she could've been told that it was one hour or that it was three and she'd have little difficulty believing it either way. Her mind drifted from topic to topic without affording any of them enough thought to make them stick. Until she felt it. When the tapping first started on the back of her hand as she looked out over the scenery, her first instinct was to jump and scramble away, fearing a spider or some other sort of strange creepy crawly native specifically to haunted Scottish houses.

It took a few seconds, mostly because she was busy trying to bat the thing away, to realise that it wasn't living at all - it was paper. A fluttering origami bird that kept trying to worm its way into her hands. Panic turned to laughter, and she turned her palm upward and stared in wonder as it perched in her hand, flapping its wings like it was trying to shake off the tiny little drops of rain it had collected. Grinning, she probably looked like a right idiot when she lifted her other hand to stroke its head like it was a real, living thing but her moment of whimsy was rewarded when it bowed its head in response, and promptly began to unfold itself.

Once the paper was mostly unfurled, she could see that the body of the bird wasn't hollow as she'd originally assumed, but filled with tissue paper. Blinking, Marilyn pulled apart the tissue paper and then stilled at what she found inside, mind falling entirely silent in her surprise. A bracelet - a thin, elegant silver chain that appeared to be the beginning of a charm bracelet if the two charms already on it were any indication. If there was any doubt in her mind as to who had sent it, there was none once she got a better look at the charms. The first a ballet slipper, and the second a little broomstick.

What had once been the wings of the bird fluttered slightly, drawing her attention back to the paper itself, and when she shifted the tissue paper that had housed the bracelet aside she saw two words written there in handwriting that was now very familiar: 'smutty words'.

A Valentine's Day gift after all. Marilyn breathed a laugh. Then she choked on a sob, and struggled with the fact that her heart felt like it was either doing cartwheels around her chest or trying to climb up and out of her throat. How was it that he could be such a prick, while also being the sweetest lad she'd ever met?

And how many more gifts did he have to give her before she would technically be classed as a sugar baby?

Chapter Text

"Oh, leave off."

Marilyn blinked up at George in the face of his aghast criticism "What?"

"You knit?"

For all of the build up and excitement surrounding the second task of the tournament, it was boring on an absolutely lethal level. It was difficult to follow up the dragons of the first round, sure, but after all of the champions dove in, it was quickly turning into an hour of staring at the lake. Known to most here as the equivalent of a quiet lunch break. It was like they weren't even trying.

"I mean, not as a rule," she answered George's question.

"As a lifestyle, then?"

Her new bracelet dangled against her wrist with every stitch she knitted, hidden from sight by the sleeve of her robes.

"Yes. We gather together in secret clubs with balaclavas on to disguise our identities."

"Woolly ones?"

"Yeah, they itch something awful. Terrible in summer, too."

"You need to learn some more breathable stitches, I reckon."

"That'd just sacrifice anonymity."

"Fine, suffocate then."

"Friendship with you really is a thing of beauty, you know," she snorted.

"Strange colour, too."

The yarn appeared a murky sort of purple colour, but any amount of scrutiny found the colour not looking quite right - it left the eyes of anybody who looked feeling funny, trying to blink the discomfort away. It wasn't something that one could really grow accustomed to, and so she tried to look at her handiwork as little as possible as she went on, only stealing quick glances long enough to make sure it was good enough. So far, so good.

"It's all the shop in Hogsmeade had," she lied with a shrug "It does the job."

She finished her row and was about to begin a new one when she turned her head in response to the gaze she still felt burning into the side of her face.

"What?"

"Explain, then," he nodded to the ball of yarn bundled into her lap.

"I don't understand."

"Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn. Mon petit chou. Some decisions require explanations. Joining cults, for instance. Deciding to walk everywhere on your hands. This is one of those things. A girl of your age and decent enough looks - knitting? It's not right. It's unnatural."

Groaning, she accepted that she wouldn't be left in peace unless she did explain, and so she heaved a sigh and thought about how best to go about it without giving away too much of how it was she'd come to learn.

"A few summers ago, one of my Muggle friends, Taylor, was going on holiday with her family. They asked that I stay with her gran while they were gone - they had no other family in town, they were worried she might have a nasty fall or something and nobody would be around to help. They even paid me a fiver a day for it - considering they were gone for two weeks, it was a great deal."

"A fiver?"

"A galleon and a knut."

George whistled.

"Exactly," she nodded "The gran wasn't half bad, and she taught me to knit while I was there. I think it was mostly to break the ice in the beginning, but it wasn't half bad. I got decent enough at it, and you can sell that shit on the side easy. It has a bit of charm to it, being all handmade. Pays for the renting of a practise space over summer so I don't get rusty."

"Parents all 'pay your own way, learn the value of a sickle' types, then?"

"Something like that."

"Was she a real nightmare? This grandmother? The wage says grim things."

"Not at all. She was lovely - I was ready to beg her to adopt me by the end. It felt skeevy even accepting the money, for what ultimately amounted to eating their food and using their gas and electric, but they insisted - and continue to insist."

What she neglected to mention - and what her friend's family had also neglected to mention - was that said grandmother had practically been in better shape than Marilyn herself had been at the ripe old age of twelve. She was a yoga instructor, for Merlin's sake. It had taken her all of two days to figure out that the whole thing had been an act of charity disguised as her doing them a favour. But she was much too grateful to call it out, and it had since become a recurring thing. Enough for her to no longer dread summer break as much as she had back in her first year at Beauxbatons, anyway.

"What did your parents say? Think my mum'd go mad if me and Fred were off staying with strangers every summer."

"Yeah, but she'd be worried for the strangers."

George grinned "Very true."

She got another row done before he decided he wasn't going to let her get away with the silence.

"So?"

"I'm knitting, not sewing."

"You're being incredibly deliberately difficult today, you know?" he said, and then mused "It's actually pretty impressive."

"You must've rubbed off on me."

"I had heard that rumour."

Marilyn snorted - a very unattractive snort, but it eased her discomfort a bit about his dogged line of questioning.

"They didn't care," she said finally, knowing playing dumb wouldn't help.

"You never go home for the holidays."

"None of them so far, no."

"Are you going home for Easter break?"

"No."

"So you're only ever home for summer."

"That's not that uncommon. I'm hardly the only student at here - or Beauxbatons - over the holidays. All that back and forth is too much. It's actually recommended there that the first years stay at school for every holiday other than Christmas so they have more time to get over the homesickness."

Not many listened, but Marilyn had been happy to. She'd stayed at school, she'd worked on her French, and she'd basked in the sheer glory of not being at home. It had been her best Christmas ever.

"And then when you are home for summer, you're gone for two weeks of the six."

"Minimum."

During the times when she had no choice but to stay at home, she was out within an hour of when she first opened her eyes in the morning, and back only when staying out any later would mean missing the final bus back to her neighbourhood for the night. At her simple one word response she was braced for a whole bunch of discomfort - even if she didn't let on as such, with the exception of her motions becoming slightly fumbling and awkward as a result of her nerves. But, despite George's impressive talent when it came to being a wind-up merchant, nobody could ever say he wasn't kind. He and Fred were both kind, and they were both good, but George was just the gentler of the two. Marilyn was reminded of that fact when she chanced a look at him and found him nodding slowly, looking out over the stillness of the lake with an unreadable expression.

The quiet settled in just long enough for her to wonder if she should've just lied - invented a story of domestic bliss and a doting mother who was counting down the days until she arrived home again. She couldn't pretend to herself that she wasn't lying about the state of her relationship with other people, just in reverse, so wouldn't this just be more of the same? But all of the evidence pointed to the contrary, she didn't want to heap more lies onto the one she was already telling, and she wasn't sure she could even imagine a decent home life well enough to lie about having one in a satisfactory manner. Not in the way she could easily envisage what it was like to hate Draco - he was an infuriating little bugger at the best of times.

But then, finally, George sniffed and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

"You should come to the Burrow at some point."

"The what?"

"The Burrow," he repeated "My house. There's so many of us that mum n' dad probably wouldn't even notice there was an extra for a while so long as we dyed your hair ginger. And if they did…well, you're decent enough at masquerading as a good influence that I'm sure they wouldn't mind. We pick up all sorts of strays."

"I'm a stray?" She echoed, amused.

"Yeah, but a fancy one that decided to strike out on its own. One of those fancy fluffy cats that's worth a fortune. Can't let 'em out into the garden or else they'll be stolen and sold."

"Planning to sell me, are you?"

"Soon as I find a buyer, you're gone," he replied.

"You're not doing a great job at advertising this little visit to me, you know?"

"I probably shouldn't have led with the threats of kidnapping," he said.

"Oh that's a second or third day revelation at the earliest. Build a sense of security and all that first, you know."

"I'll remember that for next time."

"Should I warn Hermione?"

"Hermione's far less trusting of me, she'd be a terrible target."

"Ah. Fair."

"Although Malfoy might be jealous."

Marilyn gave the barest hints of a flinch, dropping a stitch and just managing to stop herself from swearing, which would only bring it to his attention. She fixed her mistake as smoothly as she could, and then frowned.

"Why?"

"No doubt he'll view himself as having a monopoly on nefarious plans for you."

"Is that you rethinking your plans of entering the stolen ballerina market already, then?"

"Of course not. Pissing that little prat off just adds extra charm to the whole plan."

Snickering, she resumed her knitting, a little more slowly than before.

"I mean it, though," George added, his voice adopting a newfound level of sincerity.

"You're going to kidnap me and sell me like a fancy cat?"

"About visiting," he clarified "If the north ever loses its charm and you need a break, drop us a line and we'll work out some sort of visit. Me n' Fred will be able to use magic outside of Hogwarts soon, we could even turn up and Apparate you back."

"You don't have to."

"I know," he made a face "Unless this is your way of saying you've got no plans on keeping in touch once you flounce back to Beauxbatons."

"I don't flounce."

"Twirl, then."

"I never had any intention of dropping contact after the school year," she replied "I neve thought you'd allow it."

He smiled.

"Thank you, George," she added quietly "I'll take you up on it someday."

"Good," he nodded.

They were, thank Merlin, saved from any big emotional scene by movement on the water - at first a series of big, chaotic splashes obscured what was happening from sight and several teachers, including the three headmasters, jumped to their feet with wands in hand. Even Marilyn dropped her knitting, craning her neck to try and see what was going on. Fleur - she realised it quickly, the moment she saw the blonde hair and heard the groans of some of her peers in the stands around them.

"Crap," she sighed, shaking her head "There's no chance we're winning the tournament now."

"Don't tell me you weren't rooting for Harry," George didn't try to hide his happiness, grinning as a lifebuoy floated itself out into the water, sank down over Fleur's head and began to drift her to safety.

"On a personal level Harry's more likeable, sure, but I'm sort of obligated to go for Beauxbatons."

"Rubbish. You're English, and you're not half as snobby as Fleur."

"Yeah, but if I run about supporting Harry I'll be the target of a very French angry mob. They'll wield pastries of mass destruction and everything."

"Baguettes are the most violent of all the breads," he nodded sagely.

"They don't call it pain for no reason."

"I take it back, you'll never be welcome in my home."

Exhausted, the seventh year girl could do little other than cling to the floatation device, barely conscious as she fought to regain her breath. When they were close enough to the dock-like stands that had been situated over the lake especially for the second task, the buoy lifted up out of the water entirely, bringing Fleur with it up onto the docks. Her friends, along with Madame Maxime and Dumbledore, all converged on her at once to check if she was okay.

They were saved from worrying for too long, though, because the moment Fleur's strength returned to her, she was trying to throw herself back into the lake, shrieking out in rapid-fire French. Even Madame Maxime had trouble physically restraining her, and every time she seemed to get a good grip on the girl she ducked and weaved out of it, desperate to get back to the water, entirely unhearing in the face of their headmistress' insistence that she calm herself. George frowned and turned to Marilyn for an explanation.

"Her sister," she replied quietly, setting her needles down to her lap "She's begging them to let her go to her sister."

"If it was Percy, I'd let them have him," George replied, but the joke only sounded half-hearted at best.

"They…they wouldn't actually let anything happen to her, would they? Now that Fleur can't save her?"

"They can't do, surely. Imagine the hell it'd bring down on the schools if they allowed it."

"...Dumbledore did give that warning at the beginning, before people began applying."

"Yeah, but that's different. That's in case one of the champions gets roasted alive by a dragon or something else not completely preventable. This is different. Her little sister isn't even one of the champions, she didn't sign up for it. There's no chance. Still, seems cruel not to tell her that, doesn't it?"

Watching Fleur's sheer desperation to get back into the water had Marilyn struggling to believe George's assurances as much as he seemed to himself. But he had more reason to panic than she did, didn't he? Ron was in that water - and Hermione. They'd already pieced it all together, given the two's notable absence from the audience. No, surely it would be fine. The threat of danger was just left ambiguous to stir up excitement. She had to admit that it was working - although she felt more worry than excitement, the previously tedious task of watching the lake suddenly stirring up dread in the pit of her stomach.

Some ways down the stands, Draco's friends were roaring with laughter as he mimicked Fleur, face contorted into an exaggerated mockery of her terror as he pretended he was going to dive into the water. Marilyn grimaced and looked back out at the water.

Even Marilyn herself had to admit that she did a poor job at hiding her surprise when Hermione took the seat beside her in the library that evening. The lake water had done surprising wonders for her hair, and while it had dried in a mass of wavy curls, they were the artfully messy sort that many girls would pour hours into trying to achieve. She didn't comment on it, though, and kept her admiration silent. What could she say? A lake-bed kidnapping looks good on you?

"How are you?" Marilyn asked quietly.

Before her on the table were several textbooks, a half-written essay, and in her lap sat her knitting. The librarian didn't care what they did in here, within reason, so long as they did so quietly, and so she'd snuck in her little project with the pre-prepared excuse that it helped her focus.

"I'm well," Hermione answered in a tone equally as hushed "It was unnerving but, well, Viktor succeeded, didn't he?"

"He did. With a hell of a lot of flair."

"Yes. I'll admit, there are more pleasant things to wake up to," Hermione realised belated what she'd said, before Marilyn could even give in to the immature snicker that threatened to force its way out of her, flushed crimson and spluttered "Not like that I mean, just that he had the head of a shark and nothing can exactly prepare you to see that the moment you open your- oh, shut up."

Smiling, she said nothing. Mainly because she was thrilled that whatever dumbassery was going on between herself and Draco had not yet shot dead her friendship with Hermione. Not yet, anyway.

Before she could get too comfortable in that assumption, though, she caught the distinctly unimpressed look that the girl was shooting her half-finished wrist-warmers.

"Don't tell me you disapprove of knitting like George does."

Brown eyes rolling in exasperation, Hermione waved her wand once over the bundle of yarn in her lap and they both watched as the charm Marilyn had put on it was disbanded and the wool turned from that strange murky purple into a deep emerald green.

"You really need to work on your charms," Hermione said flatly "I spotted it a mile off."

"Nobody else did."

"Nobody else was looking for it. But they'll work it out eventually."

"Yeah, well, thankfully the other sort of charms in my repertoire are much more reliable."

Hermione did not laugh "He's not the sort to appreciate handmade gifts, you know? If it didn't cost a fair few galleons, it's not something he'll be grateful for."

"My options are limited," Marilyn replied sourly "Look, he got me this. For…for a present."

She'd almost admitted that it had been a Valentine's Day gift, but that sounded ridiculous even to herself and she knew what sort of look that confession would draw. Rolling the sleeve of her robes up, she brandished the bracelet at her wrist. Hermione didn't appear impressed. At most she appeared surprised for perhaps half a second, but then she sighed.

"It's worthless, Marilyn. All right, maybe not literally worthless, not monetarily - it won't turn your wrist green, but that's just it. Something that would turn it green from somebody with less would still be worth more. This is what he does. He throws money at things to get what he wants."

"I'm not a thing, Hermione," she grumbled.

"To him you might as well be. Look - a broomstick?"

"Yeah. It's sentimental."

She wasn't about to give Hermione all of the details about the night of the Yule Ball. She wasn't about to spoil it for herself by doing something so daft.

"It's a reminder of yet another time he threw money at you to fix something horrible he'd done."

"Even if that was the case, which I don't agree it is, that would suggest that he recognised he'd done something that needed fixing in the first place," she pointed out.

"Do you really believe that? That it's really just a nice little gesture? A gift with not a single string attached?"

"I do," she admitted quietly.

It was a tricky one. The sort of tricky that involved a tight-rope and a pit of alligators below. If the alligators also happened to be one fire, and wielding swords. While she could understand Hermione's hatred of Draco - easily, if her going on four years of life at Hogwarts had been anything like Marilyn's six months - she was entitled to her own feelings on the matter. Especially seeing as the matter had most recently involved her own humiliation. She would never ask that Hermione forgive Draco for anything, nor even that she feeling anything other than sheer loathing for him. All she would ask was that Hermione extended the same courtesy, but reversed, to her.

Maybe securing such a promise would mean swearing up and down to her that if her own stupidity bit her on the ass and he did hurt her again, she wouldn't expect comfort from her - and that was a promise she could easily make, because she'd be much too mortified to go to her for reassurance should that happen anyway. No, in such an event she'd need to simply curl up and perish. Or move abroad and change her name, whichever ended up being easier.

"Listen," she sighed, looking about to make sure they wouldn't be overheard before she continued "It's good yarn, and I'm good at this shit. It'll look shop quality if nothing else. If he doesn't like it, that's fine. I'm not an idiot, I do know who he is, I'm not anticipating that he'd end up thrilled with it, and I'm not expecting tears and gratitude. But the fact is that he's given me two very fancy presents now, and I haven't given him anything at all, so this at least somewhat squares us in my mind, if nothing else. I don't have the funds to go out and buy something fancy, I'm limited to what I can make, and unless he wants a beautiful hand-sewn practise tutu, this is what I've got."

Hermione's eyebrows knitted together and she watched her silently for a few moments…but didn't offer an argument. Instead she hesitated, opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it again. Marilyn wasn't even slightly tempted to prompt her to say what was clearly on her mind, because the hesitations spoke volumes about how Hermione thought she would like hearing it. She wasn't exactly one to flinch from saying what was on her mind, and Marilyn admired that, and she even related to it, so what could it be that she wished to talk about now that had her hesitating so?

"So…you haven't given him anything?"

"What? No, I just said that. I can barely treat myself on a Hogsmeade trip, never mind anybody else."

"No, I don't mean presents, I mean…you haven't given him anything? One thing in particular?"

For a few long seconds, Marilyn stared. And then she understood Hermione's meaning and stared a bit more, her jaw slackening.

"What? No! Of course not! We're…we're too young for that!...Aren't we?"

She'd understand such a question if they were sixth years, and maybe even if they'd been fifth years at the absolute youngest, but fourth years? No. It was much too soon, even if this thing with Draco, unlabelled and confusing as it was, hadn't been so new it would be too soon. They were too young for any of that. Or at least she was.

"I certainly think that we are," Hermione said, her cheeks turning pink.

"So you and Viktor haven't…?"

"Of course not!"

"Well you asked me," Marilyn pointed out archly as if her own cheeks weren't blazing "And he is older…"

"He's very understanding of my boundaries. A perfect respectful gentleman, really. That's why I'm asking, though, because while we are, in my opinion, too young - and I'm relieved to hear you say it - are you sure Draco thinks so, too? Perhaps that's the reasoning behind all of the gifts…"

"No," Marilyn said flatly "Absolutely not."

"He's just not the sort who's used to hearing the word no, Marilyn. Nor the type who reacts well to it."

"So what, you think he wouldn't listen if I told him no?"

"No! That is - yes, for all of his many flaws, I do think he would listen in that I don't think that he'd…that he'd force himself upon you, I just worry that he mightn't be very understanding about it. I'm not even sure he'd be above applying a bit of pressure before backing off."

"Then you don't know him at all. We kiss, Hermione. That's it. And we talk more than we kiss, truth be told."

Okay, they did kiss a lot. And those kisses weren't exactly light pecks - not most of the time, anyway. At most they'd done a bit of heavy petting, above their clothing. But that little detail was absolutely none of Hermione's business, and there was never any sort of indication that either of them expected it to lead to more. Their little hideaway in the castle was eerily good at providing what it was either of them wished for (up to a point - she'd idly hoped for a CD player once with no luck, so it seemed there were indeed limits) but it had never come up with a bed and a contraceptive potion. Thank god.

Of course, they were only human. Teenage humans, at that. There were times when things got particularly heated and they'd have to stop, knowing that they were reaching a point in that particular session where they would either have to go further or stop entirely, but it was never a debate. Never an argument. They always did stop, and neither of them commented on it or griped about it - they'd quietly distract themselves with the other, much more innocent activities the room offered, both pretending not to notice quite how flushed the other was, and that was the end of it. Every time. There was never any pressure. Temptation? Maybe. On her part. She couldn't speak for his, it wasn't something they'd discussed, it was too bloody early and intimidating to discuss it. But that was it.

Something in her face must've shown that she had reached her limit with this particular topic of conversation - or maybe Hermione was just satisfied that she really wasn't secretly some sort of personal sex gimp to Draco Malfoy. Not yet, anyway. Sighing, the Gryffindor nodded, and fixed her with that concerned look again that made it very difficult to be pissed off at her, because it reinforced that this all came from a place of concern. Finally, she lifted her wand and waved it over the yarn again - it returned to its previous shade of purple, although this one was much more vibrant and messed with the eyes a lot less. Marilyn pressed her lips together and nodded her thanks. Mostly, she very much wished that Hermione hadn't just planted that seed, because she already knew that now it would bother her.

Chapter Text

Marilyn couldn't pretend that she didn't breathe a sigh of relief for the next couple of weeks after that whenever she stepped into their meeting spot and found that the room had not transformed into some sort of illicit sex dungeon. Either going further was not on Draco's mind, or it really was the sort of thing that the room could not provide. Or maybe he was just really into sofas. That was a thought that had her snorting, mostly because he didn't seem the type to settle for anything less than king-sized beds and Egyptian cotton sheets for his first time. Would it be his first time? Or had he and Pansy…? It was a thought she wasn't particularly willing to finish.

Oh Merlin, it was going to have to be a conversation, wasn't it? It would drive her mad otherwise. She hated leaving things unsaid or undiscussed, and she hated how complicated things got when they weren't aired, and while she also hated awkward atmospheres, what she loathed most of all was how much she knew this would plague her if she didn't get it out. It took her a whole week to work up the nerve, once she'd made her mind up on the matter, and when she did so she walked in with her newly finished gift (now charmed back to their original emerald green) burning a hole in her pocket as if that might bribe him into not turning this whole thing into a fiasco. Mostly it just added to her nerves, because it wouldn't be completely out of character for him to laugh at her attempt at a gift.

With exams not too far away, he was studying more often than not whenever she found him in their hiding place before her. People liked to whisper that Draco relied on his family name and his father's wrath to get him whatever her liked, but one didn't get grades second only to Hermione's by accident, and although it wasn't something he discussed, Marilyn suspected he had every intention of beating her friend for the number one spot as soon as humanly possible.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked after little more than one glance at her face.

Ah yes, the sort of warm and empathetic instincts one always wished for when it came to difficult discussions.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," she admitted.

"I gather from your tone that I won't enjoy this discussion," he grumbled, finishing off the note he'd been writing and dropping his quill into the inkwell "Fine. What is it?"

The gloves first, she thought. It would only be more awkward giving him them after. With a nod she gestured for him to follow her to the sofa, where she sat down with her legs folded beneath her before finally producing the gift from her pocket. In attempt to dress them up a bit, she'd taken a light pink ribbon that had previously been destined for either her hair or her next pair of pointe shoes and tied it around the gloves in a neat little bow.

"Here," she offered them to him pretty much as soon as he sat beside her.

"What is it?"

"A belated Christmas and Valentine's gift all rolled into one," she supplied.

She almost took that opportunity to bashfully insist that it was nothing much, but she stopped herself short. That would've been almost as pathetic as he'd likely find the gift itself.

"Gloves?" he cocked an eyebrow as he inspected them, unravelling the ribbon with one pull at the tie.

"Wrist warmers. Gloves are harder to get one-size fits all - these just have a thumbhole, no fingers."

He inspected the cable knit design knitted into the backs of them with curiosity, rubbing his thumbs over the stitching.

"This is fine work. I've never seen them in Hogsmeade before."

"Oh, er, I didn't get them from Hogsmeade."

"Where, then? Don't tell me you just happened to bring them from France in the off-chance that something like this might happen."

"I could be the most gifted seer in the world and I still could've never foreseen you," she said - and he smirked and seemed to take it as a compliment, even though she wasn't sure she meant it as one - before she flushed and admitted much more shyly than she'd like "I made them."

"You made them? How?"

"Knitting needles. Wool. Sheer force of willpower."

"You knit?"

"Only for the people I find most infuriating," she rolled her eyes "Do you like them? It's fine if you don't, they're not exactly designer, and I know you're not the sort for handmade gifts, it's more about the sentiment than anything else, you've given me two very nice gifts now and I haven't even tried to give you anything, and this was all I could really think of, so..."

She trailed off and then exhaled sharply through her nose at the amused look he was fixing her with, shaking her head "You could've told me I was rambling."

"You ought to be careful, Baxter. Anybody might think I make you nervous."

"I don't get nervous," she lied shamelessly with a roll of her eyes "I just know it's not typically your sort of thing. They're not made from the finest quality dragon hide-"

"If you could knit with dragon hide, Baxter, even I would be impressed."

"-so I won't get offended and take to my bed to mourn for weeks if you don't wear them."

"I like them. They're of sound quality - good enough that I mistook them to be professionally made. Not like the tat the Weasleys flounce about it just because their mother spawned a brood too large to afford clothes."

He was being a prat of for the sake of it with that particular comment - not least because it was woefully inaccurate. Marilyn had seen Mrs Weasley's handiwork for herself around Christmas when the Weasleys, and Harry, had dutifully rolled out their knitted jumpers sent by their mother, embellished with their initials. Fred and George had, of course, spent the holidays swapping theirs back and forth to mess with people, so that one could never safely assume that the one marked 'F' was George or vice versa. The jumpers had all been thoroughly impressive, and while Marilyn was pleased with her own skill, there was no denying that Mrs Weasley had her beat. Draco was, as usual, being nasty for the sake of it. But then he continued before she could argue.

"You're really worked up about this, aren't you?" he gave a smile that was both oddly charming and infuriating all at once.

"Look," she groaned "The broom was…the broom was immaculate. And I love the bracelet."

"You wear it all the time."

"Yes, and you notice, which takes away any ground you have to be smug about it, babe."

"And you lose any right to act blasé when you call me babe, darling," he shot back.

"Just like you can't use the word blasé and expect me to still be attracted to you, you tosser."

"My apologies, I forgot you despise words with more than two syllables in the unwashed north."

"Blasé only has two syllables - now tell me again how you have the intellectual high grou-"

She was enjoying their casual bullying of one another far too much - primarily because it was territory that didn't have her feeling awkward or unsure of herself. What she enjoyed even more, though, was how he dipped his face in towards hers and kissed her, effectively cutting off her beratement. Ironically, that didn't infuriate her. Every innocuous thing he did that would be perfectly innocent if done by anybody else pissed her off, but when he did something that would annoy her if anybody did it (anybody she was in the habit of kissing, at least), he could somehow get away with it.

"I like them, Baxter. Stop being weird about it. Go back to being your usual arrogant self."

He punctuated the reassurance by ghosting another peck at the corner of her lips.

"Pot meet kettle," she said drily, mostly to detract from how she'd almost leaned further into him when he pulled back "But good. I'm glad."

"Nobody saw you working on them, did they? They may connect the dots. Granger loves getting into the business of others."

Draco remained unaware of the fact that Hermione knew about them - and Marilyn intended to keep things that way. Hearing rant upon rant about her friend was not something she really relished the idea of, and he'd never believe her if she assured him that Hermione wouldn't tell anybody.

"I charmed them to look different. If anybody stops and wonders whether what I'd been knitting was destined for you after the…display in the hall before Christmas, they'll question their own sanity before they question mine."

Although which should be questioned more was highly debatable. Draco made a face as if to agree - and that was fair, considering his friends would likely laugh at themselves if they even considered to suspect that the wrist-warmers he wore were knitted by a filthy little mudblood like herself.

Unfortunately, the decent reception of her gift left only one thing left to discuss. Marilyn winced, but she didn't give herself much time to hesitate. This bit was the worst bit - the awkward reluctance. It was best to just bring it up, and then she could deal with the conversation as it unfolded rather than worrying about how it might unfold.

"So, it's funny that you should talk about being weird, because there's something I want to talk about."

"Something weird?"

"Depending on your viewpoint…and, er, maturity level. I suppose."

"Something bad?"

"I hear not."

"Something pleasant?"

"If you do it right."

He frowned at her. If he had worked out what she was talking about amidst all of her belligerence, he'd have probably been hesitant to call out his suspicion anyway. And that was completely fair, because it was hardly the sort of thing you would throw out there unless you were completely certain that was what the other person was getting at, right? A sure-fire way to create an awkward atmosphere would be to confidently state 'you're talking about sex' only to find out that the other person had been talking about the weather.

"So?" he prodded.

"Sex."

His hands fumbled and the gift slipped from his grasp, flopping down onto the sofa. Apparently he hadn't suspected, then.

"Excuse me?" he gaped at her.

Christ, he was posh even when he was flummoxed.

"Do you want it?" she asked, and then cringed at the question.

Yeah, of all the ways to bring up the topic, this was probably the worst way she could have gone about it. Well, short of ripping off her robes like those tearaway pants strippers wore and gesturing at her crotch enticingly. If there was such a way to do that.

"In general, right at this moment, or ever?" he asked, a flush quickly rising to his cheeks.

If there was any big win, it was that his reaction definitely implied that he wasn't just biding his time and waiting for his chance to pounce. Okay, she hadn't thought that of him. In all of their time together, she'd never felt pressured into anything. She wouldn't continue to spend time with him if she had, and she highly doubted he was about to suddenly start doing so anytime soon. But Hermione's words had given rise to a paranoia that she and Draco were operating under vastly different assumptions, and the blush on his face was reassuring as hell that it turned out they were not.

It was just a bit unfortunate that the reassurance paled in comparison to her own embarrassment - and her wish that she hadn't brought it up at all. But that was easy to do now that she had her answer, for his astonishment was an answer in itself. If he'd considered it an inevitability, he wouldn't have been this caught off guard, and he absolutely wasn't so good an actor as to be able to feign this.

"I just…I got in my head about…about this," she said - and she'd come dangerously close to saying us before managing to stop herself at the last moment "And the fact that it can't go anywhere, and usually things that can't go anywhere in that way only tend to exist to go…to one very specific place in another way. I didn't know if you had expectations in that way, and I started to worry that you might, and that you'd assumed we were on the same page about it, and I…panicked."

"And then you felt the need to induce that panic in me," he snorted, a great deal of bluster rising up to veil his embarrassment "I…I don't have any expectations. I'm happy with things as they are…are…are you?"

"Yeah! I am, that's why I was worried. I'm not ready for things to go further - generally speaking."

"That's fine," he said, and she suspected it was as close to a 'neither am I' that his pride would let him get, but then he hesitated before he continued "...Have you? Gone further? In the past? Ever?"

"No," she admitted frankly "This is the most involved I've ever gotten with anybody in terms of, er, scale. Have you? With Pansy? Or…or anybody?"

She only added the last part so as not to sound like a jealous little twonk, but she wasn't sure she succeeded. Thankfully he was much too embarrassed by this whole topic of conversation to really needle her with it, though.

"No. I haven't."

"Ah. Right, then. So we're all on the same page, then, at least."

"Yes," he snorted, shaking his head "At least there's that."

A few beats of silence followed, and the he groaned and raked a hand through his hair "How are we to go about as normal after that?"

"It's fine! It's only as awkward as we make it, really."

"Well you certainly did your utmost to make it very awkward - I tell you, Baxter, you've no future in diplomacy."

"No, Malfoy, I've got one in dancing. Very different area of expertise, that."

"Just as well - I thought you were propositioning me. That knitwear is a precursor to taking the next step in Muggle-born culture or something."

Marilyn smiled then - not only at the ridiculous nature of the thought, but because he'd said Muggle-born. Not mudblood. Had he even noticed? She doubted it. But it was something. Even if it was solely an act of appeasement - avoiding a slur to avoid an argument he couldn't be bothered with - that was still something, wasn't it? From anybody else it would be the bare bloody minimum, but it was a mark of great effort from somebody as proud and as annoying as Draco. Or was she being entirely pathetic here and grasping at the smallest of straws just to pretend to herself that this all wasn't pointless and stupid? Not really. She didn't think so. Mostly because she was damn aware of how stupid this whole thing was, she was just choosing to act in spite of that.

Chapter Text

After that, things were…nice. For a while. A good while, really. Marilyn had worried that her conversation with Draco might make things permanently awkward - and while she usually operated under the sound rule that if there was somebody in her life with whom an honest chat could ruin things, they had no place in her life to begin with, Draco was a bit of an exception there. To her detriment, probably. Happily, though, if anything it seemed to make things just rosy, and with both of them knowing the other was on the same page as far as how far things would go, it actually saved a bit of awkwardness in the long run.

No, their worries were saved for far more mundane things, like homework and coming up with ways to explain their continued absences to their friends. There was also the fact that they were steadily drawing closer to the end of the school year than they were to the beginning of it, and she knew that all too soon they'd be parting for good. It wasn't quite close enough for her to really begin worrying about it, but she could worry about worrying about it. Just to find an outlet for the energy that her ballet classes no longer really required, given that a lot of the rehearsals now were just business as usual.

Occupied with as many worries and potential worries as she was, though, Marilyn never stopped to think that there might be completely unforeseen problems on the horizon. That revelation was brought to her doorstep when Hermione pulled her aside on her way into the Great Hall for breakfast one sunny morning.

"Marilyn, can I have a word?"

"Am I in trouble?" she joked.

Hermione didn't so much as offer a polite smile in response, and that's when she knew she was indeed in trouble. Frowning, she noted the latest edition of Witch Weekly clamped underneath Hermione's arm and wondered vaguely if Draco had been giving more interviews. He hadn't mentioned anything to her, but would he bother?

It was only when they reached a fairly quiet corridor that wasn't a main route towards breakfast that Hermione rounded on her.

"Listen, if you want to keep up this association with Malfoy, that's entirely your business, and I feel like I've been very understanding of that fact," Hermione said sharply.

"It is," Marilyn said frankly, and then added "And you have."

"But I should have thought that it went without saying that you wouldn't gossip with him about my private business when you slink off to snog him in dark corners."

Blinking in sheer disbelief, Marilyn stared at her and waited for her words to begin making even a miniscule amount of sense. But the seconds ticked on, Hermione continued to glare at her in a way that would put McGonagall to shame, and no magical explanation presented itself. Nor did a Muggle one, for that matter.

"What are you on about?" she finally asked once she found her words.

Okay. There were probably more delicate ways to handle whatever this misunderstanding was, but nobody would take kindly to being yanked aside and accused of things that they couldn't even piece together, much less own up to. Hermione was not cowed. Brandishing the magazine she carried, she looked down at the page it was already folded open at, and began to read aloud.

"Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last Quidditch World Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with both boys' affections. Krum, is openly smitten with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited her to stay with him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays and insists that he has 'never felt this way about any other girl. However, it may not be Miss Granger's doubtful natural charms that have captured these unfortunate young boys' interests," she said, her voice caught between rising with her temper, and remaining low so as not to draw in unwanted attention "'She's really ugly,' says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth year student, 'but she'd be well-up to making a Love Potion, she's quite brainy. I think that's how she's doing it.'"

Marilyn endured the dramatic reading with all of the good grace she could muster, and even kept a lid on her eye rolls.

"That just Pansy being Pansy, Merlin knows I've seen her stupidity for myself - you're ten times prettier than her, the article is a load of bollocks-"

"That isn't what I'm angry about! I don't care about a stupid rag that would stoop to…to rate women's looks on a scale of one to ten as if that's all that matters!" Hermione was visibly outraged.

"What's the problem, then? The Love Potion thing? That's another blatant lie."

"How did they know about Viktor's invitation? About what he told me concerning his…his feelings?"

It was difficult to tell whether her flush at that last bit was from anger or from the admission.

"How should I know?"

"Oh, come on - it's obvious that you told Draco, and he fed it to Pansy, who then ran to Rita Skeeter to give her all of the salacious details!"

"Draco barely speaks to Pansy these days," she made a face.

"Oh come on, you don't actually believe that, do you?"

"And more than that, how could I have told Draco when I didn't even know any of this until right this second?"

That gave Hermione pause, but only for a moment before she spluttered and continued on, clinging to her suspicions.

"Well clearly you heard me mention it to Harry or to Ron, and then you repeated it to Draco who had Pansy take it to the papers so that it wouldn't look like he was waging some solitary campaign against us all - the rumours look like they have more basis in reality when it's more than one fool spouting them."

"I didn't hear shit, Hermione - and if I had, I wouldn't have brought it up to him because I know you wouldn't want me to, and I know what he's like. I know what he'd be tempted to do, because I'm not blind to how he can be."

"That's not a defence - you know how he is, but still you continue to…to carry on with him!"

"A defence? What is this, court? I don't need to defend a thing to you, I didn't do anything! I'm not going to turn to you to hold me accountable over who I spend my time with, and we don't meet up to sit and whisper about your love life, and the accusation that we might is ridiculous and paranoid. Even if I was that much of an idiot, or that much of a snake, why would I have any interest? Why would I sit around all day to discuss what you and Viktor may or may not be doing?"

"Maybe he found a way to sneak tidbits out of you when you were distracted - maybe you didn't mean to say anything of note, but you did."

"I didn't! I know what I say, and when I say it, and the only time I speak about you with him is when he makes some comment and I tell him to stop. I'm not that bloody stupid! I wouldn't just blab like that."

"I'm sorry, but you can hardly stand here and assert your good judgement while being involved with him at all."

"When did this become the argument? This is old news - and frankly, it's my business."

"It became the argument when you brought my business into it!"

"I didn't! I don't know how many ways I can say it. Am I speaking Mermish here? I didn't. I didn't, I didn't, I didn't!"

"Well…" Hermione faltered, then she hesitated, and only when Marilyn raised her eyebrows in expectation of an answer did she continue "...I don't believe you."

How was there any winning against that?

"Right," she breathed a laugh despite the outrage and the upset that was slowly developing a vice-like grip on her chest "Well. I'm a liar, then. Sound."

Curling her fingers around the strap of her satchell, she turned and started to walk away but Hermione was talking again.

"You can't just walk away!"

"How not? You've gone into this conversation with one way in mind of how it'll turn out. You'll tell me off, I'll apologise and admit I've been scheming behind your back with the big nasty Slytherin this whole time and beg for your forgiveness. You won't hear anything but. So what's the point? I can't be arsed. Good luck working out who's actually behind all this, because it wasn't me."

Her hands were trembling - with anger, with upset, with general shock. Maybe she hadn't handled it as well as she could have, maybe she shouldn't have gotten angry. Maybe everything would've gone much more smoothly if she'd tried to appeal to Hermione's reason, or whatever friendship it was they had, and calmly insisted it wasn't her. But how could any of that work if Hermione wouldn't hear it? If Hermione wasn't willing to even consider that maybe Marilyn wasn't Pansy-slash-Skeeter's source? It had been made painfully clear almost from the get-go that Hermione had decided she'd done it, and expected a confession followed by an apology if there was going to be any sort of going forward.

Marilyn had not done it, and she absolutely was not going to own up to doing something she hadn't bloody done. So there was no going forward, was there? She tried to pride herself in owning up to what she'd actually done - she didn't always manage it, she was only human - but she'd never take the flack for doing something she hadn't. What annoyed her even more was how she was tempted to doubt herself, raking through her mind for anything she might've said to Draco that could've gotten passed on. But she hadn't. The revelation about the strides in whatever it was that went on between Krum and Hermione had been news to her, so how could she have told Draco about it and then magically forgotten every bit of it?

Merlin's balls, that would be their next theory, wouldn't it? That Draco was using her as a spy and then Obliviating her to within an inch of her life so that she couldn't stop him, nor tell on him. Christ.

Once she got to the Great Hall, she faltered for all of one step before she turned and began to head for the Ravenclaw table and her fellow Beauxbatons students. She wasn't about to sit through a horrible atmosphere at the Gryffindor table all morning, especially when she'd done nothing wrong. And there would be an atmosphere, wouldn't there? If Hermione was confident enough in her theory to confront her about it, she'd have shared it with Harry and Ron by now, and it would only be a matter of time before Ron shared it with his brothers.

There'd come a time when she'd have to face it. If she was so determined to own her actions, dealing with the consequences of continuing to be involved with Draco was part of that. But not this morning. Not when she felt like this. All but falling into the empty space on the bench beside Esme, she took up a piece of dry toast and set about trying to choke it down. She wasn't particularly successful - it tasted like cardboard as she chewed it, and there didn't seem to be any moisture in her mouth to help things along.

It was almost funny. For all Hermione tried to warn her about Draco, justifiably or no, he'd doled out his own set of warnings, too. About the self-righteousness, about how little benefit of the doubt was extended to anybody who wasn't considered one of them. If one of her fellow Gryffindors denied being the source of gossip, would she be so quick to disbelieve them? Marilyn thought not. Draco had been proven right. Her only comfort in that moment was how Hermione would probably hate that even more than Marilyn herself did.

Chapter Text

There was something up with Baxter. Now, that was hardly the first time that Draco had thought that - and usually, especially these days, he did so with much more affection than he'd ever own up to. But now he meant it in a factual way. He entered their meeting place after dinner, and found her in her dancing gear, face and arms already glistening with sweat and a few wisps of golden hair stuck to her face as she twirled round and round and round, over and over and over again, the music from the gramophone the room boasted so loud that he almost feared it threatened their secrecy.

The brash and energetic brass instruments sharply contrasted the unhappy furrow of her brow that spun into sight with her every turn. It was a real frown, too, not just a product of concentration or discomfort. He'd watched her dance enough to know that if there was anything other than a look of affected serenity on her face, it was because she was in no mood to feign it. A wave of his wand had the music down to a quarter of its original volume as she stopped and dropped down from the tips of her toes until she stood properly on both feet. Her chest heaved, and ordinarily he might've blamed that for her lack of greeting, but she was making a good effort not to look at him, either. Instead, her eyes were fixed on her legs as she tried to chop the feeling back into her thighs with one side of her hand.

Any harder and she'd give herself bruises.

"I struggle to think of any ballet that requires twenty pirouettes in a row," he pointed out mildly, coming to a halt at the edge of her little dance floor.

"Odile's Coda - thirty-two. And they're fouettés, not pirouettes," she breathed.

"My apologies, how could I ever be such an idiot?" he replied drily "What's wrong with you?"

She finished massaging her legs - a process Draco did his utmost not to watch too closely at risk of looking like he was leering - and then straightened up, turning her attention to her feet where she began to point and unpoint them in their pink ballet slippers.

"Nothing."

"You're trying to twirl off your anger, Baxter, so something's obviously gotten under your skin."

Finally she stilled, but only once she'd straightened and crossed her arms. The sweat that had gathered across her chest and shoulders glistened as she did so. Draco did his best not to stare at that, too.

"Have you done any more interviews?"

And there went his distraction.

"What?" he frowned.

"With Rita Skeeter or any other bottom feeder. Like the one you gave about Hagrid."

"No. Why?"

"What about Pansy? Did you tell her to do it?"

"With the mood Pansy's in with me these days, I can't tell her to do much of anything - which, I'd point out, is partly your fault."

Baxter offered neither apologies nor condolences for that, but he hadn't really expected her to. Nor, he noted with some discomfort, did he want her to.

"I didn't make you stop your associations with her," she rolled her eyes.

Draco almost snipped back at that - to ask "ah, so I'll go back to kissing her, too, should I?" just to get a rise out of her, but he didn't. Because he knew she'd say yes out of pure principle, and then he'd have to do it so she wouldn't think she'd called his bluff…and he didn't want to do that. Thankfully, he realised what she was getting at with her original question, and that provided a neat little change of topic.

"This is about that comment she gave to Witch Weekly, isn't it? The one about Granger?"

"Have you read it?"

"Of course not, I don't read Witch Weekly."

"Why not?"

"Because my testosterone gets in the way," he scoffed "It's all over the school, though. She must be furious."

"She is."

"Don't tell me that's why you're in a mood. Granger's salacious love life? Who cares?"

"That's not all. She can't work out how Skeeter knew the things she wrote about, or how Pansy knew about it, if she was her only source, and I'd be upset for her either way, but she's blaming me for it when I didn't do a sodding thing."

He'd suspected that something was amiss when he'd noticed that she hadn't sat at Gryffindor table for any of her meals that day - but commenting on such a thing would reveal that he'd been watching, and that had…implications. So he didn't voice that thought. And he'd been hoping that if there had been trouble, it had been with one of those tedious duplicates that she seemed to find so amusing. Maybe that would follow.

"You?" Draco snorted "Yes, because you and Pansy are such close friends. Merlin, she's been spending too long around Weasley, she's becoming just as gormless. How did she get that in her head? I thought the two of you were great chums."

"So did I."

"Well? What brought her to that conclusion?"

Marilyn hesitated, and then she sighed and finally looked at him.

"She thinks that I told you, and that you fed it to Pansy so that she could then bring it to Skeeter."

Draco stared.

"And I told her that you barely even speak to Pansy these days, and that even if you did, I still wouldn't sit around gossiping about whatever it is she and Krum get up to - and even if I did that, she didn't bloody well tell me any of this in the first place, so how could I have known to spread it around? But she didn't want to hear it, and she called me a liar, so she can suck it as far as I'm concerned."

"Why would she think you might tell me in the first place?" he asked "Given that we despise one another and can hardly be in the same room without bursting into flames, as is the story we feed everybody else?"

"Yeah. Well. About that…"

"You didn't."

"Of course I didn't! I'm not mad! She worked it out on her own - which isn't exactly miraculous, considering we always happen to vanish at the same time."

The panic that first threatened to seize Draco's chest when he'd realised what she was getting at was taking over him in full force. He could feel the blood draining from his face, the implications of what she'd just said really sinking in. Granger had known for at least today - which meant Potter and Weasley no doubt did so, too. By extension the twins, and therefore the whole of Gryffindor. Merlin's balls, was he about to walk out to a blood bath? A stack of howlers from his parents?

"You should have brought this to me this morning!" he exclaimed, even more infuriated for her complete lack of urgency "She's known for a full day? There's no chance of us getting on top of this now!"

Their secret was out and she'd been in here dancing - dancing, of all things!

"It's fine."

"How is it possibly fine?"

"Because she's known a lot longer than a day, and she hasn't said anything in all that time."

"What?"

"She…confronted me. A while ago. She'd worked it all out, and showed me that article about Hagrid to try and show me what you're really like."

Several emotions coursed through Draco at that - disbelief, anger, a faint note of relief from the part of him that actually wanted to believe her…and the remaining panic from the part of him that couldn't.

"What did you say?"

"That she doesn't know you."

Draco faltered at that. Mostly because he didn't know whether to be pleased or insulted by that assertion. He knew which one he should be - insulted. Because this…this diversion, this interlude, this thing, this…this lapse was not supposed to be an indication of who he was. That was what made it a lapse - it was a momentary break from who he really was in order to be something he was not. Something he should not be - something he could never be.

In a correct world, Granger would be right and Marilyn wrong. And that really, really wounded him to even think. But while he could continue to tell himself that that was the case, it didn't change the fact that walking into this room always felt very much like exhaling. He hated that, and he relished it. And he felt much the same way about the fact that Baxter seemed to see it. Understand it. So he clung to his outrage, because that was familiar ground.

"Well there's no chance of her keeping her mouth shut now."

"I thought the same, but she still hasn't said anything - and if she was going to say something, it'd have been right after our argument while she was really pissed off."

"How do you know she hasn't?"

"George caught up to me on my way here, asked me what was up."

"Yes, why would anybody not want to sit with him and his wretched clan?"

"Stop it. He'd noticed that I wasn't sitting at Gryffindor table anymore, right around the time Hermione was walking around with a face like a smacked arse - paraphrasing - but that she wouldn't let anybody in on what was up."

"She's more friends with their brother and Potter, not with them."

"If she'd told Harry, he'd have told Ron, and he'd have told them."

"Well how do you know she's not planning on it?"

"I don't for a fact, but I really don't think she will. If she was going to, she'd have done it either before she confronted me, or right after we argued - when she was at her angriest. If she hasn't yet, she won't do. Mostly because she must already be doubting that I actually did it."

"Is that what you think, or what you want to think?"

"I'm not stupid enough to cling to what I want to think instead of what I know to be true."

She looked like she wanted to say more after - her mouth even opened to do so, but then she snapped it shut again. Draco could hazard a guess as to what words were supposed to fill the silence. Except in his case. He didn't call her out on it, and he didn't even really bask in being some strange exception - a special case. Because she was the same for him, wasn't he? He'd hardly behave with Granger how he did with Marilyn…and not just because Granger didn't have her looks. Or her legs. Or her charm. Or- he abruptly ended that mental list when it threatened to grow much too long for comfort.

"You should have told me," he said.

"I should have," she admitted "And I'm sorry. I didn't want to keep it from you, and it was shit of me to do it."

Her admission - and her apology - took more of the gusto from his anger than he'd have liked. That was almost enough to make him angry all over again in turn, but she continued.

"I knew she wouldn't say anything about it when she first confronted me, but I knew you wouldn't believe it if I told you that, so I needed some time to pass with her not saying anything to prove my point before I tried to make it. You'd never believe it without evidence."

He scarcely believed it with evidence. But, and he loathed to admit it - not because it meant Marilyn was right but because it necessitated believing that Granger was actually capable of keeping her mouth shut for once, and that was just slightly more difficult for Draco to wrap his head around.

"If you believe that she'll keep her silence with such certainty, what is it that has you in such a mood? Surely you weren't this worked up over telling me?"

Ordinarily he might've liked that. From Crabbe, Goyle, or any of his other housemates, he definitely would have - he'd have expected it. Demanded it. But he didn't quite like the idea of Marilyn being fearful of him. It was almost impossible to imagine, though.

"I wasn't looking forward to it, but no."

Uncrossing her arms, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and then brought her hands up to rest on her hips, her eyes still downcast. To his abject horror, when she finally looked up - but still not at him - her eyes were filled with tears.

"She was so quick to think the worst of me," she said, her shoulders inching upwards in a tiny shrug "I'd understand the question - if she'd pulled me aside for a chat and asked if I'd discussed her at all with you, I'd get that, but it was never even a question. It was decided. I did it, and I owed her an explanation and an apology. And then when I wouldn't own up to something I'd never bloody done, I was a liar, too. Okay, it's not like we'd been friends for years or anything, but that was what everything she'd seen of me as a person was worth in the end - one suspicion. And then nothing I had to say mattered."

Her voice threatened to wobble and she looked down again, breathing growing heavier as her fingers tightened at her hips so hard that Draco could see them digging into the flesh there through her leotard. The display was one that he took in with a mild sense of horror - to the point where he was relieved when her jaw clenched and she dragged her anger back.

"And it's an absolute joke, right, because it's all because I dare to spend time with you. What does she expect? For me to present her with a list of everybody I intend to befriend, or spend any time with, or kiss-"

"I hope there's not a list."

"-so that she can go through it and give it her stamp of approval? She's got a cheek. It's not like I'm sat here, having never been burned by you, or trying to insist that she should befriend you-"

"Please never do that."

"-but I'm just asking for the same courtesy! And what's most infuriating about it is that it means that you were right! They flounce about touting the importance of friendship and being good and understanding and all that bollocks, but the second you don't live exactly how they want you to, or you forgive the wrong person, or associate with anybody not on the approved list, you're the enemy. I wouldn't believe it, all this time I've been sitting back all impressed that she'd just let me get on and do what I want without anything beyond her first attempt at an…at an intervention, but no! She wasn't! She was sitting back, waiting for the first thing to go wrong so she could foist the fucking blame onto me! It's a joke, Draco, an utter joke, and I didn't do anything!"

Draco wasn't an idiot. He knew that a lot of what she was saying now came from the same anger and upset that had her digging her fingers into her hips to stop her hands from shaking. When the anger faded, a lot of her current opinions might vanish along with it. But - even if only for now - she saw the point he'd been making about Potter and his holier-than-thou friends for all of this time, and he had to stamp down any smugness before it showed on his face and ruined his moment of glory.

What also ruined any joy he was feeling was that he still wasn't completely sure she wasn't going to cry. She didn't seem sure of it either, her chest continuing to rise and fall dramatically, the muscles in her shoulders tensed in a way that seemed like more than just anger.

Sighing, Draco took a few steps closer - like he was approaching a wild animal - and when she didn't back away, he drew nearer still. Marilyn continued to stand rooted to the spot, her lips pursed, looking anywhere but at him. For one usually so confident, it was oddly endearing how embarrassed she was by her own upset. He understood, though, despite the fact that he'd never say it. To be upset was to admit that they had enough sway over you to make you upset, and that was not an option, or so he'd been taught. The girl before him likely learned that lesson from a very different source than what he had, but she was abiding by it all the same.

When he managed to get within arm's reach of her without being scratched or bitten, he lifted a hand and let it rest on her shoulder. He'd half expected to be put off by the sweat she was caked in, and was surprised when he found it didn't bother him at all. He wasn't much good at comforting people - it wasn't something he had a lot of experience in - but she followed the suggestion that his hand on her shoulder made and curled into him, pressing her face into his robes as he wrapped his arms around her. She still, thank Merlin, didn't cry.

But she did sniffle out a "I'm being daft."

"It's fine," he said.

He wasn't going to say that she wasn't, because anybody who teared up over Granger being insufferable was being a bit daft, but it was also fine. Standing here, he didn't mind it - he didn't mind holding her, and nor did her mind being the one she came to for comfort when even Saint George was sitting about Gryffindor Tower scratching his bright orange head wondering what the problem was. While she was betraying here how important Granger's stupid opinions were to her, she was also giving away what she thought of him.

Baxter had a way of laughing at everything - even things he suspected she didn't find funny in the slightest. That was why she got along with the Weasley twerps so well, for they found everything funny. A coping mechanism from having been born into that clan, he suspected. But she wasn't laughing now. And she wasn't trying to laugh now. And she was allowing him to see it.

He'd heard a lot that he didn't like this evening, and yet somehow it was overshadowed by this. This vulnerability. This closeness. This trust. All of which he didn't want to undo by storming out in a huff over Granger's knowledge of his own private business.

Draco tightened his hold on her, and he idly considered the fact that he could get used to this.

Chapter Text

Things after that were…iffy. The problem was, she'd made her statement by not sitting at Gryffindor table for the duration of the week that followed her spat with Hermione, but that meant that returning would now be a whole ass thing in itself. The longer she stayed away, the more of a thing returning became, which made her stay longer, which renewed the entire vicious cycle. And then George lived up to his snarky nickname from Draco - Saint George - when she made the mistake of mentioning such worries to him when he finally had enough and pulled her up over her abandonment of Gryffindor table.

"You do realise that we're not a big hive mind, right? Some of us might be purebloods, but we're not Slytherins. Red is rosy, remember?"

He'd chosen to confront her almost in the exact spot where they'd first met, out on the grounds by the lake. There were no Slytherins to harass her this time, the lustre of the powder blue robes having well and truly worn off. Thank Merlin. She'd been left to sit quite alone until he fell down into the grass beside her.

"I just don't want an atmosphere," she groaned in response to his very valid question "I can't be arsed with it."

"As if me n' Fred would even notice that - we pride ourselves in our lack of ability to read a room. We'd just go on as normal, on my honour," George said, and when he caught her begrudging smile he pressed on "Just because you fell out with Hermione doesn't mean you fell out with all of us."

"I know, and I'm not trying to take it out on you, but now returning is just a big awkward thing, and I always tell myself that today is the day and then it's just easier to not do it."

"You can dance in front of all three schools but you can't walk over to a table?"

"That's different."

"Then dance over to the table."

"Ah, the perfect way to avoid a scene, thank you."

"Oh, come on. You're made of sterner stuff than this, don't be such a wimp. I don't even think Hermione's that miffed at you anymore, she's just stubborn. She's hardly going to approach you through a sea of all of your frères et sœurs to extend a gold-trimmed invitation requesting that you come back to the table, is she?"

"Maybe that's what it'll take," she lifted her nose in mock-condescension.

"Sometimes I can really see how you managed to get on with Malfoy way back when, you know that?"

Marilyn hoped her responding laugh didn't sound too nervous "Thanks."

"It wasn't a compliment. Look, it's already March. There's not all that long left of the school year."

"And you're going to miss me badly when I'm gone and want to make the most of these last few months?"

"What? Don't be ridiculous. No, if you go back to Beauxbatons having wasted all of this good quality George time-"

"Oh, god."

"-you'll never be able to live with yourself, you'll plunge into a deep and dark depression, forcing you to squander your future as a ballerina because you'll be much too busy shaking your fist at the sky and asking why you didn't just make the most of it while you could."

"You're a sick and twisted individual."

"Yes, you'll try and tell yourself that in the beginning, denial is the first stage of grief, but it won't last forever, and it'll hit you eventually. I'm being a good, charitable soul and trying to stop that from happening."

Marilyn groaned - but only so that she wouldn't smile. Because she had missed him. He made it pretty easy to do.

"All right. Fine. Tomorrow, breakfast, I'll drop by."

"Nonsense, dinner."

"Breakfast."

"Well, that too, we're going to have to keep a close eye to make sure you don't defect again, but dinner first."

"George. Tomorrow, breakfast. It gives me time to mentally work up to it."

"You're sitting at Gryffindor table, not robbing Gringotts."

"With you and your brother around, they feel like the same thing."

"Good. That's exactly the effect we aim to have. We'll see you at dinner."

"Breakfast, George."

"I'm not having this conversation with you again, Marilyn, it's getting quite tiresome. Is this need you have to have everything explained twice what you and Hermione argued about? If it was, I'm on her side."

And then he was gone, headed back up the hill towards the castle and leaving Marilyn to sigh at the lake as if that might solve her problem. It wasn't even big enough to be considered a problem, not now that her initial anger had faded. It was just stupid awkwardness.

But she meant it - when she told him that she'd join them for breakfast, anyway. Enough was enough, and he was right. If she stayed away for the rest of the school year, she'd regret it when all was done. George didn't deserve that. Nor did Fred, even if she wasn't as close to him. Hermione usually had a library book or ten to return first thing in the morning. If Marilyn got up early and moved quickly, she could get to the table first, and then she wouldn't feel as awkward if she might were she the one making the approach.

It was a very good plan. And it all went down in flames when dinner came. No sooner had she began to tuck into her food at Ravenclaw table than she felt two sets of hands seize her, each pair grabbing one arm each.

"Alright, Baxter, come on, you were warned," Fred sighed, sounding remarkably like a weary police officer with thirty years of bullshit under his belt.

"What are you doing?!"

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," George responded brusquely.

Used to their, well, them-ness, Esme cast a glance towards them and then reached under the table to offer George Marilyn's school bag. He loosened the grip of one of his hands to accept it, but between his remaining one and Fred still holding fast, there was no chance of her wiggling her way out. Whatever god out there threw their hands up and declared that Fred and George should be twins was a malevolent deity indeed.

"You've got to be cruel to be kind," Fred replied.

"Actions speak louder than words," George nodded seriously.

That must've been the point where they ran out of clichés to spout, because Fred faltered for a moment before saying solemnly.

"Don't count your dragons before they hatch."

"Slow and steady wins the race," George countered.

Thanks to their superior height and the strength that their role as Beaters for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, they had her pulled up and away from the bench with ease, Marilyn's legs dangling uselessy beneath her. For a moment she considered really abandoning dignity and trying to level a kick at one of them, but that seemed a bit too far. She didn't want to look daft now, did she?

Sensing her surrender in what seemed to be a simultaneous manner, they slowly lowered her so that her toes touched the ground. When she didn't try to use that opportunity to scramble away like an animal being released to the wild, they lowered her further until she was finally standing on her own two feet. But they still didn't let go of her arms. A glance towards the teachers' table told her all she needed to know about how they'd gotten away with all of this so far - only Dumbledore, Madame Garnier, Sprout, and Trelawney had yet arrived. Hogwarts' Headmaster and her ballet mistress both seemed amused by the whole display, and the latter two didn't much care at all. Had McGonagall been here, it would've been a very different story.

Marilyn pretended to be unaware of the eyes that were fixed on all three of them as the twins frogmarched her across the hall to Gryffindor table. At least she wasn't caked in fake blood this time. They only let go of her when they finally reached the table and ushered her to sit down, wedged between the two of them. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all already there - the two boys watching the whole fiasco with bewilderment (in Ron's case) and amusement (in Harry's). Hermione didn't look up from her dinner at all, but Marilyn supposed that was better than calling her an evil backstabbing cow.

"Have you two gone mad?" Ron stared at his brothers in disbelief.

Fred winked in response, taking a bit of mashed potato that was much too big for his mouth.

"Now, now, let's just welcome back Miss Baxter, shall we?" George said.

"Welcome back, Marilyn," Harry said with a somewhat bemused smile.

It seemed too genuine for him to know exactly why she and Hermione had bickered. Marilyn murmured her thanks, and the side door to the hall opened and McGonagall swept into the room.

"Right on time," George commented happily, confirming her suspicions that it had all been well planned.

They might've been rebels, but they weren't idiots.

"So," said Fred "How was everybody's day? Any stories to tell? Any lessons learned? Any memories made?"

"I was kidnapped from Ravenclaw table with a level of speed and efficiency that would've impressed the KGB," Marilyn replied.

"Who did that to you? When?" Fred frowned "They sound very intelligent. Athletic, too. Skilled."

"Don't forget handsome," George added.

"Do you even know who the KGB were?" Hermione asked drily.

"That's beside the point," the twins said in unison.

Well, at least Hermione's chiming in showed that it wouldn't all be tense angry silences. Awkward, sure, but not angry. Awkward was fine - they were British, they mastered the art of the awkward silence at birth. After a bit of crying. She'd already done that, and Draco hadn't even responded by running for the hills. That was a major victory in itself.

It was just difficult to read. Was she speaking up merely to pretend that everything was normal? Was she still miffed, but wanted to avoid an atmosphere? Or did she now truly doubt all of the thing she'd accused her of, but just didn't know how to go about smoothing things out? Sitting and pondering it wouldn't offer any answers, and it seemed just a bit more pointless thanks to the fact that Marilyn didn't even know how she felt, either, so what hope did she have in successfully working out how anybody else did?

Yes, her temper had cooled. If she could sustain that level of upset for all of this time, she'd be at a level of hysteria previously only seen in a period drama - the kind where the mums died of shock after moving to the north for a week. But she was still annoyed. She'd remain annoyed until she got an apology. If by some miracle she did get one, while she'd probably put it to bed and move on, it would always linger in the back of her mind. That she was one wrong move away from being blamed for failing crops and droughts. Forget 'I saw Goody Proctor with the Devil!', it'd be 'I saw Marilyn Baxter with Draco Malfoy!'.

But the condemnation hadn't yet been shouted for the whole hall to hear, nobody was coming at her with pitchforks and torches, and there was no scaffold being constructed in the courtyard outside. And, best of all, she was back at Gryffindor table. It was good for now.

Little gestures were made here and there from then throughout the rest of the week. Gestures that weren't so little when one took into account who they were coming from. Hermione was just as stubborn as she was (George's words, although Marilyn was self aware enough to see the truth in them), so little gestures from her meant just about the same as a little gesture from Draco would. Although telling the girl that would only make everything worse.

But still, they cropped up. If she asked for the toast, or the salt, or the pumpkin juice to be passed at meal times, Hermione was the one to do it. If she asked when a certain piece of homework was due, Hermione was the one who answered. Hell, sometimes she even coaxed a snicker from the girl with one of her dumbass jokes. It was all very tentative - she didn't really look at her when she did any of this. Then again, Marilyn only ever looked at her to check whether she was looking at her, so for all she knew the girl was doing the same thing and they just never looked at the same time.

Yeah, it was all also very stupid.

It was clear the girl didn't hate her, but how far that lack of hatred spanned was still unclear. Marilyn was fairly confident that it boded well, though, because she'd hardly randomly stop hating her if she still thought her accusations had been founded in anything that even vaguely resembled fact. But Marilyn wouldn't go on as normal without an apology, and she was beginning to sense that Hermione wouldn't apologise (or even just try to make amends) without some sort of gesture to indicate that it would be welcome.

Somebody would have to bite the bullet, and on the morning of the latest Hogsmeade trip, Marilyn decided it might as well be her.

"Hermione," she said, seizing an opportunity before many others had arrived.

Only Harry sat with them, and he appeared half asleep, his head lolling, even propped up atop his hand on the table. It was pretty early. Blinking in surprise, Hermione looked up from one of the countless books she often had nestled in her lap at mealtimes.

"Do you want to grab a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks today? Have a chat? Just a quick one - I know it's short notice."

Harry woke up at that, turning his head and staring at Hermione in a way that had Marilyn wondering if she'd been mistaken in her assumption that the girl had been silent on exactly what their tiff had been about in the first place.

"Oh," Hermione's eyebrows upturned as her brow furrowed "Marilyn - er, I can't. I'm sorry, really, I would, but…I…I promised Viktor I'd spend it with him. We're really trying to make the most of it all, with the school year being over soon…"

"Ah. All right, then," she gave a little shrug and returned her attention to her own breakfast.

"I am sorry," Hermione added.

"Don't worry about it, yeah? It's fine."

Mostly because the girl was lying to her - Krum had been ordered to spend the whole day going through Quidditch drills down at the pitch so that his skills wouldn't get rusty throughout the school year. She'd overheard a handful of third year girls excitedly making plans to go down and bear witness to the full thing rather than going to Hogsmeade. Harry seemed a bit more awake now, his crunching of his cereal being the only thing to interrupt the awkward silence that took hold.

Well, she'd tried. At least there was that, and it was fine, because now she knew where they stood. Not enemies, but not good friends, either. But hey, it was better than foes.

Unfortunately, her morning didn't get much better after that. Oh, it looked like it was going to look up at first. Once everybody else turned up for breakfast she managed to act normal and walk off any injuries her pride had sustained through her usual nonsensical chit-chat with George. She'd never tell him, there'd be no living with him afterwards, but it really was a balm. She already found herself hoping he'd really make good on his promise to invite her to the Burrow for a bit over summer. It would be interesting to see the place that had produced the force of nature that was the Weasley twins.

Her ego was almost mended entirely (her power of quick healing would no doubt come in useful as far as her dancing went) when she slipped out into the courtyard…and ran smack bang into Draco and Pansy.

Pansy stood at the bottom of the stone steps with her back to her, gesturing wildly with open arms at Draco who stood a few feet away. His face was a picture of annoyed boredom - which was sort of his default expression, but the slight curl of his lip gave away the fact that this time it was deliberate.

"What do you mean no?" Pansy demanded.

"It's rather a self explanatory word," he drawled.

Marilyn paused awkwardly in the doorway. What should she do? Turn on her heel and walk in the other direction? Continue on down the stairs and add a good gallon of petrol to these flames?

"But I don't understand it, Draco! This…this could be a good thing - we can take today and use it as a chance to reconnect, to start fresh, and to really get to know one another in a way that could even be deeper than it was, now that we've gone through this."

She was regurgitating a whole lot of stuff that must've come from any and every girly chat she'd had about Draco since the beginning of the New Year. Marilyn had been involved in more than enough of those sorts of chats to know them when she heard them. Unfortunately for Pansy, she also knew Draco was absolutely not the sort of person to start spewing that at. And she wasn't even being sarcastic there - all right, she didn't want Pansy to succeed, but it was difficult not to feel somewhat sorry for the girl as she tried and failed to understand why Draco wasn't having any of it.

Had he even properly ended things, Marilyn wondered? Or had Pansy just woken up one day and been forced to contend with their new standing out of nowhere? Marilyn had a sneaking suspicion as to what the answer to that question was.

"And you don't think you should have clued me in on these enthralling plans before you made them and decided they were going to happen?" he asked, still sounding very much bored.

It was difficult to reconcile the lad who stood here wrinkling his nose at Pansy with the one who'd hugged her as she cried after her spat with Hermione. Then again, it was also difficult to reconcile the one who'd bought her the bracelet still dangling around her wrist - and the broom that was signified on that very bracelet - with the one who'd humiliated her in front of the whole hall. He was a guy of many faces, was Draco. The question was which one was the real one. Was he good with a streak of bad? Or bad with a few moments of doubt? Moments of weakness, no doubt his lot would call it.

And most days she was certain it was the former. That the hatefulness in him had been a product of his environment, and what she saw behind closed doors was the real him. But moments like this - moments standing here, witnessing how cruel he could be, and how utterly unbothered by that cruelty he was, did spark fears that she was making a fool of herself.

"I don't understand it, Draco. You at least owe me an explanation," there were tears in Pansy's voice now - and while Marilyn, horrifically, found herself feeling bad for the girl, Draco was sighing like it was the most tiresome thing in the world.

Her mind had been mostly made up to turn on her heel and slink away, right when Draco's eyes flickered upwards and he noticed her standing there. Well. Shit. Pursing her lips, Marilyn descended the steps with a slow, measured calmness that absolutely wasn't genuine. She gave Pansy a wide berth as she walked past her, but that didn't pacify the girl much.

"Is it because of her? That stupid little mudblood?"

Aaaand there went her sympathy. Oh well. At least it wouldn't keep her up at night now.

"Of course it's not," Draco scoffed "Why would I care about her?"

"Well it's the only thing that changed! You shouldn't give her the satisfaction - this is exactly what she wants."

Christ, if she didn't respond it would only look suspicious.

"As far as I'm concerned, Pans, you can both sit on it and swivel," Marilyn called over her shoulder, punctuating her statement with a middle finger directed behind her.

And her short-lived sympathy even allowed her to feel kind of good about it.

Chapter Text

A couple of months went by after that without incident. Well, without horrendous incident. Hermione did pull her aside when she was on her way back to the carriage for the night, pink-cheeked and anxious but otherwise looking very much like a woman on a mission.

"You didn't tell Rita Skeeter."

Marilyn blinked. The Hogsmeade trip had gone by a couple of weeks ago, and Hermione had continued on being perfectly pleasant to her, even if there was still an awkward atmosphere lingering. Honestly, she'd just expected the rest of the school year to go like that, and she was fine with it. There wasn't any outright drama, so it was what it was. So this? This caught her completely off-guard. So much so that a couple of seconds of silence passed while she waited for her brain to catch up with what was going on, her brain previously occupied with whatever homework was due next and how many hours of sleep she reasonably miss if she got up early to practise.

Then the words finally did sink in and she had no idea what to even say. If it had been phrased as a question, she'd have been a right moody cow back - she already knew that. Even now she was biting back a sarcastic 'if only I'd said that at some point', partially to save drama but mostly because she was ready to praise the heavens that her point was finally believed.

"No," she agreed finally, hugging her arms to herself "I didn't."

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," Hermione said.

A guilty frown had furrowed its way into her brow, and Marilyn once again found herself hiding her shock that the apology wasn't immediately followed up by justifications, excuses, or accusations, Maybe she really had been spending too long around Draco that she'd now come to expect such things.

Sighing, she shrugged her shoulders up until they practically brushed her ears, and then dropped them, her arms following suit until her hands hung at her sides.

"It's fine."

It hadn't been fine at the time, but 'I accept your apology' sounded grand and frankly cringe-worthy as hell, so it was the best she had.

"Is it?" Hermione raised her eyebrows.

"It is now. We are. We're good. Everything as it was."

After all, what would it say about her if she could forgive Draco for all he'd done but not Hermione for a few misplaced suspicions? Ones she hadn't even voiced, for that matter.

"Good. Great. I'll see you at breakfast, then."

Hermione smiled, squeezed Marilyn's forearm in parting, and headed back to the castle.

And that had been that. Mercifully. They had indeed seen one another at breakfast the next morning, and proceeded to go on like nothing had ever happened. Or they would have done, had Fred and George not twigged on and gone out of their way to comment on it, but that was just Fred and George, wasn't it?

The only other thing was Draco. Draco was always a thing. The end of the school year was drawing nearer and nearer, and while she found the whole thing bittersweet and looked forward to returning to her friends at Beauxbatons the following September, she really would miss everybody she would soon leave behind. It was simpler with the Gryffindors than it was with Draco (again, always the way), because it was accepted that they'd write, that she'd visit the Burrow, that they'd all very much be staying in touch. But with Draco that wasn't so.

They'd begun this whole little thing with the explicit agreement that once the school year ended, they would go on as if it hadn't happened at all. When she'd made that agreement, she'd expected to find it freeing come the end of June, but now that was only a couple of months away and she found herself dreading it. Realistically, she knew it would be fine. She'd get home and other matters would take over as far as what demanded her attention. There'd be catching up with her Muggle friends, staying with Taylor, organising a trip to the Burrow when she could not stay with Taylor. All right, she'd probably think of Draco every now and then and wonder what he was up to, but that would be it. And eventually those instances would grow fewer and further between, until suddenly years from now she'd remember him out of the blue and laugh about the whole thing.

It was just all of the bits between now and then that made it complicated. For instance, the goodbyes. God, the goodbyes would be painful. Not in the overwrought emotional sense, but because of how awkward they'd be. If she was being painstakingly honest - only with herself when it came to this, though, because she'd die of embarrassment before she said it aloud - she didn't completely trust herself not to get emotional when it came to the goodbyes. She teared up when she left her Muggle friends behind for a new school year, so what chance did she have saying a permanent goodbye to the only lad she'd ever been involved with for a timespan like this?

His predecessors were randoms she'd drunkenly kissed at parties, it wasn't like she was well versed in this sort of thing. The intimacy, even in the absence of taking things further. The closeness. Knowing him, his idea of their goodbye would be finger guns, a wink, a pat on the ass, and then they'd part ways. Okay, maybe not quite that casual…although the mental image of Draco Malfoy shooting anybody finger guns was one that would be permanently etched into her psyche until the day she died. Still, he wouldn't want to make a big song and dance about it. She half suspected she'd simply walk into their little hideout one day in the run-up to summer break to find all of his things gone and that would be that. Maybe that would be for the best. But she'd still be left feeling like a tit for ever having imagined more.

Draco was conflicted. He'd been conflicted ever since Baxter had set foot in this bloody castle. Eventually it became the new normal, sometimes rising in waves and demanding his attention again, but it would pass eventually and he'd be able to go on as he was without thinking too much about what it was that he was doing. Until the next wave came. And they were growing more and more frequent.

The end of the school year was looming. Oftentimes by this point, he was looking forward to it - to returning home and living in true comfort, not having to deal with idiots every day. Or if he did, it was on his terms. At the start of the year, when it became clear that everybody would spent the year gaping at Potter even more than usual, he'd assumed the end of this year in particular couldn't come quickly enough. And now he found himself dreading it. All because of her.

He would have resented her, if he thought himself capable of hating her at this point. Life would be easier if he could. And, he often found himself lamenting lately, life would be easiest if she'd been a pureblood. Had Marilyn Baxter been pure-blooded and Slytherin, they'd rule this damn school together. He'd even settle for Ravenclaw. But she was not. He was being mocked. Or tested. And soon she'd be gone. That was for the best - he kept telling himself so. The only way this could have been worse would be if she'd attended Hogwarts full time.

After a bit of observation - longer than he'd ever admit to - he'd profess that she'd been honest when she said there was nothing between herself and either of the Weasley duplicates. Yes, they were annoyingly close, but not romantically so. But it was only a matter of time before that happened - before some lucky imbecile who could associate with her openly came along, and Draco would've been stuck watching it, clinging to his self control so that he didn't curse the sorry bastard's limbs off. Although he'd likely settle for a little hex here and there, if the opportunity arose.

No, the sad truth of the matter was that he knew he was going to miss her. There were times he already missed her now, and they shared a bloody place of residence for the time being. Ever since it had come to light that Granger had worked things out, they'd resolved to make sure there were times when only one of them was making use of their hideaway - to resolve the matter of them both constantly disappearing at the same time. Have one of them be present while the other slipped off would abate any further burgeoning suspicions that might've risen from those less apt to be vocal than Granger. Which just about constituted the entirety of Hogwarts.

In those instances, though, he found that the room felt much too empty. Lifeless, without Baxter in the corner running through the same three or four moves over and over, or sitting on the floor with her homework spread about her in a circle like some sort of absurd ritual. Oftentimes he found himself hoping she'd throw caution to the wind and turn up anyway, seeking his company above that of the Gryffindors. He faced a different version of the same temptation when it was his turn to stick around and be seen, and he was stuck listening to the tedious ramblings of people he did not particularly even like, finding himself committing particularly idiotic things they said to memory so that he might laugh about it with Marilyn later. When fifth year came, he knew he'd experience all of this tenfold, for there'd be no reprieve from it then.

He would simply go on missing her, until he forgot about her entirely. Neither of those eventualities made him happy to consider. And when that unhappiness rose up, so did the words Baxter had levelled at him at the end of last year, her voice filled with malice.

'You found a mudblood like me to be better company than your pureblood girlfriend. And what does that say about your values?'

It was a good thing she no longer expected him to counter her words, for he still came up short whenever he tried to, even mentally. Because what did it say about his values? She was the best the mud- the Muggle-borns (he had to get in the habit of thinking that word so he did not say mudblood in her presence and get himself a right old bollocking) had to offer, of that he was certain. She'd have hardly turned his head otherwise. The problem was, there was supposed to be no overlap between the best they had to offer, and the worst of his kind. And instead, she was showing that overlap to be painfully considerable.

Even at her most insufferable - and she took great joy in being as annoying as humanly possible at times, that much was certain - she was nowhere near as boring and tiresome as some of his fellow purebloods managed to be by accident.

So what did it mean? Either she was the exception, an anomaly, or his lot was wrong. And given that his lot insisted that there were no exceptions, that there would never be any overlap, it meant that they were wrong either way. So what else were they wrong about?

That was a path of thought he steadfastly refused to venture down. Ever. But it was there, newly paved and beckoning. He only hoped that he maintained the will not to go near it - and the fact that entertaining those thoughts worried him spoke volumes in itself.

It was on the night following Barty Crouch's strange disappearance that Baxter first betrayed that she'd been thinking of the future, too. Ordinarily they didn't discuss it at all. There were a lot of things they didn't discuss at all - Crouch's disappearance being one of them. Anybody with half a brain knew what events such as these might hint at - namely trouble on the horizon. And there was only one potential source for real trouble on the horizon that any of them might truly fear. What good would discussing that bring?

It appeared in avoiding the biggest and baddest topic of them all, the ones that were merely uncomfortable became fair game. Fresh perspective and all that.

"What are you going to do? At the end of the school year? Over summer?" she asked quietly.

The later the school year pressed on, the later they lingered in this room before retiring. More often than not, they snuck out so late that if they were caught in the halls at such an hour it would be an instant detention. Draco had even floated the idea of their staying there one night - with sleep being the sole thing on his mind - but she'd brushed off the idea, citing the morning roll call in the carriage that could really raise a stink if missed. The last thing they needed was for the teachers to start dragging the lake in search of her.

As if was, they had an hour at most before they really had to leave, and they were spending it well - entwined on the sofa, nudging each other into wakefulness when the other began to doze.

"Sit on it and swivel, if I follow your advice," he replied drily.

It was impossible to see her face from how they were positioned, her curled up against him, her legs folded across his where they were splayed down one side of the giant sofa. All that was in his line of sight was a great mass of gold-blonde hair.

She offered a tired chuckle in response "You won't let that bit of improvisation go, will you?"

"I'm taking a leaf from your book and being difficult for the sake of it," he murmured.

"Is she still suspicious?"

"She's not happy, but not suspicious. Even if she was, what would it matter?"

"What?" he could hear her frown.

"The truth is unfathomable to anybody who knows me, but should she work it out by some mad happenstance, who would believe her? My mother would be last on that list, and my father? Would you have the balls to approach Lucius Malfoy and call his son a blood-traitor?"

"You make him sound scary."

"He can be," Draco said - proudly "Often for that matter."

"That's kind've sad."

"What are you talking about?"

"People shouldn't be scared of their parents," she murmured "Ruling by fear. It's not…healthy."

"Of course it is," he rolled his eyes "It's how we do things. What, are your parents the sort where you're all the best of friends and they never teach you anything about how you should be living?"

Marilyn sighed, and then she dodged his question entirely - steering the conversation back to calmer waters.

"Your approach to Pansy is pretty Machiavellian. Tell me about your evil plan for world domination next."

"That's my plan for this summer," he replied drily, accepting her peace-keeping "Yours?"

She shifted slightly, fingers tracing across the lines of his knuckles while she stretched her legs out, tight-clad feet smoothing across the shins of his trousers as she did so. Draco did his best not to react - although he winced and marvelled all in one at how such a minor gesture could elicit a shiver from him.

"This and that," she murmured.

"Ballet, no doubt."

"Mm. Madame Garnier doesn't like me doing too much with different teachers over summer - different methods, you know? Not that I could afford Muggle classes anyway. But I have a deal with a local studio. I clean the place for free, and I get access to their practise rooms in payment."

Draco bristled at that, not overly fond of the idea of drudgery, but she snorted in response, continuing "Mopping is a good warm-up. It's not the end of the world."

"It'd be the end of mine."

"Fragile world, that. If it can be brought down by a mop."

He huffed a laugh, and then hesitated.

"We could always write."

The only reason he'd been able to muster the willingness to say it was because he couldn't see her face. Although the moment he did, he regretted it. It was the tiredness, he told himself. That was why. And the quiet, and the dimness of the room. All conspired to make him say things he ordinarily would not. To put stock in ideas that were utterly foolish.

"With a mop? Have you ever seen one?"

"Don't be an arse," he grumbled.

"I'm very good at it, though," she replied.

That was when she shifted, raising her chin so that she could see him, and then her eyes widened.

"You're being serious?"

"Forget about it," he murmured, moving to untangle his fingers from hers.

Marilyn held fast, though "Draco, I thought you were joking."

"Oh yes, hysterical," he said flatly "Almost as funny as the Weasleys."

He shouldn't have asked. He shouldn't have broached the topic at all. That had been their agreement, had it not? If Baxter desired otherwise, she'd have said so - she certainly had no trouble voicing every other thought that flitted through her mind, so this would not have been an exception.

"Draco," she said, firmly "The thought crossed my mind a couple of times, but I didn't bring it up because I never thought you'd want to."

"Yes, well, that speaks to the wisdom of the idea," he grumbled.

Although he did stop trying to pull away.

"Yeah," she admitted with a grimace "There is that. But it's not like we'll be penning each other sonnets or anything. Just…check-ins. Keeping in touch. Christmas cards and the like."

"We could use fake names," he offered in agreement "And of course, they'd taper off eventually."

"Exactly," she agreed "We're not kids. We're not five year olds promising to be best friends forever before we change schools or something. We know the reality of it. Life will take over, this is just…"

"The mature way to go about things," he supplied.

"Exactly. Yeah," she nodded "The mature way. It's fine. Look at what we've gotten away with all year."

"A few letters will hardly hurt," he replied.

It didn't matter how denial-filled they were being, the one logical part of Draco's brain that yet remained pointed out - because there was no third party in the room to tell them so. And, as Marilyn lifted up her free hand to ghost her fingernails across his jaw, Draco tilted his head down to kiss her and couldn't much find it in himself to care for logic.

Chapter Text

The night before the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament, the Gryffindors snuck Marilyn into their common room up in the tower - bundling her up in red and black robes and huddling her amongst a gaggle of genuine Gryffindors so that the portrait of the Fat Lady wouldn't spot her and refuse entry. And then the party to cheer Harry on began. The Gryffindors had really gone all out - maybe to counteract the scorn that he'd faced from the other Hogwarts Houses, the other schools and the press all in one - with streamers, banners, and a mountain of (non-alcoholic) drinks and snacks. A Wizarding stereo blared The Weird Sisters, and the mood was overall one of over-the-top revelry. It wasn't surprising - not just because of that fabled Gryffindor loyalty, but because Harry stood a very real chance of winning this thing.

Funnily enough, though, Harry appeared to be the one who was least certain of that fact. Sure, he laughed and smiled and joined in with all of the fun as much as everybody else, but those laughs, smiles, and cheer all had just a slightly twitchy quality to them. And she couldn't blame him. It was easy for all of them to sit about and announce that he'd win when they weren't the ones walking into that maze tomorrow night. The tournament had started with dragons right out of the gate - what the hell would they see fit to end it with?

With things all rosy between herself and Hermione again, there wasn't a hint of an awkward atmosphere in sight, Marilyn was free to enjoy the night and make the most of it. There wouldn't be many more here - and she would miss it. While Beauxbatons would always take priority because it allowed her to dance, there was just something about Hogwarts. Beauxbatons felt more like home than her "real" home did, but hell did Hogwarts put up some strong competition.

George found her while she was mulling over that point, taking in the phenomenal view that the tower's windows offered.

"Saying your goodbyes?" he asked.

"Starting to," she admitted "We still have a bit of time yet. And the end of term performance us ballet girls have been putting together. But…it's all going to happen really quickly, isn't it?"

"Mm," he agreed "Like you said, though, there's still time. Days yet before we need to say our goodbyes - although, word of warning, I will be taking it personally if you don't cry."

"Do tears of joy count?"

"I'll think on that one and get back to you. And anyway, I'll see you over summer."

Yes he would. They hadn't dotted all of the 'i's and crossed all of the 't's yet, but she had his address so that she could write to him - it was written on a scrap of paper, in his handwriting, nestled right next to Draco's in her yearly planner, wrapped up in a scarf and tucked away neatly at the bottom of her trunk. They'd work out the specifics when the time came and he could confer with his parents properly on the matter, but she was already looking forward to it.

"So," George continued, leaning against the wall and watching her carefully "Have you and Malfoy said your goodbyes yet?"

Any chance she might've had at playing it cool was out of the window when she immediately choked on her butterbeer, a good deal of it going down the wrong way and some up her nose. In hindsight she'd regard that as a good thing - not even having the opportunity to lie to him - because he'd only take it as a betrayal if she did. George was the kind who could appreciate a bit of subterfuge and sneaking, but not outright lies.

As she coughed and spluttered, George clapped her on the back a few times. Unless it was his attempt at murder, it seemed he didn't hate her.

"Forgot how to drink, silly sod," he supplied in the way of explanation to a bystander "Don't often see that trait in a northerner."

Ducking her head, Marilyn grabbed him by the wrist and led him to the only vaguely quiet corner of the common room - the stairwell that led up to the boys' dormitories.

"Who told you?" she asked.

There was only one real candidate - only one person who knew, or who she knew knew anyway - but she'd long learned the lesson of what unfounded accusations could do to her friendship with Hermione. She wasn't about to be a raging hypocrite by making some of her own now that they were good again.

"Who else knows?" George frowned.

Not Hermione, then. She hadn't thought so, but she knew that Draco would never tell in general, and even if he was horribly concussed and did so anyway, it would not be George Weasley that he blabbed to, so that only left one other person.

"Just me, and Dr- er, him. Obviously. And…Hermione worked it out. A while ago. I swore her to secrecy."

George snorted, shaking his head "Of course Granger was all over it. Was that what you fell out over, then?"

"No. Sort of. Not really. It wasn't that simple - the stories in the press, the ones Pansy was going on about, she thought maybe I was the source of the leak. That I'd blabbed to Draco, and he'd ran with it."

"Did you?"

All things considered, she couldn't really get annoyed at the question.

"No! Of course not," she shook her head.

"All right, then," George nodded, accepting her response immediately.

It only made her feel all the more guilty.

"How did you know, then?" she asked, hugging her arms about herself.

"I worked it out - I'm not as daft as I pretend to be, you know," he scoffed "A lot of the time when one of you disappears so does the other, and I would've waved that off as a coincidence were it not for the fact that he leaves you alone. He'd never do that if he really hated you. You should've staged…oh, I don't know, a duel to the death or something if you wanted it to be really believable."

"A staged duel to the death?"

"Mm. I like to imagine it would've gone horribly wrong and he'd have ended up kicking it for real."

"Sending me to Azkaban. Nice."

"Better than snogging Malfoy."

"You speak as though from experience."

"Is that jealousy in your eyes?" he wriggled his eyebrows.

"It's guilt," she admitted with a grimace.

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? Isn't it obvious?"

"Well it's not like there's anything between us - not of that sort, anyway. We tried, remember? We appear to be impervious to each other's charms."

"Tragic, that."

"Yes, I thought so too, until it came to light that you've just got diabolically awful taste. Now I'm almost flattered that I don't strike your fancy - I'd be forced to take a good look at myself if I did. My face isn't rodent-y enough, I think."

"So you're not angry at me?"

"You don't get angry at people who are sick, Marilyn, you just sort of pity them."

She wasn't sure she liked that, either. But pity would have to be better than hatred.

"This…isn't how I imagined this conversation going," she admitted.

The darkness of the stairwell made it difficult to make out his expression properly, but every so often his hair would fall away from his face as he shook his head or tilted it a certain way and she could make out his features. Anger and disdain were never there. Exasperation, sure. But not fury.

"Oh? What'd you picture?"

"Wands at dawn. A fair deal of insults being chucked about. The end of a friendship, y'know?"

"Nah. Malfoy's punishment enough in himself. You are wrong about him, you know? You're not a total idiot. A masochist, maybe, the ballet gives that away, but not an idiot. He must be different behind closed doors with you. Not that I want to think about said closed doors, because it makes me want to vomit, but that's just common sense, isn't it? I highly doubt you two meet up so he can sit and call you a dirty little mudblood between snogging sessions."

"No. He doesn't."

"Yeah, he saves that for when you're in public," George shrugged.

"I…" she winced and then sighed "Yeah. I can't argue with that."

"And that's not a red flag to you, is it not?"

"Of course it is, but it's…it's complicated."

"Then explain it to me."

"Why?"

"Because I want to understand!" he said as though it were obvious.

"Do you?" she asked doubtfully.

"Merlin help me, but yes. I'm afraid so."

Now that surprised her. This whole conversation came as a shock, really, but that in particular threatened to send her staggering to the nearby steps so she could sit down and collect herself.

"He's…he's not happy, George."

"Good," he said bluntly, and then threw his hands up in mock-surrender at her warning look, mimicking locking his lips shut before waiting for her to continue.

"All right, he likes the fuss and the luxury and the general superiority that comes with who he is and who his family are, but he's not really happy. Not when it comes right down to it. People who treat others that way never really are, are they? And he's not. He seems…lost, even, at times. It's sad. He's wasted on his lot, or he would be if he could just open his eyes…"

"And you're the one to open them, are you?" George's frown said it all in regards to how he felt about that.

"No," she scoffed as a knee-jerk reaction, and then faltered "...Maybe. I don't…well I'm certainly not clamping them shut. I'm not converting him here, but maybe I'm planting a seed. Something."

"That's what this is? Some covert mission for the greater good?"

"Of course not, I'm not that clever, I've more than proven that this year," she snorted "I wish I was that calculated, but I'm not. This is just…what I tell myself. How I square myself with it. We get along. I enjoy being around him when he's not being an insufferable little prat. Even sometimes when he is. I don't know why, I can't explain it, we just…mesh."

"Until it ends terribly badly."

"Until it ends terribly badly," she agreed with a sigh.

She kept going to start nervously fiddling - with the hems of her borrowed robes' sleeves, with the strands of her hair that were strewn about her shoulders, with her wand where it lay in her pocket. Every time she almost started, she stopped herself, and only succeeded in doing so thanks to the constant awareness of her body that dancing had gifted her with. The effect probably wasn't great. She probably looked like some fidgety little crackpot.

"I won't insult you by asking if you talk about any of us with him," he said.

"We don't."

"I really wasn't asking, Marilyn," he said.

"I'm telling you anyway. The only time any of you are brought up is if I'm saying nice things, or telling him to stop after he makes a nasty comment."

"He doesn't listen."

"I think half the time he can't help himself."

"Of course he can, he just chooses not to. There are people born pureblood who turn their backs on that hateful shit every day. He chooses not to."

"All of his friends and family are them. What is he supposed to do? Move out at fourteen? Cut them off and strike out on his own?" she had a very vague taste of what that would be like, and she wouldn't wish it on anybody "He's…he's torn. He's on the path to realising. I can tell. I'm sure of it."

As she spoke, any judgement, any derision, any humour slowly began to drain from George's face and he instead stood there, regarding her with a very sad frown.

"What?" she prompted quietly.

"You're going to be heartbroken when you see how wrong you are, you know."

She breathed a laugh - one that came from shock more than humour. That was the last thing she'd expected him to say.

"Yeah, well, I won't expect you to be my shoulder to cry on. I've been well warned, haven't I?"

"You have been. And I still will. I'll be annoyed, but I'll give it a good week before I let loose my first I told you so."

"I'll understand that it's implied from the get-go, if that'll help the temptation?"

The smile he gave in response to that was more than slightly begrudging.

"I s'pose we'll find out."

Her conversation with George stayed with her for longer than she'd have liked. Marilyn mulled over it when she snuck back to the Beauxbatons carriage, it kept her awake for half of the night, and it returned to her mind by the time she walked towards the steps that led up into the castle for breakfast. Ironclad proof that he had a point if there ever was one.

Funny, then, how quickly that point vanished when she caught the sound of somebody hissing her name.

"Baxter! Psst! Baxter!"

Whipping her head around, she blinked in surprise to find Draco's head poking out from behind the great stone pillars that had shrouded them from sight on the night of the Yule Ball. Once she met his eye, he motioned with a jerk of his head for her to come over, and then disappeared from view. She couldn't help but snicker at the whole display. From one who made such a big deal about being all posh and snooty, he really was a right silly sod at times.

Glancing around to make sure nobody had noticed - and then making a big show of kneeling down to fiddle with her shoelaces when a couple of students walked by - she waited until they were quite gone before she hurried over.

"What do you- mmf," he cut off her question with a kiss.

Marilyn sighed into it, her arms coming up to hook around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His own hands went to her hips, keeping her close when he finally pulled back until one lifted to tug at a loose wavy golden strand of her hair.

"You look very pretty today," he murmured.

She breathed a laugh "It comes naturally to me. Is that what brought this on?"

"Mm. Not really. I was going to suggest we meet up tonight. Make the most of this last week."

"It's the third task tonight," she pointed out.

"After the third task. Obviously. Come now, Baxter, don't be so distracted."

She might not have been, were it not for how he all but purred the words into her ear. Apparently he was in a very good mood.

"I don't know, I'll be expected to be there if Harry wins. To celebrate."

"He won't. And even if he does and pigs fly overhead, you'll just be fashionably late. It's fine."

"All right," she relented with a snort "Fine. An hour at most."

"I knew I'd talk you around," he smirked down at her.

Marilyn rolled her eyes - mostly because he seemed to have mistaken her griping for a true argument. Were she feeling really stubborn, he never would have won. He should've known that by now. Rather than voice all of that, though, she settled for giving him one last peck on the lips - and another on the cheek, to serve as a distraction so she could reach up and comb her fingers through his hair. In part because she knew fixing it would annoy him, but mostly because it was just much too tempting a prospect.

"Handsome bastard," she grumbled up at him - and then pulled away, striding towards the castle before their little flirtation with tempting fate could really backfire.

She could feel his eyes burning into her back, fighting off a smug smirk at that fact. Hopefully his good mood wouldn't go down in flames when Harry won.

Chapter Text

It took devastatingly little time for George's prophecy to come to fruition, and it started with a dead body.

In the beginning, there was very little to distinguish the third task from the second task other than technicalities. They'd swapped staring at a lake for staring at some hedges, and save for a few rumblings - the flash of a spell beaming up above the tops of the hedges, the rustle of leaves as the hedges seemed to fight back against the champions, and even an odd scream or two - there wasn't a whole lot to actually watch. It seemed the dragons from the first task were an act that wouldn't really be followed as far as audience entertainment went.

That being said, it wasn't a bad night. Not at first. Summer was well and truly setting in, a pleasant breeze weaving its way throughout the crowd while they all chatted and excitedly waited to see who would be their victor. Completely abandoning any pretence of Beauxbatons loyalty, Marilyn sat with the Gryffidors - one stripe of crimson face paint lining her right cheekbone, and a similar one of glittery gold mirroring it on the left.

There were murmurs of excitement when Fleur was rescued from the maze, mostly from the Hogwarts and Durmstrang students, knowing that one contender was out. Those murmurs halved when Krum was taken out next, although the Hogwarts students made up for it by doubling in volume.

"He really doesn't look well," Hermione commented with an anxious frown, nodding in Viktor's direction as the teachers convened around him.

She was right - though she usually was…recent events notwithstanding. Krum's face was a greyish white, and even from here they could see the sheen of sweat coating his brow as he turned his head back and forth depending on which teacher spoke to him, his eyes glazed over and almost dazed looking.

"He's fine, he's Viktor Krum," Ron grumbled.

Once he might've said that like it was a compliment, but tonight it sounded distinctly begrudging.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Marilyn chimed in "Look - he's sitting down, they're not even taking him to the hospital wing. The maze is designed to freak them out a bit, it looks like it succeeded."

Hermione didn't look convinced, but Marilyn couldn't much blame her because she wasn't either. Nerves were all well and good, but Krum's were made of steel. And he looked frazzled.

Conversation quickly picked back up again, though, any worry replaced by excitement now that the odds of the champion being from Hogwarts was a certainty, and that champion being Harry had just doubled.

A long time seemed to pass after Krum was pulled out. Too long, Marilyn thought. Surely the maze wasn't so deadly that there'd be such a big gap between Krum being pulled out and a victor proving triumphant? She could've sworn that the maze looked stiller, too - there didn't seem to be as much happening beyond the odd rustle here and there. A glance towards Hermione found her frowning thoughtfully at it, and Marilyn knew she wasn't the only one who was confused.

"D'you reckon we're sitting here literally watching grass grow?" Ron commented from the other side of Hermione "Does a great big hedge count as grass?"

"Watching leaves grow doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?" Marilyn replied and he snorted.

"It won't be long now," Hermione shook her head.

And, as usual, she was proven right not one full minute later when Harry materialised in the middle of the lawn before the hedge, huddled over the cup and…and something she couldn't make out. The Hogwarts band immediately kicked up and those in the audience began to cheer - none more so than the section Marilyn sat with, throwing up their hands and grinning at each other.

"So much for Beauxbatons superiority, eh?" Fred turned to call up to her with a grin.

"You can't go on like that when I've got this crap on my face," she pointed to the Gryffindor colours emblazoned across her cheeks pointedly "Although I'd like to see Harry try to go en pointe on a broom."

"So would I," Fred shrugged with a grin "It'd be a right laugh."

She snickered, shaking her head - and then stopped when a scream broke through the revelry. Given that they were a castle full of teenagers, people screamed all the time. Shrieks, whoops, hollers. A school was the worst place to have a migraine. But this was different. This was a gut-wrenching cry of pure horror. Everybody else sensed it too, immediately turning to the source and finding Fleur near the front, her hands clapped over her mouth as she doubled over, staring at Harry in horror. It was Cedric he was leaning over - from this angle she could see his legs sprawled out. Was he hurt?

Dumbledore ran to him as the crowd quietened, all peering over each other's heads to try and work out what was going on as the band abruptly stopped. Just in time for them to hear what Harry was shouting at Dumbledore.

"He's back! He's back!" Harry was sobbing, his voice ragged "Voldemort's back!"

Everything around Marilyn seemed to halt. She was in her body, and then she wasn't. The night was, if not a normal one, then certainly a good one…and then it absolutely was not. She wasn't sure when it was that she rose to her feet, only that she was suddenly standing on legs she could not quite feel, watching as Dumbledore, followed quickly by Fudge, ran to Harry who continued to kneel over Cedric's prone form, recognisable to her only because of his black and yellow top. Was he unconscious? What was…?

"Cedric…he asked me to bring his body back. I couldn't leave him - not there."

The silence was only noticeable when she realised she could hear every word Harry was saying - although it took longer to make sense of them than it did to understand them. Body? But surely that…no. She tried to stumble back, but the bench she'd been sitting on knocked into the backs of her knees and almost sent her off-balance. She regained her footing quickly, and her eyes never left the scene unfolding all the while. Hermione was similarly motionless beside her.

Dumbledore was taking Harry's face in hand, speaking to him in low intent tones as Fudge rushed back to the members of staff who'd slowly begun moving forward.

"Keep everybody in their seats!" he ordered loudly, lowering his voice to continue "A boy's just been killed."

It wasn't low enough. Most gathered heard him, and it gave them permission to believe what they were seeing. The effect was immediate, like a spell of paralysis had been broken, but nobody seemed quite sure what to do now that they'd remembered they could move. Until a voice broke through the stunned murmurs.

"Let me through - let me through!" a middle-aged man was running down from the stands "Let me through…that's my son!"

And just like that, the murmurs were silenced again.

"That's my boy!" Cedric's father continued to cry out "It's my boy…"

He finally pushed through all of the adults who had gathered around the scene, falling to his knees beside Cedric. Beside Cedric's body. He took it in for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, and then he let out a heart-wrenching wail that could have only been brought forth by pure, agonising grief.

Something tightened in Marilyn's chest, her throat constricting, and the next time she blinked, tears began to spill down her cheeks. Harry was being dragged back from Cedric by Moody, fighting him all the way, and Hermione and Ron began to nudge their way down the stands to try and go to their friend, but Moody was already marching him away. Marilyn stayed where she was, rooted dumbly to the spot. The teachers began to communicate in hushed whispers, no doubt trying to navigate how to move forward as the students of all three schools continued to stare in horror.

The more time ticked on without this being some terrible mistake - some elaborate hoax, some hallucination, anything but something real - the more she struggled to grapple with it. This couldn't be real. It couldn't be. Could it? They'd said that the tournament was dangerous, but…it was for show. The danger wasn't real. The…the teachers would step in if something went really wrong, and the people who had died had done so centuries ago when things were…and Harry had said…He'd said that Vol- no. No, no, no. No.

McGonagall was calling out that all students had to go to their respective dormitories - announcing which rows should leave and when, so that nobody would be trampled in their exit - but Marilyn could barely register what was being said, and only started moving when she was herded out by the people around her leaving, too. Later, when she found herself curled up in her bunk in the Beauxbatons carriage, she wouldn't be able to recall the walk there.

The atmosphere of stunned disbelief carried on to the next morning. Fleur's eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, having arguably known Cedric the best out of the Beauxbatons students, having bonded with him over the course of the tournament. They all got ready for the day in silence, speaking only when necessary - and only then in hushed murmurs - all of them looking shaken. The loudest voice was that of Madame Maxime, who came to announce to them all in a booming voice that they were to gather in the Great Hall.

She was relieved to find that students of all three schools mixed together in the hall rather than being forced to sit strictly school by school, and she moved swiftly towards Gryffindor table where George - god bless him - had saved her a space. All at the table looked utterly numb, but none looked so traumatised as Harry. He stared ahead almost unseeingly, his eyes bloodshot and his face still scratched from whatever horrors he'd faced the night before. His shouts from afterwards hadn't finished ringing through her mind.

"He's back! Voldemort's back!"

Judging by the looks that kept being shot his way, she wasn't alone in that. No food appeared on the tables as was usually the case, but for that she was relieved. The sight of it alone would only turn her stomach - as the thought already had.

Once everybody was seated, Dumbledore wasted no time in standing and beginning to speak, his voice clear and sorrowful.

"Today, we acknowledge…a really terrible loss," he began "Cedric Diggory was, as you all know, exceptionally hard-working, infinitely fair-minded, and most importantly…a fierce, fierce friend."

A girl over at Gryffindor table - the one Cedric had attended the Yule Ball with - bowed her head and began to sob. Marilyn lowered her gaze, listening to Dumbledore as he continued.

"Now I think, therefore, you have the right to know exactly how he died. You see, Cedric was murdered by Lord Voldemort," that sent a rumble through the hall, but a subdued one - most of them had heard Harry the night before, and those who didn't had been told of what he'd said by their friends "The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this. But not to do so, I think, would be an insult to his memory."

Marilyn's hands were clasped before her on the table, the nail of the index finger on her right hand scratching back and forth across the back of her left hand. It was beginning to leave an angry red mark, but she couldn't make herself stop. The burning scraping feeling it left behind was the only thing that had her sure this was real, grounding her. He was back. He was back. This meant…Well. It meant so much that her brain couldn't even conjure a definitive end to that sentence beyond cold, hard terror.

"Now, the pain we all feel at this dreadful loss reminds me - reminds us - that while we might come from different places, and speak in different tongues, our hearts beat as one. In light of recent events, the bonds of friendship we've made this year will be more important than ever. Remember that, and Cedric Diggory will not have died in vain."

George's hand fell to her wrist, grabbing her attention. Marilyn turned her head and looked up at his face, finding that his eyes were not on her but on something across the room. He glanced towards her, making sure he had her focus, and then he nodded towards whatever it was he'd been looking at.

It didn't take long for her eyes to land on what he was trying to bring to her attention. Thanks to his hair, Draco always stood out where he sat at Slytherin table. Now he stood out even more, though, for while everybody else looked shell-shocked or at least somewhat solemn, their heads bowed or looking to Dumbledore with tear-filled eyes, Draco did neither. No, Draco sat like it was any other breakfast in the hall, chatting boredly to Crabbe and Goyle, not a hint of sorrow on his face.

Marilyn stared in disbelief - and then was annoyed at herself for her own disbelief. Until her annoyance for him took over once he turned to Crabbe, made a comment, snickered and smirked at his own joke, and then turned his gaze to the rest of the table. When he found them all listening to Dumbledore, he rolled his eyes and went back to chatting to his cronies.

"You remember that," Dumbledore continued "And we'll celebrate a boy who was kind, and honest, and brave, and true right to the very end."

Lowering her gaze once again to the table, Marilyn stared at George's hand where he remained gently lying upon her wrist, a faint sense of nausea welling up within her. A tear narrowly avoided hitting his hand, and she wiped furiously at her face with the sleeve of her robes. He had told her so.

Chapter Text

With everything cancelled, Marilyn had nothing stopping her from going straight to the vanishing room immediately after Dumbledore's speech. Not to see Draco - some nauseous, denial-fuelled part of her hoped she wouldn't see him again at all before leaving if she could only play her cards right - but to collect all of the things she'd left there so she might avoid returning entirely. It would be harder for him to get her in private then. Maybe he wouldn't even want to. With his idol on the rise once again - a thought that still had her chest seizing up in abject horror - he'd have to be on his best behaviour.

Moving with speedy efficiency about the room, she gathered all of her text books into her arms, having promised to sell them to a third year for half the price they'd have gotten them in the shops, throwing other odds and ends into her satchel - her spare pair of pointe shoes, a couple of resistance bands, a muscle soothing potion, a hairbrush. It was ridiculous the amount of knick-knacks she'd ended up accumulating in here. A testament to how long she'd spent here. A testament to how utterly stupid she'd been.

She was just doing one final sweep of the room - steadfastly refusing to look at the stupid sofa where they'd spent so many stupid hours stupidly curled up together when she heard the door click open, and everything in her seemed to sink. She didn't turn towards the door, instead preoccupying herself with shifting and then re-shifting her text books in her arms.

"Ah - I wasn't sure if you'd be here, but when I saw you weren't with that lot I decided to try my luck," Draco said in the way of greeting.

Like it was any other day. Marilyn said nothing. She wasn't sure she could speak - she was too sad and much too hopelessly angry.

"I couldn't get away last night," he continued "Not with everything on lockdown as it was. I expect it was the same for you."

Still, she said nothing.

"Baxter? Hello?" he prompted, his shoes clicking against the stone flooring as he approached.

Gripping the books until her knuckles turned white, she knew she had thirty seconds at most to rile herself up for the inevitable shit-show that was about to occur. She'd have to make the best of them. It didn't take him long to round the sofa, but she didn't lift her gaze even when she felt his eyes burning into her face.

"Oh Merlin, not you too," he groaned.

Marilyn gritted her teeth, wondering if counting to ten might help her keep her head so she didn't leave this conversation in yet more tears.

"You didn't even know Diggory! Tell me, did you ever exchange more than five words throughout this whole school year? Or more than two, even?"

"A person just died, Draco," her voice shook as she spoke "He was seventeen, he was decent, and he was murdered. By…by him. I don't have to have been his best friend to be upset. All that takes is being human."

"If Potter's telling the truth."

"He is," she said sharply "And I know that if your lot gets their way, it'll be me before long. Then you can giggle and smirk your way through my memorial, too."

His jaw slackened as she finished venomously, dropping the books down to the sofa where they landed with a series of dull thuds, a few smacking against each other like they were punctuating her point.

"You're being absurd," he scoffed.

"Am I? How?"

"A boy - one neither of us particularly knew, mind you - died in a tournament famous for how dangerous it is. The Dark Lord likely wasn't even responsible, Potter probably did it himself and he's lying to cover his saintly bloody reputation."

Marilyn choked on a fresh wave of sobs. Not because of the obvious bullshit he was trying to feed her, although that played a role too, but because of what he'd called him. The Dark Lord. Only his followers, his supporters, his ardent little bloody fanboys, called him that. Only Death Eaters. She'd known. Everybody knew about the Malfoys. But there was something about having a shining example presented so neatly before her where beforehand she could fall back in denial-ridden reasonable doubt.

But no. She'd done far too much of that lately. All year, in fact. She'd been an utter bloody idiot.

"He didn't, Draco," she sobbed "You know it. I know it. And I know you know it. After everything this year? All the signs? The- the World Cup, and Crouch, and all the other disappearances? And now this? It all only points to one thing. So what are we doing here?"

The question appeared to catch him off guard, and he gaped at her for a few moments before scoffing and answering an entirely different one.

"Of course you won't be next."

"Maybe not next, but eventually. Or if it's not me, it'll be Hermione - don't fucking smile at that!"

"Oh please, you're not like Granger! You're not like any of the rest of them! You're different," he frowned.

He said it like it was a compliment, which only made it sting all the more.

"No," she sniffed, shaking her head as she furiously wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand as if more weren't still spilling "I'm not. That's the point. And if you can't see that? If you can't…if you won't…"

She didn't even know what she was saying anymore. Just that she needed to get out of this room, burn these robes, and rid herself of everything he'd ever touched. When she dropped her hand, the bracelet slid down her wrist until one of the charms dangled against the dip of her palm. Well…that would be a good start, wouldn't it?

Moving as if the action didn't send a fierce, hollow ache throughout her chest, she undid the clasp of the bracelet with the opposite hand - thanking god that she didn't struggle with it, because that was the only way this whole thing could get even more embarrassing. It dropped from her wrist and into her other hand with an air of finality.

"Here," she held it out to him.

He made no move to take it, staring at her in disbelief for a prolonged moment. And then his features contorted into a sneer, his lip curling in disgust as he eyed her with disdain. It was a look usually reserved for others. Never her. Not since before the Yule Ball.

"All of this because you're that committed to being a grief thief over Diggory's death, is it?" he asked "What, now that your little end of term performance was cancelled you feel like you need more attention? Classy, Baxter. Very classy. It's my fault for expecting more of you."

Yeah. What else could she have expected from him?

"A sentiment we can both share," she gave a teary, pained imitation of a tight-lipped smile "I'll leave the broom in that spot by the courtyard for you to grab."

Dropping the bracelet to the sofa, she took up her books into her arms. Looking at him was difficult - damn near impossible, even - but she made herself do it. To prove a point to him, or to herself? He glared back, but his face was a shade paler even than its usual porcelain. Out of anger? Probably.

"I've plenty, I have no need of it."

"Even so, it'll stop you from having to make up any awkward explanations in future. Can't have your loyalties questioned in the years to come, yeah?"

"My loyalties have never been in question!" he hissed, visibly affronted "How dare you, you–"

And then he stopped short. But she knew what he'd almost said. You filthy little Mudblood. He'd said it to her before, hadn't he? She supposed the fact that he'd stopped short now was as close as she'd get to a good sign. It was too little too late, and she wished she could bloody well stop crying. When that wish wasn't granted, she did look away.

"I suppose you're right. They haven't been," she sniffled "Goodbye, Draco."

She felt like she should say more. But what else was there to add? Take care? Good luck? Keep in touch? No. He didn't respond - he didn't even move - as she walked by him, giving him a wide berth while she did so. The door had almost closed entirely behind her as she stepped out of the room when she heard him let loose a hex that had the sofa bursting into pieces. Marilyn flinched, and she kept walking.

A stupid technicality meant that rather than just catch the Hogwarts Express down to London, from which she could hop on a train to York at King's Cross, Marilyn had to travel back to France with her fellow Beauxbatons students, only to then be Apparated back to England by one of her teachers. Probably Madame Garnier. As mind-numbingly annoying as it was, especially given her current state of mind, at least it would save her train fare north, considering they could just side-long Apparate her right back to her home city.

When everybody filed outside to say goodbye, Marilyn ducked away to tuck the broom away, as promised. Once she returned to join the fray and begin saying her goodbyes, she looked about the courtyard to see if Draco had noticed her stick to her word - or if he was here at all. And he was. In the corner, talking to Pansy - very closely, with a forced smirk on his face. She was beaming, and giggling at every word he said. Marilyn hated that the sight made her feel sick.

"I take it that the goodbyes went well, then?" George asked when he caught up to her.

Tearing her gaze away, she looked to him instead "You were right about him. I'm not afraid to say it."

Not saying it wouldn't make it any less true. And she'd already decided no more denial.

"I wish I wasn't."

"Do you really?" she raised her eyebrows.

"In the grand scheme of things, wouldn't it be nice, what if we lived in a better world kind of way, yeah," he shrugged "But I knew I was - though I won't stand here and gloat about it when you've obviously been crying."

"Maybe I've been crying because I'm going to miss you."

"I can't gloat when you're saying that, either," he made a face "And I'll see you soon, remember. I'll hound mum with making arrangements as soon as we get home - she'll be dying to ship me right back to Hogwarts before I'm done."

Now tears did rise to her eyes again, turning and extending her arms in offer of a hug. George accepted, leaning down and hugging her back fiercely.

"Tell you what, though, if looks could kill, I'd be dead right about now."

It didn't take a genius to work out what - or who - it was that he was talking about.

"It doesn't matter."

And it really didn't. Not anymore. She was leaving it all behind.

Her goodbyes with Fred, Hermione, Harry, and Ron came next - giving them all hugs (which was worth it for how it sent Ron scarlet) and swearing up and down to Hermione that they'd keep in touch via letter…and that she'd send free ballet tickets when she was in a position to finally do so. She even managed to tune out Flint when he called across the courtyard "where's my hug, then?", and most of all she managed to look at Draco again. It was a relief to know that it soon wouldn't be something that would require effort.

As she joined the line waiting to file into the carriage, she did take one last look at the castle. It spoke to the sheer presence that Hogwarts had that, despite everything, she still didn't quite have it in her to be thrilled at having seen the last of the castle itself. It had a hell of a presence - more than any building she'd ever been in, in fact. It almost felt like it had shown up with everybody else to say its own goodbye. It was a shame, she could very easily imagine having attended her throughout all of her years. But then she wouldn't have been able to dance, and dancing was worth it.

The primary thought on her mind as the Abraxans began their running start before they would take to the air and pull the carriage with it was that the sooner she could put this entire year behind her, the better.

Chapter Text

When Marilyn turned onto her street, she was met with the sight of one of her oldest Muggle friends, Taylor, sitting on the front wall, kicking her legs as she waited. Marilyn grinned when she saw her, but when the rumble of her suitcases gave her away and the redhead lifted her chin to look at her, the smile faltered. Taylor's eyebrows were upturned in sympathy, and it appeared that whatever reason she had for being here wasn't a particularly good one.

"Is this just lucky timing or…?" Marilyn greeted.

Pushing herself forward off of the wall, Taylor met her halfway and pulled her into a hug.

"I came by last week to check with your mum when you'd be back."

"And she knew?" Marilyn's eyebrows shot upwards.

"No," Taylor admitted with a grimace, looking down at her trainers "And I think she was annoyed with me for asking, really. But then gran said it's always today that you're back, so I took my chances."

That sounded about right.

"Have you been here long?" Marilyn asked.

"No, no, not at all. They built a coffee shop round the corner while you were gone, so I've been nipping back and forth. Drinking my body weight in the strawberry smoothies they just brought out for summer, then coming back and peering into your window like a right creep just in case you got back while I was gone."

"Taylor?"

"Yeah?" she breathed, raking a hand through her curls and only dishevelling them all the more.

She wasn't managing to look at her throughout most of her nervous rambling, and it had Marilyn's chest tightening with worry.

"What's wrong?"

"I…right, well, it's sort of a long story. My parents are divorcing, you see."

And there was the downside of being away so often - being the friend who couldn't be there for other friends. Not the Muggle ones, at least.

"Shit, I'm sorry. Are you alright?"

"What? Oh, yeah, it's fine - they told me back in October. Waited a month for me to get used to the new school year. Truth be told, it's sort of nicer in the house without all of the arguments."

"I'm still sorry. That's rough. Is there anything I can do?"

"Well that's just the thing," she made a face, nervously shifting from one foot to the other "I came here because I wanted to tell you right away. Maybe see if you can make other plans or something."

"Other plans…?"

"Well I'm going to France with my dad for the summer - we leave next week - we're off to go and see my auntie, and mum's going down to Brighton to see her side of the family for a few months…and gran's going with her because she's all up and down at the moment so she wants to support her, and she hasn't seen that lot in ages either, otherwise I'm sure she'd have stayed here so you had somewhere else to crash - she feels awful about it, and so do I, and if I could've rang or something I would have but there's not a number for that school of yours bloody anywhere, and-"

"Taylor," Marilyn interrupted, and she fell silent "It's fine."

"Is it, though?"

"Of course it is. Don't be daft - you've got too much on your plate to worry about me, too. I'll be fine. I'll make other arrangements."

"Will you, though?"

"Of course. It's fine."

"Are you sure? Because I feel so bad about this whole thing, I wish we could bring you, I could try to argue your case with dad again - you speak French, so I don't get why we couldn't just bring you with us, and-"

"You do realise you're trying to make me feel better about your parents splitting up?" Marilyn interrupted with a wry smile.

"I've had ages to adjust to it. Honestly, it's kind of better. No tense atmospheres in the house anymore - and they still get on really well, so it's fine. None of this 'Taylor, tell your dad he's useless, Taylor tell your mum she's a slag' nonsense that you see in all the films."

"That puts you shit out of luck if you ever wanted an excuse to say that to either of them, though."

"There is that. Maybe if things get a bit stale I can stir up some drama by pretending it was a message I was told to pass on. But honestly, they'd probably just laugh and call it a fair observation. Dad would, anyway."

"Damn. You'll just all have to get along, then."

"I am sorry."

"Taylor, don't be. Genuinely. It was only ever a favour, it wasn't meant to be a permanent thing. What could I expect them to do? Adopt me? It's fine. I'd be a right selfish cow if I was annoyed about it, wouldn't I? I made friends with an, uh, exchange student during the year - he wants me to come and visit at some point, he lives down south. I'll get by 'til then."

The frown on Taylor's face suggested she did not particularly believe that.

"Well we don't leave for a week. I could always ask if you could come until then…it could get a bit complicated moving between mum and dad's, I just go between the two depending on who's working when, but we could…"

"Don't worry about it," Marilyn said, for what felt like the billionth time - although she was touched by the extent of her friend's concern "Seems like a whole lot of hassle for everybody. I'll just crash here. It probably won't be for long anyway, it's fine. I'll make use of that new coffee shop, yeah?"

Plus staying elsewhere for a week would make returning here all the more jarring. Especially after a hell of a lot of time to dread it.

Still, she wasn't sure who she was trying to convince - Taylor or herself. It seemed it didn't work much on either of them, Taylor digging her hands into the pockets of her jeans while she looked like she was searching to come up with another solution. Marilyn hated that. Not her kindness, but the fact that she felt like she had to fix it, or even felt guilty that she couldn't. It was her own shit to deal with - it wasn't Taylor's fault, nor her responsibility, despite how much she looked to be struggling with accepting that fact.

Sighing, Taylor turned and stepped back towards the wall she'd just been sitting on. A blue plastic bag sat on the ground beside it. Marilyn hadn't noticed it in her surprise.

"Gran said to give you this - said she has no use for it, and that it should get you started for the summer," Taylor said as she handed it to her.

Peering into the bag, Marilyn smiled softly. Yarn - tonnes of yarn. Good shit, too, high quality, with some skeins that changed colour as they wound on, or with bits of metallic thread woven throughout. This wasn't the sort of stuff one just had accidentally lying about. It was, however, the sort of stuff that would allow her to charge double for whatever she made from it. Maybe even more, depending.

"She really didn't need to," Marilyn winced "But thank you."

"She'll want to see you before we go - you can thank her yourself. We've still got a week, after all."

"Of course. I'll come round and say hi at some point."

Shifting from one foot to the other, she glanced at her school luggage at her side. There was a very real sense sinking in that all that was left to do was walk up to the house, and that anything between now and then would just be an effort to delay the inevitable.

"Do…you want me to come in with you?" Taylor asked.

She'd admitted to her once, in that two am sleepover darkness that always had a way of dragging secrets out, that her mother was always nicer when others were around - when she had somebody to put on a show for. Was she offering because she remembered that, or was it just out of general kindness?

"Er…yeah. I could use some help with the bags, I suppose."

Accepting one of the suitcases without question, Taylor began marching her way down the street in a manner that was completely all business, turning on her heel up the drive towards the white front door as Marilyn strode after her.

Refusing to be cowed in front of her audience of one, she lifted a hand the moment they were on the doorstep and rang the black and white doorbell. A shrill, monotonous ring from inside was audible to them, stopping after Marilyn dropped her hand back down to her side a couple of seconds later.

Well practised in the art of modifying her body language - and having just spent a year dealing with Draco sodding Malfoy - Marilyn squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and drew herself up to her full height. She was used to doing so in her dance gear, or even her Beauxbatons uniform. Something about it felt weird in Muggle clothing, her brown pinafore dress and white t-shirt combo having it feel much more like an act than it usually did.

They could see a short figure approach the door through the mottled glass, and it swung open to reveal a middle aged woman with chin length brown hair, looking painfully unassuming in blue jeans, a baby blue t-shirt, and bare feet.

"Hi, mum," Marilyn murmured.

Her mum's eyes landed on her, and then on Taylor. And then she smiled.

"Is that it July already? Christ, the time flies doesn't it. I didn't even think…and Taylor! You're looking well! How have you been getting on? Come in, come in."

She stepped aside and the two of them slipped inside, Marilyn leading the way through the white-painted hallway of the bungalow.

"I've been good, thanks - you?"

"Oh, surviving. Big plans for the summer then, girls?"

Her mum's voice followed them as they approached Marilyn's bedroom. She opened the door and paused, but only for a slight second. Nothing was particularly how she'd left it - not save her books. The bed, while neatly made, now had plain white covers on it rather than the dusky pink she recalled from last time. Her little wooden knick-knack boxes were no longer lined in a row across the worn wooden dresser by the door, and were instead stacked one on top of the other on the window sill. The backpacks previously stashed under her bed were now shoved towards the back of the space underneath the desk at the foot of the bed.

Normally that wouldn't be a red flag. She moved things around in her own home, what a cow was hardly a reasonable complaint. But things being moved meant things being rifled through, and things being rifled through meant things no longer being here at all.

Marilyn grimaced "Er, sort of. Taylor's off to France with her dad."

A beat of silence greeted those words.

"Oh. Just you and your dad?"

"Yeah. Mum and gran are off down to Brighton. My parents, er, they split up during the school year."

"I am sorry to hear that, love, but it's often for the best. It was the case with Marilyn's father and I, wasn't it, petal?"

"Yeah, definitely," Marilyn nodded.

She didn't want to start going through her things to take stock of what had gone missing while she'd been away - that would only start an argument, but as they sort of hovered about her bedroom, the suitcases set down beside her bed, she started trying to work out what was gone just through context clues.

"Well, we mustn't keep you - I'm sure Marilyn can manage unpacking her own things. Just about. I do hope we see more of you before you're away, though," her mum said, turning to Taylor.

Never had a clearer dismissal been heard - and considering their age, Taylor could hardly defy it.

"Right. Well. I'll see you tomorrow, Marilyn. I can come by at ten, if that works?"

"Yeah - of course. I'll see you then."

Her mother followed Taylor out of the room, and Marilyn listened carefully to her mother's over the top cheerful farewells as a frame of reference for how far away she was, taking the opportunity to check one or two of her hiding places. The check bore fruit - or a lack thereof. Her walkman was gone. Sold, perhaps.

The front door shut, and that was followed by a heavy sigh, and then the footsteps returned to her room. Trying to look like she hadn't just been doing her checks, Marilyn threw open the nearest suitcase and knelt down on the dark blue carpet beside it.

"She came by a little bit ago, you know. Asked me when you'd be back. How do you think it looked when I couldn't tell her? What must she think? And no doubt she'd have told her uppity mother all about it. You could have warned me."

"I didn't know when she'd be coming round. I just told her you must've forgotten."

She didn't look up as she answered, slowly shuffling her things about her case with what she hoped looked like a vague sense of purpose. The stuff related to school, or even vaguely linked to magic at all, always got left untouched, at least, so she didn't need to worry about her setting her eyes on any of this.

A sigh told her that wasn't good enough "So you're not going to be going to hers for this summer? For any of it at all?"

"I can't."

"They're too bloody cheap to spring for an extra ticket, is more like."

Or maybe it just wasn't their responsibility to take her on like an extra child every summer. Maybe they were entitled to some family time without the local charity case tagging along making dinners awkward. Voicing any of that wouldn't do much good, though.

"There's nothing to be done now."

"Where are you going to go then? I hope you're not planning on being here the whole time."

"I've got a friend from school who invited me over for a bit, but I need to wait to hear back. He needs to check with his mum."

"He?"

"It's not like that. He's got a bunch of siblings," she left out the fact that most were male "They have people stay over all the time. It should be fine, I just need to wait to make arrangements."

"Well don't end up pregnant, whatever you do. That's all we need."

We. Yeah, that was a funny one.

"It's not like that," she repeated, keeping her tone devoid of emotion - they'd avoided an argument thus far, it would be nice if things could be kept that way for at least the first day "I just need a bit of time to work something out. I can pay you dig money while I'm here, though."

It might've been impossible to take her walkman to school, lest the magic that saturated Beauxbatons (and Hogwarts too, for that matter) break it, but she'd been able to bring what Muggle money she did have with her.

Apparently her words struck an unintended chord.

"Money? You think this is about money? I don't need your bloody money, girl! You're a child! What would I need your money for? But Susan, Maggie, and Pam are always over and how can I just send them in a taxi home in the middle of the night? What kind of friend would I be? It costs a bloody fortune."

"What about the bus?"

"If they want to get the last bus they need to leave at eleven, and that's far too early. I'm under so much stress at work, I need a social life, you know! You're never here for three quarters of the year, you can't just expect for my life to revolve around you when you do decide to turn up!"

"The sofa?"

"The sofa? Are you joking? Susan's got a bad back! I can't put her on the sofa - it's tiny, and I can't afford a new one especially now that I'll be buying groceries for two until September!"

Groceries for two here meaning a multipack of crisps for Marilyn every couple of weeks, and maybe the occasional side dish from a takeaway if she was putting on the doting mother act for her friends. That was fine, it was what it was, she could source her own food - she wasn't a toddler - she just didn't like the distortion of the truth. She'd had enough of that during the school year, and some of that had been from herself. Maybe it was genetic, after all.

Marilyn pursed her lips - pretending to turn and check the wheel of her case as she did so, lest her mother catch sight of the annoyance on her face. She really couldn't be arsed with a whole screaming match. She counted to five, and then she lied.

"I meant I'd sleep on the sofa."

"And then that puts the living room out of use all morning until you drag your arse up! It's a communal area!"

"All right. All right. I'll work something out. I'll write to George as soon as I've unpacked. It'll be fine."

Her mother huffed her dissatisfaction, but she didn't press the issue.

"That's all I ask," she said finally "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks, though."

If she accepted, she'd only hear about it for the next week.

Flying in the face of her promise, she waited three days before she wrote to George. Even that felt desperate, but considering she was grilled every day on whether she'd done it yet, there wasn't a whole lot of choice in the matter.

And then she waited a week for a response, long after Taylor had left. The one she got was short - practically a waste of the parchment it had been written on, but the warm tone of it had her smiling.

Don't worry, Baxter, I've not forgotten about you. Trying to work things out on our end, I'll write again when we have! Do try to stay strong in my absence - I know I'm easy to miss, but consider it character building.

George (and Fred - but he didn't contribute anything, did he? Lazy git.)

After that she waited another week, and the mood was growing decidedly dire after that. By that point she'd knitted a surprising amount of fingerless gloves, hats, and scarves - and it spoke to how truly pitiful she probably looked selling them in the most touristy areas of York that people were willing to buy such things during a swiftly oncoming heatwave. The money wasn't going to make her rich, but it was slowly building up, and she kept it well hidden, safe and sound for a rainy day (because her continued presence in the house meant a monsoon would surely hit sooner or later).

When the second letter did arrive - this time a proper letter - she'd almost cried with relief, tearing it from the leg of the owl that brought it and ripping it open, her eyes scanning the page looking for anything that so much as resembled a date, or even just a time frame.

Instead, her eyes were met with words like sorry, unforeseen family emergency, really nothing we can do, so sorry, and a very colourful phrase outlining what a prat he felt like.

Marilyn's eyes fluttered closed and she swore to herself - ignoring the tremor in her voice as she did so. When she opened her eyes, her vision was blurred and teary, and she was furious at herself for that, too.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy was not enjoying his summer. Worse still, this face was only emphasised to him by how much everybody else seemed to be enjoying theirs - for their lot was on the rise. He had not yet met the Dark Lord, nor seen him in person at all for that matter, an honour which was only reserved for his innermost circle for the time being, but his presence was still felt. Every gathering his mother threw, as well as those that he was obligated to attend thrown by other families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, had a distinct atmosphere to them. One brimming with excitement and promise. Lots of vague, thinly veiled statements were made over glasses of wine with knowing looks shared, almost every face wore a smirk, and there was even less grumbling over Dumbledore and his affinity for mudbloods. Because they knew such attitudes were on the decline.

It had even spread to his friends, although their words on the matter were rather less artful than those of their parents, often limited to phrases along the lines of "the mudbloods'll get theirs before long, just like we've always said". It was infectious. So why had it not spread to him?

Perhaps the answer lay in the instinctive, bodily response he had when Pansy replied to one such comment with "that ballet girl - Baxter, was it? - she'll be first, all the jumping about for attention she does."

At first he'd been able to pretend that the ire that her words gave rise to, sparking in his chest, was down to her feigned ignorance. She knew full well what Baxter's name was, and she'd spent far too much of the school year hissing and snarling about her to now pretend that she barely knew anything about her at all. It was laughable, and having to deal with it wasn't worth the ten minutes he'd spent flirting with her in the Hogwarts courtyard to get under Baxter's skin.

He'd caught Baxter glancing over as he had, but the results hadn't been half as satisfying as he'd hoped. Not as much as destroying that room was…and even that had left him feeling strangely heavy as he'd stormed out afterwards. Finally, as he'd watched the carriage becoming little more than a fleck in the sky, and then finally nothing, he'd expected that any feeli- any thoughts he'd had of Marilyn Baxter would follow suit. She'd be reduced to little more than a splotch of ink on an otherwise impeccable record. Most importantly, one that nobody else knew of. Other than Granger - he didn't like that at all - but still. If she knew what was good for her, she'd keep her mouth shut on the topic.

And then…then it just didn't work out that way. Because he kept bloody well thinking about her. It was easiest when he remembered the absolute disappointment on her face, because that only made him angry. What right had she to be disappointed in him? That wasn't how this worked. That wasn't her place.

It was less easy when Pansy kept going on and on about how she'd be next, though. It gave credence to the fears Baxter herself had expressed - the ones he'd denounced as ridiculous. Because the more he thought on it, the less ridiculous it sounded. Although honestly, it was difficult when Pansy spoke at all. It was just another thing that made him remember Baxter, who had ultimately gotten one thing right. She was better company than Pansy. Pansy shrieked with laughter at anything he said, regardless of whether or not it was actually funny. Then, when he did say something funny, she'd try to add to it with something that boiled down to a less cleverly worded version of whatever it was he'd said in the first place. And then, when he didn't laugh, she'd pout.

He couldn't even be annoyed at her without being reminded of Baxter, either, because every time he did, he heard her voice in his head. What d'you expect? You can't flirt with her when you're bored and then get angry when she hangs about. You don't get to lead her on when you feel like it and then pretend it's all one-sided when you don't. Merlin, she was exhausting even when she wasn't here. Always taking everything so seriously, always striving for some fictitious moral high ground. It was no wonder she and Granger got on so well.

Draco hated that. He hated the weird feeling in his chest that had sprung up when his needling upon finding her in tears had only upset her further, he hated the fact that she'd ruined things by being so bloody hysterical over one thing that she had no way of proving wasn't an accident, he hated the fact that every conversation he had with any of his visiting peers only made him miss her, and most of all he hated the fact that no matter how many times he tried, he couldn't get rid of this stupid blood bracelet.

He'd held it out over the waste paper bin by the desk in his bedroom, but hadn't been able to unfurl his fingers. Later he reasoned that it was a logical decision rather than an emotional one - if it was found in his rubbish, he'd have some explaining to do. But then he'd tried to get rid of it in the fish pond on the outskirts of their land, and he hadn't been able to let go of it then, either. Nor when he'd flown out on his broom deep into the country, where it wouldn't be found by anything other than a magpie if he dropped it there. Every time, something told him to stop. And he listened to it. He hated that something too, whatever it was.

Mostly because it was the thing that had him rolling out of bed, on his third failed attempt to sleep that night, and yanking open his desk drawer to glare at the bracelet. He could send it back to her…in fact, he should send it back to her. Slipping it into an envelope seemed a much neater, much less dramatic, much less hysterical solution than throwing it into some lake or pond like he was a woman scorned in a ridiculous Victorian novel.

Yes…yes, it made sense. She'd obviously thought she was making some sort of high and mighty point in returning it, so giving it back to her would be his way of getting the last laugh, too. Baxter took herself far too seriously as far as this particular argument was concerned to engage in some sort of ridiculous postal back and forth. It was her birthday soon, too - the fact that he remembered that did nothing for his annoyance - so perhaps that was a sign that he should send it. Yes, he'd send it, she wouldn't reply, the bracelet would be her problem, and he'd never think of her again.

Plucking the bracelet from the drawer, he threw it down onto his desk, and did the same with the envelopes that had been neatly stacked beneath it. Draco picked up the bracelet, pinching it between two fingers as though too much contact might burn him, and dropped it into the envelope. Then, though, as he reached for the emerald green wax stick on the far side of the desk, he paused before his fingers brushed it.

Should he include a note? His first instinct was absolutely bloody not, but given how hysterical and paranoid she'd been the last time they'd spoken, if he sent the bracelet and nothing but, she'd only go out of her mind and think it was cursed or some other sort of nonsense. Draco Malfoy sent me cursed jewellery! was not the sort of rumour he needed going around, not when keeping a clean image was imperative now more so than ever, as his parents kept reminding him without end.

Yet another thing that put him in a foul mood. He wasn't a child - and he wasn't a fool. He didn't need to be reminded of these things in the way that Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy did.

Setting down a piece of parchment alongside the envelope, he grabbed a quill, dipped it into the inkwell…and then he paused. What was he even supposed to write? He would not be apologising, that much was bloody certain. There wasn't anything to apologise for. Sniffing, he wrote out the first word in careful, flawless script that was probably more elaborate than it needed to be:

Baxter,

What should come after was not quite so obvious. Draco sat there, slouched in his chair, glaring at the blank parchment until his arse started to go numb in his chair and thinking about what to write began to feel much more troublesome than the idea of potentially writing the wrong thing. And anyway, who cared if it was the wrong thing? What would she do? Fall out with him.

Grumbling angry to himself, he put quill to parchment once again and wrote the first few sentences that came to mind. Then he was throwing it into the envelope before the ink had proper time to dry, just so he mightn't have a chance to think better of it all in the first place.

Because he did not miss her. He didn't. He just needed to stop being reminded of her - and that would fix this.

Perhaps George did feel guilty for having to back out of their plans. If he did, maybe that was the reason for the odd tone of his letters. Not just odd, but distinctly un-George like. The first couple of times, Marilyn didn't take it personally. As he'd said, he was having a family emergency, and he'd never really seemed like one to sit down and pour his heart and soul into a letter, anyway, but these felt distinctly and unmistakably short - in tone, if not in language. She could even understand his unwillingness to talk much about what was going on in his life, considering she sure as hell wasn't sharing what was happening in hers, either. She knitted up a bloody storm, she hung around the tourist traps with her creations looking suitably pathetic (and profited from it) on the weekends, and on week days she cleaned the local dance studio and used any and every empty classroom in the place up until it was locked up for the night.

None of it made for exciting writing, and she didn't want to mention it and just have it look like she was some big pity case - guilting him for something he couldn't help. So if he asked, her holidays were boring but happily uneventful. The fact remained, though, that trying to carry out a conversation was soon like pulling teeth, and things had never been that way with George.

As each letter that came in only served to have her doubling down on her fears, until one day she sat down at her desk to pen a response and just…had no will to do it. It felt too awkward, too stilted, too insincere, too weird. Too unlike the entire way they'd been with each other throughout the whole school year, even when he'd revealed he knew she'd been carrying on with Malfoy.

It wasn't even out of the ordinary, was it? She should have expected this. How many kids finished middle school and swore to one another that they'd still definitely be best friends even when they went to different high schools? This hadn't felt like that…but that was probably the point. It never did to anybody who said it at the time. Maybe it would just be best if she bit the bullet and was the first to not respond, that way neither of them would feel obligated anymore. Easier.

The relief she felt when she put down the pen and turned off her desk lamp spoke for itself, even if it was followed by a wave of heavy sadness.

"Oh well," she sighed to herself "No use crying over it."

It might've been easier had Hermione not been much the same, too.

Moving in the dark, padded to her dresser and slowly eased open the top drawer as quietly as she possibly could, using all of her dancerly skill and grace to change into pyjamas without making a sound. Voices, laughter and music drifted in pretty much non-stop from the living room down the hall. It was a double edged sword, really. There were other people around - which meant her mum would play nice, so long as she was in a good mood. The audience mattered above all else on nights like these, and as long as she kept out of sight and out of mind, she'd probably go down the 'doting mother' performance rather than the 'time to pick on my daughter to look powerful in front of my pals' one. Although that also often depended on which friend was visiting. Some would react to such a display with awkward silence, others would find it hysterical. Marilyn pitied their daughters, too.

However the presence of her friends also meant that she was drinking. Well, drinking more than usual. And that could easily turn bad really quickly. Which was how she found herself pretending to be fast asleep in bed by eleven on a Friday night - because her option was that, a screaming match, or taking her chances with the hostels in the city centre during the particularly tourist-y times.

God, she missed her walkman. It was usually a lifesaver on nights like these. A point that was punctuated when she heard the door to the living room click open, the old school pop hits that were playing suddenly sounding clearer.

"Oh come on, you're leaving already? It's still early!"

"I have to, the final bus is in twenty minutes."

"You can have Marilyn's bed! She won't mind!"

"Don't be daft - see, her light's already off, she's sleeping."

"We can get her up! It'll be fine. Marilyn! Are yo-"

The word was muffled at the end, like her pal had clapped a hand over her mouth "Shush! You can't do that to the lass, not after she let you give Leah her walkman like that. Did you pass on that we said thank you, by the way?"

Well, there was that mystery solved. Marilyn didn't know if she should be pleasantly surprised that it had been merely given away and not sold - her mother was always generous with things that weren't hers. Oh well - another thing that there was no use crying over. If she could keep earning money here and there on the side, and keep avoiding paying for hostels or hotels, she'd be able to afford a new one before the holidays were at an end. Maybe she could give it to Taylor to safekeep if she was back before Beauxbatons started up again. Failing that, she'd start lifting carpet and floorboards for a better hiding place.

"Oh- erm, yes! Of course I did. She said it was no problem, she never uses it anyway."

"Aw, well it was still good of her. Anyway, I'll be on the bus and home in no time."

What followed were a few drawn out goodbyes, and the front door opening and closing again - leaving her mother with her one remaining friend. From what she could hear, it sounded like Susan, and that wasn't good. Susan was such a cow that Marilyn found herself pitying her daughters. Like really did attract like.

It was too hot for her to be huddled under the covers like this. This summer was one that was turning out to be punctuated by heatwaves, broken up only by slightly cooler rainy days every now and then. But if her mother came in and found her on top of the covers, she'd probably be able to tell that she was just pretending to be asleep. Yet another one of her mother's weird inconsistencies - she'd be the world's biggest nightmare, but if she came in and found her pretending to be out for the count, she'd leave. Marilyn closed her eyes and wedged her pillow over her head to muffle whatever snide comments were being made in the hallway for her benefit. Likely passive aggressive murmurs about selfishness.

It would be an early start tomorrow. It would have to be - if she wanted to avoid an argument rooted either in the hangover that was sure to cast a dark cloud over the house, or the party she'd just be blamed for ruining. That was fine, though. Less than forty days and she'd be gone again. Plus, in two weeks time she'd turn fifteen, which meant it was only one year before she would turn sixteen. And then she could leave.

A year might've felt like a long time, but she'd be at Beauxbatons for most of that time - and with her friends there, too. No, this was the worst of it for sure. And here she was, still breathing, still relatively fine. There was strength in that, if only she could cling to it. Wasn't there? She hoped that there was.

Then again, she'd been wrong about one thing. Life could get pretty bloody worse. If he rose to power. No doubt Draco was out there now, praying for it to happen. That knowledge did nothing to take the sting out of the fact that some small part of her knew that if she'd been able to tell him of her current circumstances, he'd be able to make her feel better about it. Rolling onto her back, Marilyn glared at the ceiling and the sickly green glow in the dark stars blu-tacked onto it. She was always surprised to find them still there when she returned, but she supposed it added to the image her mother tried to purport. Maybe she wasn't so different from Draco's parents in that strange, abstract way. It was all about the image.

It wasn't like she thought he'd be a shoulder to cry on, or that he'd lend any great words of philosophical wisdom to fix the situation. But he'd say something funny - something callous and dry that would have things feeling maybe only half as serious. Half as draining. And then images of him laughing during Cedric Diggory's memorial sprang to the forefront of her mind, and she felt nauseous, stupid, delusional, and all round bloody hopeless all over again.

Lifting her arm, Marilyn rested her forearm across her eyes and told herself she would not cry. She wanted her walkman back. It was always good for blocking out thoughts.

Chapter Text

The summer soon began to wear on Marilyn, and her daily countdown felt like it had slowed to a crawl. It was bound to happen, wasn't it? However independent she fancied herself, everybody needed some sort of positive interaction every now and then, and her life at home - if it could even be called that - consisted of keeping her mouth shut to avoid snide remarks from turning into screaming matches, and just…getting by. Things hadn't always been easy at Hogwarts, but at least most of the problems could be solved by honest conversations, and there was always some sort of laugh or another inbetween. There wasn't much laughter here. There wasn't much anything, other than clinging to the self control it took to not react to anything - because she'd only regret it the second she did - and devising ways to stay out of the house as much as humanly possible.

It was no way to live, though. It wasn't even much of a way to exist. She was lonely - she was tired, and she felt lost. And she would later tell herself that all of this was why, when the letter came bearing painfully familiar handwriting, she opened it rather than flinging it into the bin. Albeit after a good half hour of staring at it distrustfully. It had arrived just after she'd snuck into the house, which was a feat of decent timing, and - more curiously still - the owl hung around after she took the letter, as though expecting a swift reply. Maybe it wasn't full of derision and insults then. Or maybe Draco just knew her well enough to know that if it was, it still wouldn't go unanswered. It especially wouldn't, even.

Even if it had arrived during the time she'd been avoiding the house, though, letters were one thing her mother would never poke her nose into - fearful of magic and whatever booby-traps might be set upon the envelope, should anybody other than the recipient try to open it. It wasn't a fear that Marilyn made any effort to discourage. Maybe it was even an apt one, given this particular letter. Sighing, she kicked her trainers off and sat down onto the bed cross-legged. Then, with an air of finality, she cracked the emerald green, snake-laden seal. The very familiar bracelet fell out with a soft metallic hiss, landing in her lap. Marilyn paid it no mind, turning to how the letter began.

B,

She, valiantly, took 'B' to mean Baxter, and not "Bitch", nor…oh, "Bloodmud" or something like that. Reading on, she found herself surprised at the length of the paragraph. Anything more than two words was surprising, really.

Take it. It was meant for you, and I've no use for it - nor the space. It's bad manners to return a gift like that, you know. I'm returning it to you for your birthday. Do with it what you will. It's not cursed, either, before you get all paranoid. Reply or don't. But if you do, use a false name. Although I suppose you won't be allowed if you're with the Weasley troupe of clowns already.

Anyway, it's yours. As I said. I don't care what you do with it.

D. M.

P.S. Is your summer shaping up to be as insufferable as mind?

Marilyn laughed. She couldn't help it. And then the laugh morphed into a weird, strangled half-giggle, half-sob. He really was an unbelievable little arsehole. Well, strictly speaking he had a good few inches on her in terms of height, but still. Only Draco Malfoy, after all they'd been through, would pen a letter to her trying to break the ice by insulting her manners, and then moaning about his lot in life. Then she was at her desk with a quill in hand much more quickly than she'd ever admit, should she find herself with cause to tell this story. The worst part being how much bloody easier it was to write than any of those she'd sent to George and Hermione so far this summer.

Doc Marten,

Fine. I'll look up etiquette teachers and find out the best way to deal with gifts from somebody who hates your guts. Paranoia? In a time like this? Unheard of, truly. By the way, totally unrelated, have you seen the newspaper headlines about all of the disappearances lately? Strange, that.

Sighing, she leaned back in her chair, turning her eyes to his letter as it sat beside her own piece of parchment. Then she took up her quill again, lips twisted together tightly as she wrote on.

Turns out I won't be visiting the Weasleys this summer, or at all, so no worries. No rules to follow there.

Meryl Monroe

P.S. I'm willing to bet you one silver bracelet that my summer is going worse.

For a moment she considered rewriting the letter - taking out any reference to the Weasleys, or at least making it sound a bit less…well, pissed off. But she was pissed off. And though she knew she'd feel guilty for it if it turned out they really were having some sort of horrendous family emergency that made writing a normal letter impossible - and that said affliction had somehow also spread to Hermione - she just…doubted it. It was too coincidental, too, that George and Hermione should both simultaneously start treating her the exact same way at the exact same time. Maybe she was paranoid, for her mind was growing good at conjuring up images of the two of them - more, when Harry, Ron, and George were added to the mix - discussing her and coming to the conclusion to slowly distance. It didn't seem like something they would do, but she couldn't think of any other explanation.

She knew bullshit when she smelled it, and she knew when she wasn't wanted, when she was expendable, and when she was being pushed away. Hell, she was feeling that a lot around here, now more than ever. She'd grown up entrenched in that feeling, and she knew it when she felt it. And this was that. She also felt bloody stupid for not expecting it. For telling herself the Gryffindors weren't like that. Everybody was like that, when the conditions were right. At least Draco didn't pretend otherwise.

God, she sounded pathetic. Even in her own mind. Defeatist, needy, and pathetic. The summer was grinding her down.

But, that being said, it wasn't emanating from Draco's letter. No, he might've been desperately trying to pretend so, but it wasn't the case. The hints weren't exactly subtle - instructions on how she should reply, and even a question at the end, implying the expectation of a reply. Or at least the invitation of one. He just had to act like he didn't want one - like it meant little to him - in case she didn't, so then his pride wouldn't be wounded.

And he'd remembered her birthday. From someone like Draco, that was a lot.

Then, of course, that thought had her feeling even worse. Because was she really turning into one of those girls who applauded their shitty lads for basic decency? Wow, he remembered my birthday and didn't call me a filthy little mudblood, isn't he so very good?

But she missed him. She was tired, and she was sad, and she needed something good, and all she could remember was the good. Especially on evenings like this, when she could map out exactly where the two of them had been a handful of months prior, lounging on that massive green sofa, annoying one another for fun.

Sighing, she sealed her envelope (he'd have to brave a sellotape seal, for she didn't have any fancy wax ones at her own disposal), and tied it to the foot of the owl. Said owl had been treated to a bowl of dry cornflakes while she'd written - the best she had, under a need to improvise. While Marilyn had no owl of her own - she could hardly look after one here - York was home to a decent little magical hub, namely a handful of very small businesses offering to rent out owls, and to transfer pounds to galleons, and she knew she'd be able to borrow an owl from there if need be. It was how she'd been able to write to George and Hermione, but that would take time (she certainly wasn't going to go traipsing there tonight), as well as galleons, and if she gave it time, she'd probably start to think better of replying. She didn't want to think better of replying. She just wanted somebody to talk to.

As the bird departed with the letter, she returned to her bed and took up the bracelet from where it lay amongst her covers. She didn't put it on. Even for her current spell of stupidity, that would be too much. But she held it up, twirling it this way and that so she could watch it glimmer against the light that came in from the street lamps outside. Maybe she'd regret this in time. In fact, she knew she would. She'd been here before, this ground was stupidly familiar, and she was taking idiocy to a new level by straying down this path again and expecting it to lead somewhere new.

But it eased the ache that being here set within her. And, here and now at least, that made it feel worth it.

George stared glumly at the ceiling of the bedroom he and his twin shared in Grimmauld Place. There was a damp patch on it, and before they'd moved in there had been something worryingly resembling black mould growing on the window panes. Apt, considering the House of Black had once lived here, but still not too healthy. His mind wasn't on it now, as it had long been Scourgify-ed from the glass.

"Been a while since you got a letter," Fred commented from his bed a few feet away.

All of their mail still went to the Burrow, considering that having all of their letters addressed to a top secret hideout would probably made said top secret hideout less…er…top secret. Their parents would routinely dip out to collect it and make the house appear a bit more lived in to ease any suspicions. Up until recently, there had always been one for George. Now? Now there hadn't been anything in a while.

At first he'd been relieved by that, too. Keeping up a ruse for a bit of mischief was one thing, but consistently lying to a friend for reasons they could not yet appreciate was another. A friend who was clearly struggling, based on the changing tone of her letters as time went on - the humour and the cheer draining from them more and more as they went on, until they became the sort of thing his mum would force him to send to extended family at Christmas. It was nice to no longer see the letter and dread the process of working out how to give her the brush off without, well, making it sound like he was giving her the brush off.

The relief soon turned to worry, though, as he realised that at least the existence of the letters proved that she was basically okay. Now there was none of that. Before, he'd wondered if the more and more distant tone of the letters was personal, or a reflection of what was going on at home - where she was now stuck. Talk about shite timing. Now he had to wonder the same thing about the lack of letters, although he'd guess it was a mix of both. A girl like Marilyn would only tolerate being held at arm's length for so long before she took the hint. Proud, that one. Ordinarily he'd view it as a good trait in someone, but now the whole thing was embittered by the fact that it wasn't a hint he'd wanted to give. He just didn't have a lot of choice in the matter.

"Yeah," George muttered "It has. Wonder if she's okay."

"If anybody out there is doing okay, it's Marilyn Baxter."

"She never told you much about her home."

"But she gave you all the gory details, did she?"

"Not details, no. But she told me enough. Sounds like she's in the same mess as Harry is with the Dursleys."

"Doesn't make a stellar case for Muggle parenting, does it?"

"Steady on, Malfoy."

"Fitting you should say that, really, considering this is his fault. Baxter's too, to an extent. I like her, but it's true."

George sighed "I wish Granger hadn't told them all about it."

"I'm glad she did."

"Fred…"

"If it comes between Marilyn Baxter having a nice summer, and us beating You-Know-Who in this…whatever's to come," George noted ruefully how his brother avoided the word war "I think I'll have to go with the second. I don't like it either - really, I don't, and I hope she's okay, and she's probably very annoyed with us right now, and maybe we even deserve it, but if she knew, she'd understand."

"But she doesn't know. What she does know is that her supposed friends have left her to deal with…with that all summer, after promising an escape from it."

"If we can't even reach out and talk to Harry himself, we can't argue her case. I don't like it either, Georgie, but can you honestly say you'd ever be able to live with yourself if we lost people here because we knowingly invited a girl who carries on with Draco Malfoy here?"

"She doesn't anymore. And she wouldn't betray us to him."

"I reckon Sirius and Remus thought the same about Peter Pettigrew once."

Which was probably why Sirius had been the most resounding voice in refusing to even consider allowing Marilyn to come here. Given that the house was his, the matter was settled after that, even if the rest of the Order hadn't resoundingly agreed.

"They all discussed it - the whole Order," George commented quietly.

The decision to ban them from telling Marilyn much of anything was a pretty unanimous one, the variety mostly lying in how much any of them had enjoyed making said decision. Their mum had liked it least of all.

"My boys told me she didn't get a single letter from home that whole school year, you know. Not one. Even those Muggles send Harry something at Christmas. Not anything worth having, right enough, but…"

"Take it from somebody who knows, Molly, having nasty parents doesn't automatically mean we go about cavorting with Death Eaters and blood purists," Sirius had responded flatly "It's no excuse."

"She's only a girl, Sirius."

"And I was only a boy. One born into it, no less. I managed to wash my hands of it. As I said, no excuse."

One voice, George had noted, was very silent throughout the whole debate.

"I know they did. We listened in together," Fred replied.

"No, the…the whole Order. Snape was there."

A beat of silence, and then a soft "Shit."

"S'pose it's just another reason to hope he's as trustworthy as Dumbledore says," George murmured grimly "Else there's no way he'll keep his mouth shut about this while he's rubbing shoulders with that lot."

Chapter Text

7th August 1995

Baxter,

I meant use a false name when you sign what you write. It's a bit harder to explain letters addressed to this "Doctor Marten" that come to my house than it is to explain ones addressed to me. Probably best to burn the ones you receive from me, too. I can't say I'm surprised to learn that the Weasleys have failed to meet expectations set out before them. I imagine they had some pauper's convention to attend, or maybe they're preoccupied reorganising their shoebox so it might better accommodate all fifty of them. Are you staying with that friend of yours now, then? The one from your home city? If so, how are these letters reaching you? All in all, I'd say you had a lucky escape. I wouldn't call that a poor summer.

And no, I haven't seen anything about these so-called disappearances. Press hysteria, if you ask me - fuelled by Potter, no doubt. Have you seen the news of his trial? It's about time he had a fall from grace.

As far as my summer is concerned, it would be a far sight better if everybody wasn't so bloody insufferable. At least when you do it, it's on purpose. They all seem to manage it entirely without meaning to, which also means they can't turn it off. I'd be tempted to feign illness to escape a party or two, but my mother would have a Mediwitch here within the hour. Knowing my luck they'd be insufferable, too.

David M.

10 Aug '95

Doctor Draco,

Of course, my bad, silly of me, won't happen again. As it so happens, my other friend also couldn't put me up this summer, so I'm in the midst of learning a lesson in independence and self sufficiency (how's that for a positive spin on things?) — I don't know if I'd call it a lucky escape, but I'm trying to make the best of it. It is what it is. No use crying. As I remember, I get told off by you when I do that. They reach me here just fine, no worries. Just depends on when I'm around to get them.

We'll never agree on the Harry thing. And feel free to call me Columbo, but if things weren't so dangerous, as he says they are (Harry, not Columbo, he's mum on matters of the Wizarding world and its dangers), why would I need to burn evidence of our correspondence? Weird.

I'll have you know that when I'm annoying it's entirely effortless. It just so happens to be purposefully effortless, but I did feel the need to clear that up. Imagine how bad I'd be if I actually tried? The horror. Civilisation would collapse. Or maybe I'd be exactly where I am now - stuck here with no lifeline for the summer. It sounds like your mother really cares, though. Maybe the protectiveness would be annoying, but it's probably better than the alternative.

Meryl Monroe

12th August 1995

B,

What do you mean? You're staying with her all summer? From what I remember you telling me of her, that's not an ideal outcome. Unless I'm mistaken? Where is it that you go when you're not around to get them, if you've nobody to visit? Or no 'lifeline', as you put it.

[An ink blotch follows the previous sentence, as though his quill had paused over the parchment for too long]

Anyway, I suppose you'll be thrilled that Potter was cleared of all charges today. I could practically hear you cheering from the north when the news hit the headlines. Maybe the Weasleys will make a triumphant return to your life when they throw their celebration and name this the Day of Saint Potter, patron saint of attention seekers everywhere.

And of course she cares, that's her job - it's sort of the bare minimum of motherhood. A lack thereof should be denounced, rather than applauding its presence. Would you compliment somebody for buying a pet and then actually feeding it, too?

David M.

P.S. Your brand of annoying is at least somewhat more tolerable than a few others. Do with that what you will.

19th August 1995

B,

Might I have a sign of life? Are you still breathing?

D.M.

P.S. I was mostly joking about the annoying thing last time. Mostly.

Draco sat in the dining room of Malfoy Manor, but his mind was far removed. His mind was north. He'd sent his last letter a few days ago, and he was torn between wishing he had not, and the temptation to send another. It would've been easy to think that Baxter had second-guessed the wisdom in their writing to one another, and chosen to put an end to it. He knew he grappled with that every time it was his turn to write back. Not writing would certainly be the wisest course of action. Even Crabbe or Goyle would've been able to suss that out, had they been in his shoes. But they were not, and for Draco, the temptation to write outweighed the fear of doing so.

But would it outweigh his worry? Baxter was many things, but she was not shy, and she had a knack for flying headfirst into a point that would be best left avoided. If she no longer wished to write, she would have said so. She wasn't the sort to sit back and watch the letters trickle in, smirking to herself believing that she was driving him mad with her silence. And he wasn't the sort to be driven mad by silence. Not usually.

It was concerning, though, was it not? Back at Hogwarts she'd alluded to a less than fantastic life at home (someone with her blood would hardly associate with somebody from his family if all was well at home, Marilyn herself had joked), and now she'd reiterated that assertion before promptly falling silent. Had she not yet gotten his letters, or could she not answer? She'd said there were times she would not be around to receive them, but where would she then be if she was stuck with nowhere to go but home? And if the latter was true and she could not answer, then why?

Mulling it over was exhausting. Giving a damn was exhausting. If he could stop, he would have done so long ago, but apparently it was too late for that - she was not yet out of his system. The day would come, of that he was sure, but until it did he was stuck. In more ways than one, really, because what was he supposed to do? There was nothing he could do. Sending a third letter would be pathetic, and what would it achieve that the second one could not? And beyond writing, what could he do? Show up at whatever little Muggle hamlet she dwelled in? No. Continuing to write was stupid, but doing that would be irredeemably moronic. So he was confined to waiting. And that was exhausting, too.

Merlin's balls, he wished Dumbledore had never gotten it in his head to invite the other schools over. Things would be simpler if he'd never met her. Knowing that meddlesome old fool, he'd probably hoped for something like this.

"You're awfully taciturn tonight, Draco."

Blinking himself back into reality, Draco straightened in his seat and offered his mother a slight nod, making a show of pushing a chunk of steak about his plate with his fork.

"I'm sorry - my mind was elsewhere."

His father accepted the response readily enough, but it seemed to spark his mother's curiosity. And then there was Snape. Hogwarts' Potions Professor had joined them for dinner that evening, being an old school friend of his father's. The times had inspired him to strengthen those old connections, given that they were all on the same side - camaraderie and all that.

Ordinarily, Draco wouldn't have so much as blinked at that. They had guests for dinner all of the time, and Snape was his Head of House - it made little difference to him. But tonight he kept staring at him, the gaze heavy and pondering. It was making him nervous, and only adding to the burden already upon him.

"Where was it?" His mother asked softly "Your mind? Perhaps with the sudden appearance of all of these letters? Followed by their disappearance?"

Draco pressed his lips together. Baxter didn't know how lucky she had it - having a mother who didn't care. His had perked up the second he started receiving letters in feminine cursive.

"Letters?" Snape enquired silkily.

"Mm. From someone who cannot visit, apparently, so it remains a topic of curiosity. For me, if not for Lucius."

She was teasing, for the most part. Taking a bit of motherly delight in embarrassing her son amongst friends.

"Why should I find it curious? He's a fifteen year old boy. I'd be concerned if he had no girls to write to," his father drawled.

Draco smirked slightly. Because that was what he thought he'd do if the girl he was writing to wouldn't be enough to give his parents simultaneous heart attacks.

"But one who cannot visit?" His mother pressed "Tell us truthfully, Draco - is she ugly?"

Forcing a laugh, he shook his head and rolled his eyes "I wouldn't be writing to her if she was. She cannot visit because, er, she goes to Beauxbatons. Her family loathes to leave France."

"I can hardly blame them, with what Fudge is turning this country into," his father drawled "They must be good Purebloods. Not like those Weasleys."

"You make it sound much more serious than it is. It was just about a bit of homework."

"How could I not? You don't hear from her for a week and you're practically despondent," his mother continued to tease "Perhaps you know her, Severus?"

"Given that Draco has not mentioned a name, I cannot be sure," Snape said.

Draco almost frowned at that. Because as his mother had spoken, he'd realised he'd dropped himself right in it. In saying she was from Beauxbatons to explain why they did not know her, he'd then made it clear exactly which Beauxbatons girl it was - the only one it could have been - when he'd alluded to their being in the same year. Even if his parents hadn't clicked on, Snape should have known. Judging by the curiosity shining in the professor's dark eyes, he did know. But he was not voicing it. Why? Sweat threatened to bead on his forehead.

Only when he realised all eyes around the table were on him did Draco stutter out a name - the false name that Baxter had given herself.

"Monroe."

His mother turned her gaze to Snape, pale eyebrows arching with amusement.

"Ah. Yes. Miss Monroe. I do remember her. A perfectly adequate student," Snape said, his tone bored, and Draco failed to stop his eyes from widening.

Snape simply returned his stare, unaffected, giving nothing away in his expression.

"Adequate?" His father did not sound impressed.

"Well we already knew she wasn't of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, so none of us were accusing him of anything serious. He may be fifteen, but he is only fifteen, Lucius," his mother replied.

"I'm glad to hear I shan't be signing a marriage certificate when we've finished our pudding," Draco said drily.

He received a warning look from his father in response, even though his mother laughed.

"If she's from Beauxbatons, why were you enquiring about homework? They've all returned, surely? Unless Hogwarts' professors are now demanding essays from distant continents," his father frowned.

"Dumbledore does love to take meddling to new levels each and every year," his mother snorted.

Snape smirked in response.

"I wasn't sure about a Transfigurations essay, is all," Draco said quietly "McGonagall made mention of wishing for essays on the first day back from all who may wish to take her class at OWL level."

Another lie. Snape still didn't call it out. Draco wasn't sure whether the man was letting him dig himself into a deeper hole, or if he really was covering for him, but the nerves were enough to have something in his chest seizing up, even if he forced his posture to remain relaxed and unbothered.

"I should think that you should be sure, if you're going to get OWL qualifications befitting the heir to the Malfoy name," his father said.

"It wasn't the subject matter, father, but whether McGonagall still expects it. A lot of academic deadlines were cancelled thanks to the farce with Diggory - something about putting the world on hold to be respectful," he drawled, rolling his eyes "I was unsure as to whether it was still needed, and wondered if she'd heard anything on the matter before she left. But she had not, so I'll do it anyway in case it's needed."

His father nodded, accepting his answer and apparently approving of it. Snape continued to stare…and Draco continued to wish he'd bloody well stop. Worst of all, this meal had left him with more questions than he'd started it with, and he found his appetite had all but vanished.

Chapter Text

Marilyn slunk into her mother's house after around a week of keeping away, listening carefully for any signs of life. The only reason she'd returned at all was because she'd overheard the weekend-long trip she had planned not long before the incident. As it turned out, she'd be gone for two nights, and that meant that Marilyn could shower, sleep, and maybe even eat if there was anything left behind in the cupboards. The little old lady next door had a spare key, recognised Marilyn from childhood, and thanks to her mother's Stepford act that the woman bought without question, she gave her the key with no questions asked when she put on a bashful face and made up a story about having locked herself out.

Slipping in through the front door, she locked it behind her and began a slow check of the place - mostly to make sure it was indeed empty. The last thing she needed was for the plans to have fallen through at the last minute, leaving her to face her mother in an even more foul mood. But it was empty, the only thing even slightly out of place being in her bedroom. The old piggybank usually on her bookcase was now in shards in her bin. It appeared somebody had gone rifling. That just made her laugh, though. She hadn't kept money in that thing since she'd started attending Beauxbatons.

And…there were letters sitting on her window sill. Two of them. Glad that nobody was around to see her eyes light up, she dropped her Beauxbatons-blue sports bag to the floor and strode towards them. One would be from Draco, probably. But the other? Maybe George had come out of the other side of whatever family issues he'd been facing and finally reached out. Or maybe Hermione had written. Hell, even Fred could have. She was closer to George, sure, but she'd hung around with the both of them. Maybe she'd been dramatic in thinking they were trying to create distance - her dire situation infecting her mood and inducing paranoia.

But as she plucked up the letters, she noted the green snake seal on both, and her heart sank. Ah. Draco had written twice. Ordinarily that would have been a curiosity in and of itself, but seeing as it followed one blissful moment when she thought her social circle for the immediate future might stretch beyond one fledgling Death Eater, it had her heart sinking and she suddenly felt twice as tired. Dropping the letters to the bed, she slipped her trainers off and made her way to the bathroom to shower.

It had been a pretty shitty week. It had been her own fault, in a way, too. Her mother had been on one, she'd been intent on getting into a fight, and Marilyn…Marilyn had opened her mouth, snapped back, and given her one. People probably thought that staying quiet was easy, but there were times when it was more difficult than saying nothing, certainly more draining when around somebody intent on getting an argument one way or another, and she'd caved and done it. It felt good for precisely two seconds, before the screaming match began.

And what a screaming match it had been. One of their worst. Prolific, really. It left her throat raw and her wrists red - from the grabbing. It was as physical as she ever got, but she loved to hold her real close while she screamed bloody murder in her face. She'd never hit her, but there were times Marilyn thought she might - and this latest time had come after she'd shrieked at her 'why did you have to be born a witch?!' to which Marilyn cleverly countered with 'why did you have to be born a bitch?' - no doubt when her mother retold that story to others, she'd leave the first half out.

By the time Marilyn stepped out of the shower, she felt a little better, and had the energy to turn her mind to the matter of Draco. Knowing her luck this summer, the second letter could very well be a decision to no longer write. And it'd be a wise decision. Every time she wrote to him, she felt like a kid who was about to be caught with their hand in the cookie jar, and she knew that feeling came from a nifty little thing called survival instincts. But it'd still cut off the one line of sanity she had right now, at least until school started up again, and even that was a pretty bad joke considering he'd been the main culprit for making her lose her bloody mind throughout her fourth year.

After a week of laying low and blowing through most of the Muggle money she'd managed to accumulate just on food and having somewhere to sleep, she needed whatever lifeline she could get. Even Draco bloody Malfoy.

She re-entered her bedroom in a bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel, with a tin of pineapple rings she'd managed to salvage from the back of the kitchen cupboards. Slumping back down onto the bed, she lifted up one of the letters at random, cracked the seal, and opened it. It had been sent a few days after her last letter, and it appeared normal. Not much wanting to read it if the next one was putting an end to things, she scanned it just enough to get the gist and then opened the other.

It was only a couple of lines, and her heart sank as she scanned over them…and then she stilled when none of them were to the effect of don't write again. Then, noting that, she reread the letter - reading it properly this time, comprehending what he'd written. Was it just her, or did Draco Malfoy sound worried? About her?

Assertions that he wasn't capable of worrying about somebody other than himself were the sort of thing she'd have resolutely argued against a handful of months ago, but after how things were left off at Hogwarts, she'd been inclined to agree with them. Or at least not to argue with them anymore. No longer, apparently.

Maybe this was the beginning of a cycle that was growing pathetically familiar to her. Then things would be fine for a bit, and then they'd bicker, and it would all culminate in another letter a few months from now denouncing her as a mudblood wretch.

But he'd double-lettered. Few teenage boys would ever double letter. Draco? Draco seemed the sort who'd rather die. Especially so soon after their spat. And yet, these two letters sat before her in meticulously neat script. He must've cared a hell of a lot.

Sitting back against the pillows, Marilyn cracked open the tin of pineapples and stared at the letters thoughtfully.

21 Aug '95

Draco,

I'm alive, I'm fine, I'm breathing, I live to irk another day. Rough week, tiny bit of drama, sounds a lot more sinister than it is, wasn't around to receive your letters - sorry. Just in case it happens again, I'll include a card with where you can reach me at Beauxbatons on the off chance that I don't get to send another letter. Though it might be a good shout to stop with the green seal when we go back – it's a bit of a giveaway.

How are things with you in the land of the one percent? Eat any good pheasant lately? Thrill me with tales of rich people frivolity, drag my mind away from this sorry shit. Is there a blood feud being waged between your parents and their crockery provider because they requested an oleander pattern and were given lillies instead? I want to hear all about it.

Meryl Monroe

P.S. Thanks for giving a damn, yeah?

22nd August 1995

B,

If we're on the topic of giving a damn, I would point out that being painfully vague and mysterious is the wrong kind of irksome. You've never been much good at leaving anything unsaid - to a fault, some might say - so when something is dire enough for you to actually leave it unsaid, the mind does race somewhat and jump to unsavoury conclusions. She's a Muggle , for Merlin's sake, how bad can she be? She's no way of knowing the age cap on magic use outside of our schools (don't tell me you told her about it - unless Beauxbatons does?) - make some empty threats, keep her in line.

As for what's going on here, we've far too much inherited fine china to have any need to start ordering more in. Although if we see fit to, my parents work with professionals - they'd never be so daft as to mix the two up. I will admit, though, that there was a nasty hem incident in '89 that has my mother still refusing to frequent any Swedish tailors. For future reference, though, as far as poisonous plants are concerned she prefers deathbells to oleander. They work faster.

House of Malfoy trivia aside, I did get a bit of news while you were "off doing very non-sinister odds and ends" – you're looking at (or writing to, as the case may be, unless you have a photograph of me stashed away - and who could blame you for that?) Slytherin's new fifth year Prefect. Snape wrote with the news a few days ago. It was hardly a surprise, it wasn't like I had any competition, but it's still worth celebrating. I already know McGonagall will choose her golden children, Potter and Granger, so it's good to know we'll be on even footing should that lunatic go even more power mad. Does Beauxbatons have prefects?

David M.

P.S. I've included my details for reaching me at Hogwarts, too.

2nd Sept '95

Draco,

I'm not trying to be purposefully vague or mysterious (I have enough mystique about me without resorting to that, thank you very much), it's just all tedious to live through, never mind write. She likes trying to get arguments out of me, and sometimes I'm tired or annoyed or daft enough to give her one, and then I have to make myself scarce for a bit after to avoid more bullshit. It's fine, it's nice to get away, it's just a pain in the arse when it comes to the finer points of having somewhere to get away to. But I'm back at Beauxbatons now, so I shouldn't have much need to disappear between now and summer. Plus, I turn sixteen next summer which means I can strike out on my own.

And unfortunately, she does know about the whole age limit thing - I had to offer it up as a valid explanation as to why she couldn't benefit from my being a Witch. Coincidentally, she decided my being a Witch was the worst thing ever about five seconds later. Detectives will toil for years to connect those puzzle pieces when I write my memoirs in a few decades.

Congratulations on making Prefect! Nobody can say you don't work hard, so it's not much of a surprise. I bet Gryffindors all over the country are breaking into preliminary cold sweats as we speak. Beauxbatons does have them, too, but it was never an option for me - I need to really take my dancing seriously this year, this is the time when things start to pick up properly, Madame Garnier is keen to see that I do this year right. If all goes well, I could have some real prospects by the end of the year. Patrons, contracts, a real budding career. Wish me luck!

Meryl Monroe

P.S. You've been back at Hogwarts for a good twenty-four hours now, right? How many weeks worth of detention have you doled out to unsuspecting eleven year olds? Have you start collecting their tears for Snape's pantry?

Chapter Text

12th September 1995

B,

If this is the year where you really need to start taking dancing seriously, I'm happy I'm not around to witness it. You can't seriously tell me that an entire school year of twirling until your toes bled was you taking it easy, that's just utterly absurd.

Good news! Potter isn't Prefect. It looks like his champion Dumbledore doesn't even trust him - hardly bodes well for the hysteria he was spouting, does it? That being said, the old dolt chose Weasley instead, so I'm not sure that's a much better choice. Granger, too, but it was always going to go to that insufferable know it all.

We have a new DADA teacher - Umbridge - who really seems to know what she's about, though, so it looks like we might finally have a bit of sense at Hogwarts. More than that, she's been given the role of High Inquisitor, which means she might actually whip this place up into shape. Maybe I'll end this year pleased that I didn't get to go to Durmstrang after all.

David

3rd Oct '95

Draco,

Remember when I told you that this year would be big as far as my dancing is concerned? Next week we have a whole host of what basically amount to the most prolific talent scouts in the ballet world coming in to see us dance. Madame Garnier didn't mention it until now, she wanted to give us the month to get back into the swing of things and to really prepare, and now this. I haven't bloody slept since she mentioned it - if I get it, it means sponsorships, roles, a real career. Sitting OWLs would just be a formality, I could be dancing for a living by this time next year. Can you believe it?

She wants me to do the broom routine - I'd have to use one supplied by them, something about fairness and anti-tampering, but if I can pull it off even half as well as I managed to back at Hogwarts, I'll be a shoe-in (or is it shoo-in? maybe I should be concerned with OWLs and NEWTs, after all) — I'll be employed by an actual company! A proper ballerina! I'll be living the actual, real, honest to Merlin dream. Can you believe it? I hardly bloody can - I hoped writing it down here would make it feel real, but it doesn't. I promise to remember you when I'm rich and famous.

Meryl Monroe

7th October 1995

B,

Given that this whole thing is all that you've obsessively worked towards in all the time that I've known you, I have to say that I can believe it. Where did you think that this path led to? A promising future in accounting? Perhaps you should focus on education after all, if it took you this long to puzzle it out. Congratulations, Baxter. Truly. You've the skill to back it up, nobody can argue otherwise. And good luck - although I doubt you'll need it.

Just out of curiosity, am I right in thinking that the Weasleys told you that the reason they had to rescind their invitation was thanks to a family emergency? Because somehow their dirty laundry always ends up strewn across Hogwarts, and I haven't heard a thing about any such emergency from a single member of their brood. Their older brother works in the Ministry, too, and there's been no rumblings from the gossip there. Or if there had been, my father hasn't mentioned it - and it's the exact sort of thing he would be celebrating, if so. Could it be that the Good and Noble House of Weasley told a lie?

Umbridge is really whipping this place up into shape, anyway. It's a shame you're missing it. She's banned any clubs that form without her express permission - I spoke to her this morning myself and obtained her blessing for the Slytherin Quidditch team to continue. Who can say whether she'll be so magnanimous with the Gryffindors? Fingers crossed for not.

David.

13 Oct '95

Draco,

I haven't had a chance to write before now, sorry, I've been occupied - mired in dreams of my very promising future in accountancy, as you said. The big wigs were here a few days ago and I danced for them all. I didn't bloody sleep at all the night before because I was so stupidly nervous (which no doubt you'll laugh at me for, but whatever), and I swear I thought I was going to faint in the minutes leading up to my turn. They did it all alphabetically, so I was second to go up. Second. I can't decide whether that's good, or just psychological warfare - I got a chance to see how the process would go, at least, and I think being last would've been much more nerve wracking.

I don't even usually get nervous for these things, but this was different. This was what everything beforehand had been leading up to, and I just couldn't shake the fear that I'd make one stupid mistake and ruin years and years of hard work in one moment.

They'd been pretty much silent throughout the performance of the girl who went before me, just watching all still and quiet, but then I went out and there was a bit of whispering when they noticed the broom in my hand. They must've known one of us would attempt it, but maybe not which one. I told them my name, gave them my prettiest smile just to dazzle them a bit, and then the music started. I think I was about a quarter of the way through when they started whispering. It made me nervous as shit, honestly, because it had me second guessing what was going on or if I'd made a mistake. I knew I hadn't, not really, but there's something about that whole situation that has you second guessing yourself, especially considering it was so early on in the term and I never get much good dancing under my belt over summer. What if I was rusty?

Anyway, I managed to tune it out and I kept going. By the end they'd gone from a bit of whispering to all out arguing - they didn't even dismiss me, Madame Garnier had to wave me off while I stood there wondering what was going on. She told me afterwards – they're in a bidding war for me. A bidding war, Draco – this sort of thing hasn't happened since Clarabella Vane! I have a big list of the companies that are interested, the pros and cons of each one, and I need to give them my answer by the end of the year. There's really only one answer, though - WIB, the Wizarding International Ballet. The rest just exist for people who can't get into that, and they're much smaller and only based in one country, instead of the Wizarding one which covers all of Europe.

I need to leave it long enough to not look desperate, but not so long that it insults them, so I'll write to them in November with my decision. Can you believe it? Madame Garnier almost cried when she told me they want to take me on - which is as good as a hysterical breakdown from just about anybody else.

Looks like accountancy will need to find another hero!

Meryl Monroe x

P.S. It doesn't matter about the Weasleys, put it out of your mind - I already have. Especially now that I have this to focus on instead. Whatever their reasoning, it's fine, shit happens, I don't want to make a big thing of it.

When the horn sounded announcing the end of the Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match - and Gryffindor's victory, no less, thanks to Harry's god-tier snitch-catching abilities - George heaved a sigh of relief, directing his broom around the pitch in lazy circles that gradually descended downwards. It had been a right nasty affair. The victory barely dulled the edge of the anger the Slytherin antics had slowly stoked in him throughout the whole thing with their constant gleeful chanting of 'Weasley is our king!' over and over until every time he glanced at his little brother, he found his face as scarlet as his uniform.

The fact that he knew the jabs were designed to annoy by the Malfoy git himself did nothing to stop them from achieving their goal. Even now that they'd won, a few half-hearted verses were still being called out by the biggest mouth-breathers that Slytherin had to offer, like it would detract from the fact that they'd just bloody well lost the match, underhanded tactics or no. In a few hours he knew he'd probably take comfort in the fact that even being such shits couldn't help them win, but for now he was just pissed off.

Malfoy and Harry were both already on the ground, and as George's broom drifted within a few feet of the ground, he finally caught wind of the vitriol Malfoy spewed at Harry, his pale face screwed up and his hair in disarray from his scuffle for the Snitch.

"Saved Weasley's neck, haven't you? I've never seen a worse Keeper - but then he was born in a bin, wasn't he, Potter? Did you like my lyrics?"

George sprang from his broom, leaving it discarded on the pitch, barely aware of Fred going through an almost identical range of motions somewhere off to his left. Ron, too, he noticed dismounting his broom off at the other end of the pitch, but rather than join the team, he hung his head and began to walk in the direction of the changing rooms alone. Harry ignored Malfoy, turning to Angelina who was dividing her time between checking on their Seeker and shooting daggers in Malfoy's direction, who continued to spout his hatred despite their efforts to ignore him.

"We wanted to write another couple of verses! But we couldn't find rhymes for fat and ugly - we wanted to sing about his mother, you see."

George's hands clenched into fists and any hope he had of keeping control of his temper vanished when the little prat continued.

"We couldn't fit in useless loser, either - for his father, I mean."

Somewhere behind him, George heard Angelina doing her best to talk Fred down - forcibly taking hold of his clothing to try to make him listen, if the rustling was anything to go by.

"But you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter? Spend holidays there and everything, isn't that right? Can't see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you've been dragged up by Muggles, even the Weasleys' hovel smells okay-"

George took a swift step in Malfoy's direction, and was all but pounced on by Harry in an attempt to keep him back, struggling against his hold on him before he'd even properly latched on.

Mirth gleamed in Malfoy's pale eyes, seeing the reaction he was successfully drawing out of them, continuing on with a horrible little grin.

"Or perhaps you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and the Weasleys' pigsty reminds you of it!"

Harry's grip disappeared, and George was barrelling forward without stopping to see if Harry had let go because he decided to join him in shutting Malfoy up. The couple of faltering steps that Malfoy took backwards did nothing to aid his escape and George had a fist bundled in his green and silver Quidditch jersey easily, landing a blow to his jaw.

Malfoy struggled in his grip and flailed out a punch of his own - one that caught George in the lip, no less - but he barely felt it. He also barely heard what Malfoy was saying next until he was already a few words into his sentence.

"You know your fickleness meant she was basically homeless this summer, right?

George frowned "What are you-"

"I mean, if my choices were between taking my chances on the streets, dealing with a psycho Muggle, or staying with your lot, I know what I'd choose, but then again I've always known what all of you are really like. She didn't - not at first. Not 'til you taught her the hard way. Courage and chivalry, indeed- oof-"

Just as George's grip had loosened, Harry caught up and drove his fist into Malfoy's stomach. And then McGonagall was upon them.

4th Nov '95

D,

Why did I just get a very strange letter from George Weasley asking if I still talk to you?

M.

6th November 1995

B,

Did you get the congratulatory chocolates I sent you? Have you accepted the company's offer yet? What step comes after that? I'll admit, I don't know much about the intricacies of these things, so I don't know how it'll all happen.

David

8th Nov '95

Draco,

I have a letter from George here waiting to be answered, and I swear to god I'm not above sending a howler to you next if you don't tell me what the bloody hell you said.

M.

P.S. The chocolates were very nice. Thank you.

10th November 1995

B,

Okay, okay, there's no need to make a big thing of it. It's a long and tedious story, but to summarise – we had a Quidditch match against Gryffindor just over a week ago, and they were sore winners (despite only having won by a margin, mind you). Slytherin House had some sort of chant or another mocking Weasley (the one that trails after Potter like a zombie), and they took it all much too seriously because they have an absolute inability to get over themselves.

There was an exchange of views on the ground immediately after, during which I made a few jokes, they took them terribly because of that aforementioned inability to get over themselves, and I took the chance to let slip a few home truths to that clone you used to find so amusing. I didn't say anything mad, I didn't mention you by name, I just suggested that they fancy themselves terribly chivalrous and kind but when it comes to putting all of that into practice, he certainly fell short this summer.

And, I would add, it speaks volumes as to his guilt that he seemed to know exactly what I was talking about. Surely if he wasn't aware he'd been a colossal letdown (true to Weasley tradition), he wouldn't have had the slightest notion of what I was talking about. Don't worry, he hasn't said a word, and even if he did it would be his word against mine, and he's no evidence. Our secret is safe.

Finally, don't tell me you actually intend to dignify his letter with a response? Don't be absurd. He can't cut ties, hold you at arm's length, and generally not bother with you at all, just to swan back and demand answers as to who it is you've been speaking to in the time that he was stupid enough to forget all about you. He cannot - and if you respond, he'll only think he did nothing wrong. If you're going to respond at all, it should be him that you send a howler to rather than me. It's daft, and it encourages an unreal level of audacity that he's no right to. Did he care who you were speaking with over summer? No? Then he's no right to care now.

Leave them all to sulk over their Quidditch team being banned. That's just karma, if you ask me. Just you watch - in a year's time he'll be writing again trying to finagle free tickets out of you.

- D.

Chapter Text

Marilyn grimaced at the two letters sitting before her, one from George and the other from Draco. She never thought she'd live to see the day where a letter she received from Draco Malfoy was a great deal longer and more personal than one from George Weasley, but these were strange times. Even if the Daily Prophet always denied it.

George's letter was concise to the point of being curt, and she wasn't sure whether it was because of his suspicions, or because he'd never exactly been one for beating around the bush.

Marilyn,

Sorry if this seems very random, but have you been speaking to Draco Malfoy at all recently? Hope you're doing well, got this address off a girl who writes to a Beauxbatons boy all the time and switched out his name for yours, so with any luck it'll find you.

George Weasley

Draco's letter was a great deal longer, somewhat neater, and - she suspected - contained a fair deal more twisted truths. She knew him well enough, and she'd argued with him enough herself, to be able to pluck the truth from what he purported.

Maybe he'd been honest when he said Gryffindor only won by a margin, but they were sore winners very easily became 'I didn't take losing well, and decided to run my mouth'. We were only teasing and they took to all way too seriously became 'I set out to get a reaction, and when I got one I decided to play dumb'. It all painted a picture that was fairly familiar, and painfully feasible. Draco went out looking for a fight, he got one, and he was celebrating by trying to pin every part of it on the other party.

While she could see through all of that easily - much more easily than she suspected the likes of his parents could when met with similar cover stories - and she was even more willing to call out the blatant bullshit than any of his lackeys would…she wasn't exactly on the opposing side. Oh, Draco was a right rotten shit when he wanted to be, with a knack for getting himself into an argument unlike any she'd ever previously seen, and she didn't doubt he'd decided to nurse his wounded ego (over Quidditch, or all things) by picking a fight with his favourite set of Gryffindors…but the views he'd expressed towards the end of the letter weren't quite so off the mark.

Oh, she didn't doubt that his own hatred of the Weasleys had him trying to stoke animosity between her and them - in the case of his letter. Did the same ring true as far as his throwing her in George's face? No doubt he wanted to boast about it, but was he trying to turn George against her? She thought not. There was nothing to turn against - they hadn't spoken in months, and if Draco hadn't dredged her name up it would've been longer still. Friendship, acquaintanceship, any sort of communication with Draco Malfoy was complicated and headache-inducing, but she didn't think him some great Hannibal Lecter-level mastermind.

And it wasn't like he had no leg to stand on in the latter half of his letter. There was a distinct sort of cheek for George to quietly and subtly bring their friendship to an end, only to then write and ask about who she had or had not been talking to in the interim. What right did he have to an opinion on that?

In the end, she took to the gleaming and pristine Beauxbatons library, all white marble, blue paint, and light wood, to puzzle out the answers to the fifty thousand questions in her head, both letters laid out before her on the desk, along with a quill and a few sheets of parchment.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you get so much mail in my life," spoke a male voice behind her "You weren't here last year, it's true, but the one before you never received so much as a newspaper by owl. Now? Now you have floods."

"I'm thrilled to hear my dire social life up 'til now has been so noticeable and entertaining."

The sixth year who fell into the seat at her side was an old friend - Adriano Cipriani - a fellow dancer who, despite his great many prospects, chose to remain at Beauxbatons and see out his entire education, juggling NEWTs and his dancing career. The decision wasn't one Marilyn was sure she'd make - she could barely focus on getting her DADA essay done at OWL level, not with this offer from WIB on her mind - but their friendship was a good source of guidance for her. He'd been here, he'd done it. Although she'd never admit to needing his guidance, he'd only be insufferable about it if she did.

"Entertaining? Maybe not. Noticeable? Yes."

Dark eyes flickered from the letter before her, then up to her face. Marilyn resisted the urge to snatch them up from the desk, or at least turn them face-down so he couldn't read the contents. It would only increase the intrigue.

"I never notice how many letters you get," she pointed out.

"That's because you're a narcissist, my dear, you never notice anything beyond your own pointe shoes."

Marilyn grinned, and then she laughed "Cheeky bastard."

"In any case, you have to admit that going from little to no letters, to so many that you have to come here to answer your heaps of fan mail is notable at least. Both from boys, too, judging by the handwriting."

"I have the feeling you're hedging towards an actual question."

"I've heard the rumours, you know, about your time at Hogwarts."

"Ugh."

This time she did disturb the letters, tucking the one from George - the one mentioning Draco by name - below the other, and folding them both up together.

"The Malfoy reputation for being shits was hard earned, apparently," he hummed "It's good to know you weren't friendless."

"Given my affinity for tunnel vision, that's probably a fair fear," she snorted.

"Who are they, then? You've got a teenage boy interested enough to pen you a novel-length letter, and yet you haven't mentioned it at all."

"Just a Ravenclaw boy - David. His little sister is interested in dance, so he wrote to me over summer asking for advice. The conversation just sort of went from there."

"How charitable of you."

"What can I say? That's just the kind of person I am," and then, hiding a smile at the amusement on his face, she added "And I resent the fact that you find that funny."

"Hey, if I did not like you, I wouldn't have come offering help."

"With what? My pile of fan mail?"

"In a manner of speaking. You've left it long enough, right? Now it's time to accept WIB's offer. I was going to see if you want help drafting the letter - considering I've been through it and all."

It spoke volumes as to how the Draco-slash-George situation was stressing her out that she hadn't even thought about her acceptance letter to WIB in, oh, twenty-four hours.

"What do I say?"

"Dear sir-or-madam, I'm writing to congratulate you as you now have the two best dancers Beauxbatons has to offer under your belt. Treat us well, or we unionise."

"Kisses, Marilyn Baxter?" She finished drily.

"Just so. See? You didn't need my help at all."

Snorting, she hesitated for a moment and then dropped both letters into her bag. Draco's she would answer later. George's? She wasn't sure she was going to answer that one at all. Would it be more damning in the long run? That was highly possible. But nothing could be more damning than what Draco had already gone and bloody well said - she highly doubted that George had swanned up to Draco on the first day after summer and explained the intricacies of their cancelled plans, so the only way Draco could have known about it would be because she'd told him. George was clever, and it hardly took a genius to puzzle it out. So why write and ask her? Maybe he wanted to verify. Maybe he didn't trust Draco. Fair, really. Or maybe he wanted to see what she'd say - to test whether she'd lie, and give her a chance to defend herself.

That last, most likely, possibility was what really pissed her off. There'd probably come a day where she'd have to justify or explain her decision to speak to Draco again, but George was not the one who was owed that justification, nor any sort of apology. To contact her months after gently ending their friendship, asking who it was she'd been speaking to in the time their communication fell off? That was some amount of gall. It was just a happy coincidence that if she hadn't been speaking to Draco, she wouldn't dignify such a letter with a response, and so her 'cover story' aligned nicely with her wishes.

She just wished she didn't feel so bloody guilty about it.

It wouldn't be completely true if Draco claimed he didn't keep an eye out as far as George Weasley's mail was concerned over the next couple of weeks. Marilyn's next letter to him didn't address his assertions that she shouldn't write to the idiot at all, although she did suggest that she struggled to believe his, ahem, polished version of events concerning what had happened on the Quidditch pitch that day. Ordinarily that might have annoyed him. Now? Now it just had him almost happy - not just because of how well she knew him, but because she also didn't cow and pretend to believe him anyway. Most would have.

Still, the days drifted by, the owl post dropped down onto their heads every morning, and none of it ever seemed to cause much of a stir over at Gryffindor table. Draco could only assume that meant she had not responded.

His suspicions were confirmed one day in the library when he heard the two idiotic clones whispering to one another.

"Still no response, then?"

"I think it's safe to say I won't be getting one, Freddie."

"Kind of an answer in itself, isn't it?"

"I dunno - maybe we should try ignoring Ginny for a few months before quizzing her on her personal life. See how she takes it."

"Mm. There is that. Still, he couldn't have known unless she told him."

"S'pose not."

"So we were right to keep her at arm's length, then. If she went running back to him that easily, our reservations were justified. You owe Snuffles a galleon."

"I don't think it was easy, though, that's the thing. That's what bothers me. You know her - she's stubborn. Proud. Gryffindor material, really. How shit must things have been for her to go running back to the likes of him? I don't think it's so simple as she was going to do it either way, I think it's more a case of she did what she did, because we did what we did."

"She's what? Fifteen years old? She can make her own terrible decisions."

"I'm not saying we're completely to blame, just that we had a hand in it."

"...Yeah. Alright. Maybe," his twin sighed "But that's not our fault, and we can't afford to take it on. There are bigger things at stake."

"You're not wrong there," he muttered, and then repeated it - sounding unhappy at the fact "You're not wrong there."

They'd promptly changed the subject after that - maybe they'd finally noticed his presence on the other side of the bookcase that separated their tables, or perhaps they'd simply realised that the middle of the library during third period was no time or place to discuss the finer points of a war.

Their exchange left Draco with a question or two, too. Not just what sort of weirdo they associated with who referred to themselves as Snuffles, but also that final exchange. We can't afford to take it on, there are bigger things at stake. It didn't take a genius to work out what they were talking about, what they viewed as being at stake, but he had to laugh that they seemed to think they had to conserve their energy for more important things.

If it did come down to war, Fred and George sodding Weasley would hardly be the ones to change the tide. If indeed the tide could be changed at all.

Although Draco had to question why his certainty that it could not be no longer filled him with the same level of untainted pleasure that it had a year or two ago.

20th December 1995

[A simple white Christmas card reading Joyeux Noël in glittering gold calligraphy.]

To George, Fred & the Weasley family,

I saw the article in the Daily Prophet about your father's accident. I'm so sorry. I'm thinking of you all, and I hope he has a speedy recovery.

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year

Marilyn x

20th December 1995

[A bright green Christmas card, depicting an avocado in a Santa hat dancing around on the spot, with white printed letters reading below 'Here's your Christmas avo-card-o!']

To Draco,

Merry Christmas. I hope you like the gift - I used the same wool to knit this scarf as I did for your gloves last year, so if you still have them, they'll match. The embroidered snake at the edge might be a bit on the nose, but I had to use every ounce of my self control not to stitch a lion on there. Be very, very glad that lions are far more difficult to stitch than snakes.

I wasn't sure whether to send it to Hogwarts or to your home, but in the end I had it sent to your house - can't have you thinking I didn't get you anything.

Meryl Monroe x

P.S. Keep an eye on the arts section of the Prophet this week.

22nd December 1995

[A distinctly fancier Christmas card of deep navy blue, littered with twinkling bronze stars of varying sizes, with Merry Christmas printed in the middle in looping cursive script.]

To Marilyn,

That card was so unbelievably terrible that I nearly burnt it and the gift on pure principle. In hindsight, I'll now admit that I'm glad I did not, for the scarf is very nice. Thank you. Here's your gift, I hope you like it - another charm for the bracelet. A quill charm seemed fitting, considering the sheer extent of these letters. I don't think I've ever flown through so much ink in my life.

It's…mad to think, isn't it, that the Yule Ball was already a year ago? It feels like it was just last week.

Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year, Baxter.

D x

Draco sat at the breakfast table on Boxing Day awaiting the arrival of the paper with a touch more eagerness than was usual. These days his family knew more of what was going on than what the papers claimed (although that wasn't something that was strictly new, anyway, given his father's many contacts in the Ministry), what with Fudge still so deeply entrenched in his denial. But Marilyn's card had caught his interest, and with each one that arrived he combed through the culture and arts section, reading inane details of shows due to be put on, and interviews with aspiring opera singers and a few think pieces written by journalists who mistakenly believed that an abundance of three syllable or more words constituted an educated opinion. It very rarely did.

He was beginning to grow bored of keeping an eye out, wondering if he'd already missed whatever it was Baxter had been referring to, until his eyes finally landed on an article reading Wizarding International Ballet Signs Beauxbatons Student. The noise Draco made in response was involuntary - stifling a smile as he combed through the article in which the writer waxed on about the rarity of such a deal for one so young, along with the fact that Beauxbatons currently only boasted two students who could say they had a contract with Europe's most prestigious Wizarding ballet company, and a few quotes from Madame Maxime in which she balanced her time between saying that she was hardly surprised, and that it was such a great honour. If it wasn't a surprise, could it really be called an honour?

The smile on his face faltered, though, when he reached the end of the article and the writer felt the need to comment on Marilyn's blood status - making it clear that she was indeed a Muggleborn, and while she was one of only two Beauxbatons students to join the WIB, she would be one of only four Muggleborns in its entire cast. It went on to discuss that there were indeed a great number of Half-bloods dancing for them, and plenty of Purebloods, too, but Draco didn't like the discussion delving into that at all.

In times like these, drawing attention to that was asking for trouble. Indeed, any Muggleborn who had their blood status advertised up by their full name, along with details regarding their employment and where exactly it was that they went to school was somebody who was all but being cast into harm's way the next time someone in the Dark Lord's inner circle decided they wanted to find an easy, pointless target as a way to make a name for themselves.

"What are you reading, Draco? You seem positively engrossed," his mother snagged his attention.

Both of his parents were a little worse for wear this morning, their Christmas celebrations having reached new heights thanks to the general air of revelry that every good and loyal pure-blooded family was awash in these days.

"Just this and that," he shrugged slightly "I was thinking it's been a while since we were at the theatre, that's all."

His mother extended a hand and he passed the paper over to her without reluctance, knowing she'd spot it all too quickly if allowed a glimpse.

"Mm, it has been," she murmured in agreement "Although it'll be a fair sight longer if they keep throwing mudbloods into the mix in an attempt to ingratiate themselves with the wrong sort. Really, what does a show of sitting on the moral high ground achieve when those who can truly appreciate the arts are left watching somebody without a clue as to what they're doing stumble and fumble their way through the steps with all the grace of a House-elf?"

"I'll never forget that opera we attended during our honeymoon - Florence, was it?" his father cut in.

"It was. It could've been a lovely night," his mother sighed, closing the paper and returning to her porridge.

"What happened?" Draco asked.

"The lead - she came down with some terrible affliction. What was it, Lucius?"

"Laziness," he replied flatly.

"Dragon pox, I think," his mother corrected with an amused smile "They replaced her with the understudy - some mudblood girl whose voice cracked on every other note. We left not half an hour into the thing."

Draco made sure to offer up the right response - a grimace, a scoff, and a muttered jab about a lack of reliability - but he couldn't help but wonder. No doubt if his mother saw Marilyn dance and knew nothing of her, she'd assume her a pureblood through and through. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, even, if indeed there was a single member of that number who she would not know on sight. How would she react, he wondered, if the day came where she did see her dance? If she knew of her blood? Would she pretend she was no good despite the fact that it blatantly wasn't the case? Would she declare it a fluke? A performance or a lucky blessing of nature bestowed upon the undeserving?

Or would she sit with pursed lips and not comment on it at all, because it did not align with everything she belie- everything they believed?

Perhaps one day he would find out. They did go to a fair number of ballets, and the WIB was the finest in the world. It stood to reason he would one day be there to see Baxter dance again. Well, unless it did come to a war. And then…

Draco's appetite abandoned him rather quickly.

Chapter Text

The New Year rolled in, and Draco soon found himself reaching for his new scarf out of habit as he prepared for each day of classes. Even the days without classes, really, whether he planned to spend much time venturing out onto the grounds or not. There was just something nice about it. Handmade gifts were never something he thought he'd have much time for - more or less writing them off as something for those who couldn't afford something actually well-made in a shop - but this was different. It was finely made, he hadn't lied or offered false flattery with that, although knitting was hardly something he knew much about.

Although he supposed if he could see that it was good without quite knowing how, that was another mark in its favour. The stitches were all even, it didn't look wonky or half-arsed, and there were even a few knot-work designs worked into the end, along with a small easily missable silver snake. She hadn't been lying - they matched the gloves well, which were barely showing their heavy wear from the previous year.

It helped that she wasn't here to see him wear them - unlike last year - because Draco did know himself well enough to be aware of the fact that he'd probably wear them less if anybody who knew their origin, Marilyn herself included, was around to bear witness. Mostly because he'd be embarrassed about what sort of statement he might be making; that he looked like some ridiculous sap carting around minor tokens and viewing them as being more than they were.

Still, there was something nice about them. He missed Marilyn, he wasn't afraid to admit that, not in his own mind at least. The letters he received were always read in her voice, for she did have a tendency to write how she spoke, rambling and belligerence included, but it wasn't the same. It was almost easy to forget he was really speaking with her at all, not privy to her reactions to what he was saying for better or for worse. The ease with which he forgot it was probably dangerous. More often than not he'd found himself pausing after writing a particular sentence or two, painfully conscious of the fact that had he been saying these things to her face, he would not have said them at all. And then he'd sent them anyway.

Did she find herself at the mercy of similar feelings? It was hard to imagine so - it was hard to imagine that she might ever not voice whatever thought was in her mind at that particular time - but he couldn't brush off the idea so easily. While she was blunt, they were similar in that they loathed sharing any sort of vulnerability. If they'd been speaking in person and he tried to pry for details on her home life, he doubted she'd have given him any answer at all besides the wave of a hand and a nervous laugh. Then again, had they been speaking in person, he doubted he would have pried at all, wary of the prospect of awkward silences or - Merlin forbid - the presence of tears.

The gifts had a personal quality to them that reached through in ways the letters, however warm and candid, could not. He could not wear letters. It was strange, wrapping the scarf about his neck and thinking that she had knitted every stitch with her own two hands not so long ago - maybe plagued with thoughts of him as he was with her.

Their letters continued into the New Year, of course, and Draco found himself growing more and more aware of what they did not discuss almost as much as what they did. Those things were numerous, but they all fell under the same category. Events. World events. The Daily Prophet decried the recent escape from Azkaban, blaming Sirius Black for it as an effort to further purport their denial as to what was happening, and he wondered if they weren't just as bad for how they avoided the topic altogether.

He hadn't known the full details of it - he wasn't a member of the Inner Circle, he wasn't privy to plans and plots and intricacies - but his mother had commented on the fact that he had not yet met his Aunt Bellatrix over the Christmas holidays. Not yet. Wording that wasn't lost on him at the time, and certainly rang in his mind more than ever now. His own unwillingness to mention it, even to play dumb about it, caught him off guard almost as much as Marilyn's equal unwillingness to bring it up. Ordinarily he took great delight in bringing up uncomfortable topics, and she appeared to do the same, perhaps not setting out to upset but on some sort of principle to not leave things unsaid when she'd decided they were important enough to voice.

But now, if anything, he dreaded the day when something so catastrophic happened that they could no longer bury their heads in the sand over it in favour of less perilous topics.

As it was, that time had not yet come. When the Prophet article came out not two full weeks into the New Year announcing the Azkaban escape, they discussed New Year's Resolutions in their letters, and how they'd spent their Christmasses. Six weeks later, when some rag called The Quibbler ran an article that sent shockwaves throughout the Magical community in which Potter spoke out about the truth of his encounter with the Dark Lord, they were busy trading barbs that were just slightly too flirtatious as to how their Valentine's Days had gone. Draco pretended not to be pleased that she made no mention of this Adriano fellow who she was so fond of in that particular letter.

Two months after that, in April, Draco himself played a role in catching Dumbledore's so-called "army" for Umbridge, Dumbledore fled and was replaced by Umbridge herself as headmaster, and the two clownish clones Marilyn used to be so fond of set off a barrage of fireworks inside the school before promptly fleeing themselves. Draco made no mention of any of it in his letters - and although only one of those three things hit the papers (Dumbledore's escape and subsequent replacement) for Marilyn to have the opportunity to know and bring it up, they both still remained silent, opting instead to discuss OWL preparations, and Marilyn's week of travelling to dance for the higher ups at WIB - which, unsurprisingly, went very well indeed.

June rolled through and Draco's birthday along with it, and he was mildly surprised (but no less pleased) to find a gift and card awaiting him from France that morning - he hadn't mentioned it, because it didn't fit naturally into conversation and going out of his way to do so seemed a bit like begging for a present, and Malfoys were not beggars. He'd leave that to the Weasleys. But Marilyn remembered it, and he tucked into the chocolates she sent with more happiness than he expected to feel over something so simple. The birthday was a topic they did not avoid, and when OWL exams were finally upon them, they discussed those too, and it was nice to have things going on that they didn't have to skirt around. It instilled rather a false sense of security. For all of a fortnight.

Then everything went to shit.

On the twentieth of June, although Draco had little knowledge of it as it was actually happening, his father and his fellow Death Eaters were embroiled in a battle at the Department of Mysteries. And how could one ignore headlines reading HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS in great big bold capital letters? No doubt Marilyn was fearing what this would mean for her personally, and Draco found himself in a similar boat, because his father had been captured, and his failure meant that the Dark Lord wasn't in much of a mood to orchestrate another breakout from Azkaban anytime soon.

The letters stopped, and Draco wasn't of much of a mind to stop and ponder who had failed to respond first. No, he was much too distracted by headlines reading Death Eaters Walk Amongst Us! punctuated by photographs of his father's mugshots. By the time the summer holidays were kicking off, when open war was upon them, and those headlines changed to be about the trial, paired with photographs of he and his mother leaving the Ministry after said trial, Draco stopped looking at the papers at all.

He didn't write, either. Not because he could hardly remember what the last letter had even concerned - something as inane as History of Magic exams, probably - but because he wasn't sure he'd get a response at all if he did. Until, that was, halfway through July when a letter arrived bearing familiar handwriting.

Draco felt numb as he opened it, pleased when he saw how short it was, for he wasn't sure he'd be able to make sense of any paragraphs at all.

D,

I hope you're okay. I'm worried about you.

M

From anybody else, the sentiment would have infuriated him. The few who had asked him how he was doing since everything had happened - mostly with pinched, polite smiles - had found themselves brushing dangerously close to an angry tirade on the sheer stupidity of such a question. His father was in Azkaban, the mess at the Ministry was being pinned by the Dark Lord solely upon his family, and he and his mother found themselves on the receiving end of all of his wrath. How did they imagine he was doing?

Worse still, admitting any of that would only be construed as weakness. They asked only so they could sit back and watch as he was forced to affect an air of indifference - but not too strongly, lest it reach the ears of the Dark Lord and he come to the conclusion that they weren't being punished enough for their supposed transgressions. What bothered him most was how most who asked would relish it if any of that fear and worry slipped through the mask - how they'd feast upon it like vultures. His life as of late was fear and worry, followed by pretending not to be scared or worried, and then fearing and worrying that it was showing through anyway.

Marilyn, admittedly, and to his own surprise, was one of those sources of worry. What was happening now could spell disaster for her, not least because she was hardly the type to put her head down and lay low. Knowing her, she'd end her first performance - whenever it came - with her new company by striding to the forefront of the stage and denouncing the Dark Lord as an arsehole. Despite himself, he smiled at the mental image. That would be very her.

What was also very her was checking in because she actually wanted the answer. Because she cared. And despite what had happened, despite the fact that his family - or his father, at the very least - had been shown up for Death Eaters on the front page of the Prophet, she did still care. She hadn't even committed the cardinal sin of asking whether he was okay. Yes, she hoped that he was, but she didn't ask. She knew the answer. She knew him. It was then that Draco had to acknowledge an unfortunate, dangerous fact, like his life didn't consist solely of unfortunate and dangerous facts these days.

He wanted to see her.

Chapter Text

Slipping away was no great problem. His mother was so distracted as of late - often weeping, and then pretending not to weep when others were around - that so long as he presented a half-feasible excuse, she accepted it. If anything, she appeared relieved that he was putting on a show of going about a normal life rather than hiding himself away in his room, avoiding his Aunt Bella and worrying about the plans the Dark Lord had. For he did have plans, and with each passing day, Draco feared rather gravely that they involved him. They definitely did, if Bella's ravings about blessings and honours was anything to go by - for there was only one person walking this planet who she viewed as being capable of bestowing such things.

The walking helped. Getting away helped. First he used the Floo Network to get to York, the little magical community tucked away there being at least somewhat familiar to him, although he'd only ever been once or twice long before he met Marilyn. That was the easiest part. Brandishing the, now very old and tired, piece of parchment listing her address, he slipped out past the street separating the Wizarding community from the Muggle one, and then he paused. The Muggle one didn't look all that different - if he squinted, he could've even mistaken it for Diagon Alley.

It didn't feel as late as it was thanks to the light summer night, and as he walked down the Muggle street, there were plenty of folk milling around just beginning a night of drinking, if the strange dresses, heavy makeup, smell of alcohol, and general revelry was anything to go by. It was when he reached the end of that first street and paused that he hesitated. Left or right? The problem was, he had no bloody clue. There were signs up everywhere, but they only offered directions to landmarks. Given that Marilyn did not live in the York Minster, that rather put him out of luck.

"Y'alright there, son?" a middle-aged woman leaning in the doorway with a cigarette in hand called out to him, her brow furrowed in concern.

He was in the only clothing he owned that would feasibly blend in around here - black trousers, a black shirt, and a black blazer. Though he knew little about the strange blue trousers all the men on this street seemed to wear - save for that he recognised them from some of the students at Hogwarts - he got the sense he was a little overdressed by their view.

If he was being honest, he almost ignored the woman entirely. But he had a horrible feeling that if he did, he'd only wish he'd taken her up on the unspoken offer of help when it had been given.

"I'm looking for this place," he said, extending the scrap of parchment towards her "Do you know it?"

Accepting the paper with her free hand, she frowned down at it with a look of such confusion that for a moment he feared he was in the wildly wrong place - that Muggles had two Yorks, or something equally as absurd. But as she studied the parchment rather than the writing on it, he got the feeling it was more to do with the stationery than anything else.

"It's a bit of a walk, but it's doable," she said finally, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

For a moment he'd been stricken by the foolishness of the idea - not just of associating with a Muggleborn in the current climate, he was forced to contend with that particular branch of his own stupidity ever since he learned the truth of her birth and then continued to associate with her, but of just coming to York and resolving that he'd be able to find her from there. If she'd resolved to find him, it would involve an absurd amount of hiking through the countryside before she even came near to Malfoy Manor. Thankfully, it looked like her house would be a bit easier to find.

He listened intently as the woman gave him directions, repeating each step in his head to commit it to memory, and when she was finished he accepted the address back and began to walk in the direction she'd instructed.

"You're welcome, then," she called sarcastically after him - Draco ignored her.

It was a long walk, she'd been right about that, including one particular stretch of road that just seemed to go on and on and on. That was the best of it, because it was straight with no turns, so he didn't have to stop and question whether he'd gone the wrong way just yet. Well, beyond wondering if going forward was the right thing to do at all, but that was less of a technical question and more of a philosophical one.

If he was being honest, each step that he took had him feeling torn - wishing to pick up the pace from a speed-walk into an all out jog, to stop entirely and think about what exactly it was that he was doing, and turn around so that he could put an end to this folly and go straight home. He couldn't even tell whether the sweat gathering on his brow was due to the pace he forced himself to take, the warmth of the summer night, or sheer nerves. There were even times when he did stop - once or twice - pretending it was so that he could get a good look at his surroundings and make sure he hadn't been followed, but really it was so that he could gather up his nerve again.

The thought that kept him going forward again each and every time was the certainty that if he turned around and went home, he'd spend the rest of the night wishing he had not…and he'd likely never build up the courage to come here again for a second shot. Plus, tonight was special. It offered an excuse.

When he began seeing signs pointing the way to the street name he'd written on so many letters before, it all began to actually feel real. She lived at Number Twenty, and when he saw Numbers Fourteen, Sixteen, and then Eighteen, he slowed to a stop at the end of the street to give himself a moment to collect himself. He'd frighten her half to death if he turned up breathless and antsy. Maybe he'd frighten her half to death, anyway. Given what the headlines were saying, that was still a possibility no matter how calm he looked.

Taking the moment's respite to gaze around his surroundings, he was glad she wasn't out on the street because it gave him a chance to hide the wrinkle of his nose. The houses were tiny. He had to admit that from the outside looking in, they seemed remarkably well-lit, but he supposed it was easier to light such tiny spaces adequately with only a fraction of the number of candles the Manor required. The houses in this particular close only had one floor - unless there were dungeons, but he doubted it - with scarcely enough room for two windows and a front door at the forefront of each one. How did people live here without going mad? Did they never get sick of the sight of the same three rooms? It was barely a step up from prison. The thought reminded him of his father, so he shoved it down, and that got his feet moving once again if only so he could distract himself.

Number Twenty drifted slowly into sight when he walked further down the street, the curtains drawn but thin enough so that light still poked through them. During his walk here it had gotten fully dark, but Draco was happy for it - it made him feel less exposed, standing there like a fool. She hasn't seen you yet. There's still time to leave. He batted that thought away, and replaced it with another. She was so seldom here, despite the fact that it was her home. She'd said so herself. And she hated this place (Draco could see why, based on first impressions), so it stood to reason that she mightn't have any wish to spend her birthday here.

The front door had a mottled pane of glass on it, allowing one to see light - of which there was little - and vague shapes inside the entrance hall. Draco was hovering at the end of the path that led up to the door when a light inside snapped on, illuminating the room inside in pale yellow light, revealing two figures. And then voice reached his ear - raised, shrill, furious voices. They were too muffled - by the door as well as the distance that stood between him and the door - leaving him only able to make out the voices and the blatant anger in them rather than what was actually being said. He had a feeling he did not want to know what was being said. Already, his hand itched to go to the wand in his trouser pocket. The fact that any stupidity on his part could easily leave them even higher up the Dark Lord's shit list had him curbing that impulse.

He took a couple of hesitant steps towards the house, right in time for the shriller of the two voices to rise from vexed to all out furious, screaming so loudly that he now had no trouble hearing exactly what was being said.

"You can't! Where do you think you're going to go? Who do you think you are? One year - one year out from all of your nonsense actually being of some use to me - your mother, Marilyn - and you're trying to tell me you're leaving? Ungratefulness - sheer bloody ingratitude, that's what it is!"

The other figure, the one that was not screaming, got close enough to the door that the image was not quite so distorted, and he could see that it was Marilyn. Had she gotten taller? He thought she might've - although she hadn't shot up quite as much as he had. Marilyn's response to the shouting sounded suspiciously close to oh, just fuck off and the front door opened an inch…only to slam shut again when the Muggle woman darted forward.

It was then that Marilyn's voice did rise to match that of her mother's.

"Get off of me! Ungrateful? What was I actually supposed to be grateful for? You tolerated me at best, and even then that was bloody well rare. If you wanted something out of this eventually, you should've had the foresight to play the long game and maybe not have been such a raging-"

"How dare you-"

Marilyn's silhouette faltered, like she was being yanked back and away from the door. Draco had enough. Striding up the path, he pretended not to have any second thoughts at all over whether he should be here, lifted a fist, and pounded it against the door. A deafening sort of silence fell inside.

He was almost tempted to knock again until he saw Marilyn step forward through the glass, and then the door was swinging open. She didn't look at him right away, too busy shooting a venomous look over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed with emotion and her chest heaving. And then she did turn to look at him, and her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

Wide blue eyes blinked at him, and then again - more slowly this time, as though expecting him to disappear. Draco simply stood there, hands in his pockets, his shoulder slumped in a show of appalling posture, returning her gaze guardedly.

"Draco?" she breathed in disbelief "What…?"

Was he to take that as a sign that he was not welcome? Something in him worried that he should.

"Marilyn, love?" the woman behind her did a remarkable impression of not being the terror he'd just heard screeching through the door "Who's this? A friend?"

Marilyn ignored her, continuing to stare. The backpack on her shoulder slid down, catching at the crook of her arm, and her school case sat by her feet. Whatever leave she'd been trying to take moments ago did not look to be a temporary one.

"A school friend," Draco supplied, curling his lip at the woman before adding on a little white lie "From the year above."

If she knew about the rule regarding seventeen year olds and magic, better to let her think it did not apply to him. The subtle message of his words clearly caught her, too, for she paled and fell back. It was difficult for him to decide whether it made him more or less tempted to hex her. In any case, Draco watched with some tired amusement as she quickly turned heel and left the hallway, slamming the door to the room that she entered behind her. Marilyn did not move at all, continuing to stare at him.

She'd grown since they last saw one another, her frame still slender but a little less lanky, with a few added curves. And she'd somehow managed to get prettier. That was a fact that knocked him in the chest.

"I…don't know why I'm here," he admitted, for lack of anything else to say "I could leave, if it's too weird."

The moment he offered, he regretted it - not because he was worried she'd agree and say that he should (although there was that too), but because it was so terribly wet to say. Too pathetic. But it snapped her out of her stupor, at least, shaking her head quickly.

"No - no, I'm- sorry, I'm just…shocked. This…you're really here."

"Happy birthday," he said, and it sounded much less suave out loud than it had in his head.

Breathing a laugh that sounded dangerously shaky, she paused in the doorway, her hands lifting and then dropping like she was trying to work out what in the world to do with her hands - and the rest of her for that matter. It wasn't like her, she usually seemed to have such an ease in her own skin, such an awareness. Draco suspected it was what he'd just stumbled in on that prompted the change, and not the year of separation.

She wore a coat despite the heat, one that bulged at the pockets with numerous scarves and even, if he wasn't mistaken, a pair of tights poking out, suggesting the wearing was for convenience and transport rather than the cold.

"I caught you on your way out," he pointed out - mostly because she wasn't saying it.

"Yes- yeah, you have," she nodded.

"Do you have plans?"

"No, I'm just leaving."

"To go where?"

"Haven't worked that bit out here. Anywhere but here, really. Look - erm, do you want to…I mean…are you alright? Why are you here? Is something happening?"

"No - well…no. Nothing pressing. I just wanted to…come here."

"You prowl York suburbs often, do you?" she teased weakly.

It was the first glimpse he'd gotten of her since he'd arrived. Before he could respond, through, she continued.

"Do you want to get something to eat, then? I don't know if…"

The things they avoided speaking of were much more obvious in person. Letters didn't boast awkward silences. He was grateful that she didn't just come out and say it, though - he wanted to get away from all of the awfulness at home, not just come somewhere else to discuss it.

"Somewhere Muggle should be safe," he said.

Behind her, he spotted a shadow shifting below the door of the room her mother had gone into. As if it wasn't already obvious, a floorboard creaked, signalling her eavesdropping.

"Right. Yeah, okay, let's go."

Shifting the bag back up onto her shoulder, she took up the suitcase at her side and stepped out, the door slamming shut behind her. They got as far as three streets away, walking in silence, when he noticed the tremble of her lower lip - and when Draco slowed to a stop, she didn't insult his intelligence by playing dumb and asking why it was he'd halted.

"I'm fine," she said.

The fact that she had to steel herself in order to say those two words didn't lend much credence to her words - taking in a deep, shuddering breath and clenching her fists against whatever sob was trying to work its way up her throat.

"All right," he replied.

"I am," she repeated, as though he'd argued with her "I'm just an angry crier. Pain in the bloody arse, it is."

"I've pissed you off badly enough times to know that from experience," he pointed out.

The sound she let out then might've been a laugh, or it might've been the beginnings of that sob she'd been fighting off. It was difficult to tell. Draco could only stand there awkwardly, watching and thinking that he definitely shouldn't have come. He didn't know what to say in these situations, and he wasn't used to feeling so utterly awkward in his own skin, hyper aware of how he was standing and what he was doing - along with what he was not doing. That wasn't even to touch upon what he was saying, and not saying. It was awkward enough with his mother, but with Marilyn? With Marilyn it seemed even easier to say or do the wrong thing, with potentially much more disastrous consequences.

Although he couldn't quite bring himself to leave, either. Because the only thing worse than standing here, feeling painfully awkward and wondering what he could or should do, was the idea of turning and leaving her here like this alone. There were plenty of people with whom he would happily lean into his persona of horrible selfish prick, but she wasn't one of them. In fact, she was the only one in that number who wasn't a member of his immediate family, and even with his own father he didn't often drop the bravado.

If he'd come a day later, he would have missed her. If he'd come an hour later, he would have done so, too. That had to mean something, didn't it? His belief in great signs from higher powers had never been particularly strong, but it felt too coincidental to be entirely meaningless.

When he plucked up the courage to lift a hand and rest it on her shoulder, he was relieved - despite the fact that she was tensed like steel beneath his grasp - because it was better than standing about like a moron doing nothing. When some of that tension in her shoulder eased, he felt even better. Dropping the backpack down to her feet, she stepped closer and curled her arms around his middle, and he returned the gesture without hesitation.

"It's good to see you," she mumbled "Surreal as all hell, but good."

He didn't voice his relief at that - because that would only add to the pathetic nature of having offered to leave moments after first showing up.

"How have you been?" she asked after a few moments, despite the fact that neither of them had let go yet.

"Not great," he said - and admitting it felt good "You?"

"The same."

There was a strange sort of solidarity in that. When she stepped back, she was no longer trembling.

"Hang on - I'll straighten myself out and then we can find somewhere for food."

She was the most embarrassed he'd ever seen her - head ducked down as she took up her backpack, cheeks flushed pink in the meagre light the nearest streetlamp offered. Maybe she was just flustered. Draco would be, had she appeared on his doorstep in the fallout of his father's sentencing. Although had she done that, they'd have had bigger problems on their hands than mild embarrassment.

Using her knee to balance her backpack on, she unzipped it and began to shove the random assortment of items she'd previously had stuffed into the pockets of her coat. As she did so, Draco caught sight of a hairbrush, as well as a toothbrush rattling around in a clear glassy case.

It reaffirmed any suspicions he'd had based on what he heard that she had no intention of returning to the house. He was tempted to ask, especially given she did not offer an explanation of her own accord, and maybe he would later, but not yet. First, they'd have to dispel this awkwardness between them as they each tried to reconcile the person before them now, and the invisible letter-writing source that they'd both spent the last year talking to.

As she zipped the last of her knick-knacks into the bag - now full to capacity - she looked up at him again, and this time her smile was a bit brighter.

"There's, um, there's a coffee shop around the corner. It's not quite fine dining, but it's small, and it's quiet, and it's open late. And it's Muggle, so y'know, recognition won't be an issue."

Draco nodded, glad that issues of stealth were as fresh on her mind as they were in his, however frazzled she might've been. Enough to allow himself a matching smile.

"Sound good?" she prompted when he didn't respond.

"Oh, you're done?" he said lazily "I thought there might've been a fiftieth and in there."

The laugh that earned him wasn't quite so fogged with tears, and when she turned and nodded in the direction they'd been heading, he even played the gentleman and picked up her case for her. Any regret he felt at having turned up was already beginning to fade.

Chapter Text

Their reunion felt much more real in the brighter, warmer light of the coffee shop than it had flitting between street lamps and pretending this all wasn't bizarre. Well, it was probably bizarre in Draco's mind - in Marilyn's it was just mortifying. Of all the times for him to show up. Christ, she'd never once thought he'd show up at all, but for him to do so then? Tonight? Yeah, it had smoothed over her exit - a part of her had genuinely feared that it was all about to come to blows, something that felt like it had been a long time in the making, before he'd knocked on the door - and Merlin knew it wouldn't have been any better if he'd arrived after she'd gone.

Still. It was her birthday, and the lad she'd had a kinda-sorta thing with, the one she'd exchanged surprisingly and increasingly personal letters with over course of the school year - had turned up and witnessed that. Some sweet sixteenth she was having, huh? And now he sat opposite her, waiting for his cappuccino, looking hopelessly like he had no idea what to say or do. That made the two of them.

He looked all grown up now - compared to the last time she'd seen him, at least, he hardly looked like he was about to start collecting his pension or anything. There was just less of a gangly teenage boy about him and more of a young man, cringe worthy as she found the phrase when she even just mentally referred to him with it. The fact that he'd replaced the school uniform with a suit probably helped, as well as the fact that he'd lost the boyish floppy curtain fringe in favour of simply combing his bright blond hair back from his face, even if it was a little bit askew now. It wasn't just the styling, though - his face was less rounded and more angular now…and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

Idle admiration shifted into concern when she noted that - but when she caught him staring at her in turn, she couldn't help but blush. Blush. Like that was something she ever actually did. What did he see, looking at her now? He hadn't exactly caught her on the best day, and she felt woefully underdressed in her jeans and plain white t-shirt combo with her hair in desperate need of a brush. Then she felt like a tit for even caring. Had she changed as much as he had, though? Ballet was strange in that it gave her a clinical sort of awareness of her body - she could sit back and note that she'd gained an inch or two in her hips and chest, but she stared at her form so often in a mirror that she never really noticed it.

It truly was a testament to teenage hormones that she even gave a crap about it now rather than the fact that the boy across from her had just seen his father imprisoned for Death Eater-ing. Death Eating? One of the two. Maybe both. Sure, it was a bit of an open secret beforehand, but now it was fact. The sole comfort of how done in he looked was the fact that he didn't seem to be happy with his state of affairs at all - and she had a feeling it wasn't just because Lucius had been caught.

If it took her offering up an awkward explanation to clear the air and break the ice, she'd happily do so. Mainly because if she didn't, it'd loom over them.

"I turned sixteen today," she supplied.

He blinked "I know."

"Yes, well, I don't know how ahem, other laws work on this, but if I'd left my mother's house properly before today, the authorities here - the ones I'm at the mercy of during summer - would've only taken me back if they found me. They'd have started poking around and asking questions. Now that no longer applies, so I decided to leave as soon as I could. She didn't take it well."

"But she doesn't like you. Why should she care? Surely she should be pleased to be rid of you, if she resented having you around over summer that much anyway."

There was that famous Malfoy tact. Marilyn snorted, liking it far more than the empty placations she might've received from others.

"Way she sees it, she was saddled with a defective daughter, with certain rules in place stopping her from even reaping the rewards of those deficiencies. Now that she never will, since my seventeenth is a year off and I don't plan on seeing her at all between now and then, or after for that matter, she's not too happy."

"She's an idiot. If she had half a brain, she'd have played the long game and started sucking up to you a year or two ago in preparation for this. What did she expect to happen this way?"

"We're not all evil geniuses," she teased.

"Good, that leaves the low ground for me and me alone," he replied drily.

"It never would've been enough, anyway. I don't think she realises the limitations behind the ability - she'd have expected more than it can give. Castles, unending money, fame, the works."

Draco snorted, rolling his eyes at the suggestion. They fell silent for a moment when a worker came up and gave Draco his coffee and Marilyn her iced tea and brownie, but when the guy returned to his station behind the desk, they began talking again.

"Do you think…if you hadn't been born with those deficiencies, she'd have been good to you?"

"No," Marilyn answered, not needing even a minute to mull it over "She'd have found something else to be a bitch over. She's not suited to being a parent, whoever her kid ended up being she was always going to blame them for it. What's the alternative? Looking inward? Hah. But this way, she just has a shining beacon to use as an excuse. Not like she'd have had a problem finding some other flaw, though."

"Then she's an idiot."

That sounded dangerously close to flirtation.

"Yeah. Well. We'll drink a toast to bad taste and all that. She'd certainly prove some right about her kind and theories of brainlessness, but it is what it is - and what it is, is out of my life. I have a proper contract with WIB now, and a shiny new signing bonus, so I won't have to knit my fingers down to the bone to be able to afford a hotel room for the summer. I didn't touch any of it during the school year, and this upcoming year I'll hardly have the time to touch it, splitting my time between that and NEWTs."

"You're still doing NEWTs?"

"Have to prove I'm more than just a very pretty face."

Unless the war really broke out. Some would argue that it already had - and they'd be correct, but it was just harder to accept when it was barely visible. It was one thing when Harry had reappeared outside of the maze announced his return. She'd believed it, of course she had, but up until it was all painfully official, she'd been able to more or less kid herself that it would be sorted without touching the lives of anybody who wasn't a major player. That…oh, that he and Dumbledore would track He Who Must Not Be Named down behind the scenes and put an end to him themselves, and that would be that. She was shown just how stupid that was fairly quickly. But even now, the papers were littered with disappearances, and there were grim events here and there which may or may not have been the handiwork of the Death Eaters, but without duels breaking out on her very own doorstep, something as big as war was hard to accept. It was the sort of thing that refused to sink in.

Maybe it was different for those who weren't Muggleborns - those whose parents had been involved in the last war. But to her, war was the sort of thing that resided in black and white photographs depicting trenches and evil men wearing red armbands, it wasn't the sort of thing that threatened her life. A hell of a privileged position to be in, for sure, but the more this pressed on without anybody bursting into laughter and shouting out 'psych!', the more she suspected that privilege and naivety wouldn't last a whole lot longer.

"Where will I be able to reach you?" he asked.

"This year? Beauxbatons still. After that, I'll keep you posted."

"And before that? Over summer?"

Marilyn smiled before she could help herself, breathing a surprised laugh. She hadn't expected that.

"As soon as I know, you'll know. I'll…write to you at your house. Assuming that's…still safe."

The way any small amount of mirth that had built up in his eyes immediately vanished, becoming instead empty and devoid of much of anything, gave her the answer she sought - and it worried her massively.

"It's probably best to keep them brief. Until I'm back at school. And maintain the fake names," he said "It…would be best of all if I could write to you at a secondary address until the school year starts up again. I know most Owleries permit such things, for a small fee."

"Like a PO box," she said.

The shrug he gave suggested he didn't know what that meant - but she hadn't really expected him to. His words were more meaningful than he'd likely realised, judging by the lack of bashfulness on his face, for Draco Malfoy was not a lad who enjoyed being inconvenienced in any way, shape, or form. If something was complicated and ultimately unbeneficial, it was best just dropped. Which could only mean their letters weren't just the amusing novelty she'd kinda-sorta feared they may have been to him - not because she doubted the stellar conversational skills she had, but because it was just a safe thing to assume where Draco and their sketchy history was concerned. Although she'd already begun to doubt that fear-slash-suspicion the warmer his letters had become, and the more his usual bravado drained from them.

Using the plastic knife on the table, she cleaved her brownie in two and offered half to him.

"Here."

"It's bad enough you had to pay for the coffee," he said.

To the surprise of absolutely nobody, he did not carry Muggle money.

"It's how my folk do birthdays - we buy presents for others. Don't be rude by rejecting it."

"Really?" he frowned.

"Of course not, but take it anyway. I don't want to be the only one sitting here eating."

He snorted, then he shook his head, and then he rolled his eyes. But finally, he did as she'd said, picking up the brownie between his thumb and index finger like it might do him some harm. Which was silly, really, because it had white chocolate and raspberry pieces. She'd live solely on them if she could.

"You haven't changed, you know," he muttered ruefully.

"Haven't I?"

"Not in some ways. In others, perhaps," she didn't need to ask what those ways were when she saw the blush that threatened to rise across his features, but he hid it by taking a bite, only continuing once he'd chewed and swallowed "You're still you though."

Who would've thought they'd see the day where he said that like it was a good thing and not an insult? Taking a bite of her own half, she decided not to push her luck by seeking elaboration.

"You look tired," she said once her mouth was no longer full.

He responded with an unimpressed look, grey eyes boring into her for a moment before they turned downward to his coffee cup.

"That is code for 'you look terrible', you know. People imagine it's polite, but it's actually rather classless."

"I wouldn't be me if I was classy - and you don't look terrible. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But you do look tired."

Several emotions crossed his face at once there - annoyance, which quickly faded, then discomfort. Finally, as though he'd then decided that the facade hadn't worked and was therefore useless, a great deal more tiredness rose to his face. Marilyn thought she knew tiredness. After a day of hard dancing, where she could barely peel her tights off before falling asleep. At the end of a long summer dealing with her mother's bullshit. But what she saw on Draco's face was different - and it seemed too extreme for anybody their age to be able to feel.

"I am," he admitted finally.

She knew him well enough to know just how much an admission like that would take for him, because he'd view it as admitting weakness. Sighing, she slid her hand across the table and rested it atop his. After a moment or two, she squeezed and made to let go, but he turned his palm upward and held fast. His eyes lingered on the silver bracelet at her wrist, and he smiled a little.

"I didn't know if you'd reply to the letter," she said "I thought not, to be honest, but I couldn't not write."

"I wasn't expecting you to write at all," he replied "Thought I'd have heard the last of you after it all came out."

A safe assumption, really. Not just because the lines had officially been drawn in the sand and they found themselves on wildly opposite sides of that line, but because it was difficult to know what to even say in the first place. She must've drafted that letter fifty times - and after the first five, she'd gotten annoyed at wasting parchment and begun drafting it on Muggle printer paper instead just to save supplies.

What did one say to somebody whose father had just been imprisoned for being on the nasty side that wanted people like her dead-slash-enslaved? The first couple had started with I'm sorry to hear about your father, but she couldn't send that, because she wasn't sorry. She was sorry for him, sorry that he'd been born into such a family, sorry that he had a parent who he actually liked, who had then been taken from him. But she couldn't say she was sorry that Lucius was in Azkaban, because she wasn't. Had she been at the World Cup a year prior and found herself at the business end of Draco's father's wand, she probably wouldn't be here now. She couldn't ignore that for the sake of sending a few pleasantries.

The letter she'd ultimately ended up sending was the best she could do - a short and sweet letter that did what it was supposed to, and let him know she was thinking of him. Apparently it had gotten the job done, too, judging by his presence.

"I've been worried about you," she said.

"I'll be fine," he replied - but he didn't appear convinced "But…there's something I need to ask of you."

This time when she let go and pulled away, he relented his hold on her hand as she watched him warily.

"This…is a bad time for someone of your background to go drawing attention," he said finally "You need to keep a low profile, Marilyn. Or else you'll be in danger. Grave danger."

"What- what are you saying?" she breathed a laugh "That I should quit the company?"

He scoffed, shaking his head "I'd never ask that of you, I don't have a death wish."

"Draco, my job – my dream involves standing up on a stage and having people watch me. The job is to draw attention. I don't understand how I could do as you ask while doing my job."

"Just be sensible about it. There are plenty of people around right now hoping to make a name for themselves in certain circles, and there's no better way to do that than by making examples of folk they deem undesirable."

"Such as ballerinas?" she asked doubtfully "Yeah, of course, I see your point, we're the real threat to- to him. Not Harry, or Dumbledore, but ballet."

"Marilyn," he snapped "Who do you imagine attends the ballet? Especially the most prestigious ballet in Wi- in our circles? And who do you imagine will draw the attention of those people when she's already had articles in the Prophet speculating as to her ability before she's even twirled in front of an audience?"

"You don't…you don't really think that they'd…surely not?"

"I hope not. I really, truly, dearly pray bloody well not…but you want to be the next Clarabella Vane, yes? There's a distinct difference in blood there, and a subset of people growing in power and number by the day who will take great offence to the comparison because of that difference."

"Jesus Christ."

It was like she was discovering her naivety had new depths previously unknown to her.

"I'm not trying to frighten you," he sighed tiredly.

She must've either gone horrifyingly pale, or looked downright shell-shocked, to have drawn such a response from him. Probably both. Already her mind was filled with images of Killing Curses being flung at her while she danced on stage, being kidnapped from her dressing room before performances, the works.

When she imagined how a war might finally hit home for her, she envisaged curfews and trips being banned from Beauxbatons' Hogsmeade equivalent, and worrying for those who she knew from Hogwarts whenever she picked up a paper. She did that last part already - not least for the boy sitting opposite her.

And despite everything she'd been told about him during her fourth year - despite everything she' feared about him during that year…he really didn't look like the sort of person who thought that the proper world order was about to be set in place. If he was that boy, the one she'd been warned about, she suspected he wouldn't even be here now. He wouldn't be seeking comfort from her, because he wouldn't need to be comforted, and he wouldn't view a lowly mudblood as being somebody who could provide it either. Was that just hope talking?

No, no. Because there was one piece of irrefutable evidence that he'd just given her, here and now. If he was that boy - the one Hermione, and George, and Harry, and Fred, and so many others thought he was - he wouldn't be sitting here warning her. He'd be sitting back, maniacally cackling that she was about to get hers.

"I think…" she began slowly "This is the sort of thing where anybody who isn't frightened has something hopelessly wrong with them."

The way the corners of his lips downturned suggested he'd thought of an example of the sort of person she was talking about. No doubt he was surrounded by them. He didn't even use it as an excuse to assert that he wasn't scared in the slightest - which the lad from their fourth year absolutely would have done.

Not only was he not the boy Hermione had warned her about, he was no longer the one who'd sneered at her and denounced her as a grief thief for crying at Cedric Diggory's memorial.

"I can minimise my exposure," she said slowly - and with some reluctance "I don't want to, it could harm my career, but- but, well, I think it's the sort of thing where if I don't do it, and I'm met with the consequences, I'll wish I had."

The consequences here being kidnap, torture and a slow, horrible death. A career seemed laughable in the face of that. Draco offered a small nod in response, his lips pursed, confirming her fears.

"I'll refuse to give interviews. There's always all sorts of opportunities for the newbies - photo-shoots in Wizarding ballet magazines, the works. I'll turn it all down."

"I don't suppose there's any chance you'd add dancing badly to that list?"

"Oh, Draco, darling, if only I was capable," she gave a mock-sad sigh, and that pried a smile from him.

It wasn't to last, though, because that was when the guy from the counter called over - the two of them being the only people left in the café.

"I'm sorry to break things up, guys, but I'm closing in ten - so you don't have to go home but you can't stay here and all that, yeah?"

Marilyn forced a smile and a laugh. Draco did not.

When they stepped outside into the humid night air, he didn't make any comments about needing to immediately leave, and so she led him to a spot she knew would be quiet and out of view of any busy thoroughfares. Locals called it a park, but it was more a set of swings and a bench. She curbed the temptation to lead him to the swings, and instead settled down onto the bench. At least here they could talk a bit more openly.

"Where will you go?" he asked - likely because he sensed she was building up to ask him about himself, and wanted to stave that off.

"I think Wizarding accommodation would be best, all things considered," she said slowly "More able to defend myself without worrying about secrecy laws."

Hopefully with everything being so out in the open now, concerning the war, she wouldn't need to worry about being expelled for underage magic if it came down to it.

"There's an inn - in the city centre. I can walk there."

"That's where I Floo'd from," he nodded "We'd need to go back separately, though."

He was far more recognisable in places like that. Being plastered over all of the papers as a pariah did that to a guy, she supposed.

"I assumed so," she nodded quietly "Draco…"

"Marilyn."

"I won't ask if you're okay."

"Good, that would be tedious, and I came here to escape tedium."

"Dance, money, dance," she muttered drily.

This time he did not smile, so she changed her tack.

"I'm worried about you, Draco."

"Don't be," he said flatly.

"If only I could stop," she said as a call-back to her earlier joke - but then she hesitated before pushing on "Actually, no. I wouldn't stop if I could. I won't ask for details, I know I won't get any-"

"You don't want any," he muttered "Trust me."

"I do," she said, and she meant it "Trust you, I mean. But are you going to be alright? Are you…are you going to be safe?"

Not only did he not respond to that, his jaw and fists all clenched at once, and Marilyn's heart plummeted down to her toes. He couldn't even drawl out some false reassurance, or even a mere brush off. This was bad. This was very fucking bad. Questions flurried about her mind - the main one being to demand to know what that unhinged despot could possibly want with Draco, a teenager, but she didn't ask. He wouldn't answer, and trying to assign reason to somebody like the Wizard his parents followed was useless. It made a sick sort of sense, even. He'd probably deem it a punishment, for Lucius being caught.

Rather than ask, though, she stared at him. He couldn't even look at her.

"Oh, Draco," she breathed.

"He doesn't take kindly to being failed. Forgiveness is hardly in his nature, and second chances are more like punishments."

"Second chances?" she echoed "What sort of second chances?"

Draco offered no response, and it was clear he had no intention of doing so, his fists clenched and his face dangerously pale in the moonlight. Worry and outright fear warred for pride of place, leaving her chest feeling tight and constricted. Fuck. That was all there was to say, wasn't there? To think? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"I'm surprised you're still here," he remarked sullenly after a few moments of silence.

"Are you calling me fickle?"

"I'm calling you mad," he countered.

"Oh, that was established a long time ago," she joked weakly.

Almost two years ago, really. It had yet to fade - and she didn't really have it in her to regret that fact. Especially not now that she knew if he didn't have her, he'd likely be alone right now. Who else could he admit this kind of fear to? The other fanatics? And anyway, only Draco Malfoy would sit here and call her insane as he sat here seeking comfort from her. Probably because he was seeking comfort from her, really. He was scared, and he was tired, but he was still him.

Leaning into him, she snaked her arms around his waist until they wrapped around him. It was a bit awkward at first - every muscle he possessed was wound tight, like he was expecting a duel to break out at any moment. But then, finally, he relaxed, wrapping an arm about her in kind and pulling her impossibly closer until there was no hiding the slight tremor in his grip.

They'd stayed on that bench for an impossibly long time - until she was certain they'd soon see the sun drifting back up into the sky - neither of them being willing to break their hold on the other, because when they did the real world would come rushing back in. But then, whether they liked it or not, the real world came knocking. A group of teenagers down the street knocked over a wheelie bin, a dog started going ape-shit in response, and they both started apart, reaching for their wands on instinct.

It was decided that Marilyn would leave first, and he'd trail along behind her, both headed to the Pixie's Pocket in the middle of York. Before they'd set off, he'd given her a kiss on the cheek (one dangerously close to the corner of her lips, no less), and murmured something about writing to her.

And then she was left with her worry. The inn had an available room, and it felt like an entire suite despite its prison cell size for the fact that she knew she wouldn't encounter any screaming matches. Although that particular assurance did waver a bit when the landlady was at her door first thing in the morning, a bemused look on her face.

"Oh, don't look so panicked, love, there's nothing wrong," she said brightly when Marilyn opened the door, squinting at her and feeling very self conscious in her purple polka dot pyjamas "Here."

The woman thrust a pouch of galleons into her hand and Marilyn peered down at it.

"What?" she rasped "I gave you this last night to pay for the full month - is it not available for that long anymore?"

"No, no, that's all fine - but your friend came by last night and said he wanted to cover your bill, room and board both. Leaned into the mystery a bit, I have to say, all cloaked and gruff. A Mr David Malcolm, was it? He said to give you this, and to refund you what you'd already paid. Left this for you, too. Wish I had a friend like that, eh?"

The woman was gone as quickly as she'd arrived after that, pausing only to hand her a piece of parchment - folded and sealed. Closing the door in her wake, Marilyn blinked and threw the pouch of galleons down onto the bed before cracking open the note. It read only three words in very familiar handwriting.

Happy birthday, Baxter.

Chapter Text

The steady influx of doom-laden Daily Prophet editions did nothing for Marilyn's nerves. Okay, that wasn't strictly true - they worked steadily to make them worse with every article about new disappearances, disasters, and deaths. She couldn't even be happy when she saw ones about rumoured wins for the side of good, because with each one she feared it would end with a statement that Draco had been killed in some duel that he'd been forced into by his "master". It would be a stressful enough time if she was only worried about people on one side, the right side, but with the added concern over Draco for what he was so clearly being forced into, it was maddening.

By the time she arrived in Diagon Alley in late August to get her school supplies for the upcoming year, she'd developed a twitchy eye thanks to poor sleep. The state Diagon Alley was in didn't help either, most of the shops boarded up or just plain abandoned. There was, however, a very notable exception to that…which was how she found herself standing by the front windows of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, feeling much more nervous than she'd ever admit.

Admittedly, that nervousness felt pretty absurd given how over the top and whimsical the shop itself was, but the nerves spiked every time she caught sight of one of the twins inside, zipping about the shop floor and dealing with customers. What if it was painfully, horribly, cringe-inducingly awkward? What if, after two minutes of stilted conversation, she'd end up feeling like an absolute tit for walking in at all?

But what if she didn't? What if she didn't go in, and harm befell the two very nice men who openly mocked He Who Must Not Be Named for the entire Wizarding world to see? It wasn't unlikely. Hell, standing here in front of the shop, all cheerful and brightly list in contrast to the gloomy, empty ghost town that the rest of Diagon Alley had become, felt oddly dangerous. If she didn't go in now, and then the opportunity to ever do so again was taken from her, she knew she'd regret it forever. So she put on her big girl pants, and she strode into the shop.

Even if she hadn't known who owned the place, even if their name hadn't been emblazoned on the massive sign out front, one glance around the huge multi-level shop would have told Marilyn exactly who owned it. She imagined that this was what the inside of Fred and George's combined minds must look like, all chaos and noise and colour, but with a sense of warmth and whimsy that held it all together and made it delightful rather than just abrasive or overwhelming.

She was busy cooing over a gaggle of Pygmy Puffs, idly wondering if it would be terribly irresponsible to buy one with the hectic year she had ahead of her. The answer was yes, and she knew she couldn't, but that didn't mean she wasn't tempted to name it divine providence when one the exact shade of Beauxbatons' blue snuggled up against the finger she dipped into the enclosure.

"You should consider yourself honoured. That one usually bites," a very familiar voice spoke behind her.

Turning around, she found George smiling down at her. However much she'd grown over the last year or more, he remained a beanpole who loomed over her.

"George Weasley," she greeted with a smile - one that widened when he opened his arms and offered her a hug.

"How d'you know I'm not Fred?" he challenged.

"Fred's better looking," she mumbled into his suit jacket as she hugged him back.

"Yeah," he sighed "She's Marilyn Baxter, all right."

"I'd ask how you're doing," she said when they parted, gesturing about them "But I can see that for myself."

"We are pretty spectacular," he replied "I'd give my lofty and important speech about laughter being the best medicine in dark times such as these, but I seem to remember you being a bit of a master at gallows humour yourself. You keep that up?"

"Here and there. Between reading up on new deaths in the papers," she said.

"Good lass. Come on, step into my office."

It took her a delayed moment to realise that he meant the phrase literally and not as a joke - mainly because he stepped away and then looked back when she didn't start following him.

"We can talk here without dealing with autograph requests from adoring fans."

"I haven't performed yet."

"Not yours, mine. Merlin, Marilyn, keep up - and get the ego under control, yeah?"

She smiled, shaking her head. And she'd been silly enough to think this would be awkward. Despite the lofty tone with which he invited her into it, the office was very much function over form - two desks pushed together so that they faced one another, the room littered with papers, prototypes, and Christ only knew what else. Still, Marilyn was no less impressed - and if there was any sincerity to that lofty tone, George more than deserved it and she hadn't been able to shake off that sense of wonder since she stepped into the shop. Yeah, the twins were a couple of years older than her, but this would've been a feat had they been twenty years older.

Given how the two desks were pushed together, sitting in front of one wasn't possible - which was good, because she'd only end up having war flashbacks of being sent to the head teacher's office back in her Muggle primary school. Instead, George waved his wand and a chair zipped from the outskirts of the room to the side of the desk, and then he pulled out the other from beneath the desk and manoeuvred it to face hers. Marilyn sat down.

"So…long time no speak," George was the one to break the silence before it could become awkward "That was probably my fault."

"It doesn't matter," she said.

And she meant it. If it did matter to her, if she'd come here toting some sort of grudge with her, she wouldn't have come at all. It had hurt at the time, but that was then and this was now. Moving out had distanced her from the whole sorry ordeal, any sort of disappointment she felt over the distance that had been put between her and the Gryffindor crew included. Not least because there was a war on now. You said I could sleep over and then changed your mind seemed like a petty grudge to keep lugging on when people were literally out there dying.

"Doesn't it?" he challenged with a sad sort of smile, leaning forward in his chair until his elbows rested on his knees.

"It doesn't," she confirmed sincerely "There's…more going on now. It's fine, George. We're good. Whatever happened."

"Good," he nodded.

The fact that he didn't offer an explanation, in light of all that had broken out since they'd last seen one another, left her with the suspicion that whatever explanation there was could not be shared. So she didn't ask. It just helped that she didn't want to dredge it all back up again - nor risk his pointing out that there was one specific letter she did not respond to. The one in which he questioned whether or not she still spoke to Draco.

"How are you doing?" he asked "Now that we've covered my glorious success quite enough."

"Oh, I'm sure we could wring a bit more out of it."

"Definitely, but I want to draw it out a bit - really savour it, you know?"

"That's fair. I'm good," she nodded.

"You look good."

"Always," she offered a wry smile "I'm currently living out of an inn up in York 'til I go back to school - and I got scouted by WIB last year."

"That sounds painful," he smiled.

"The Wizarding International Ballet, you fool," she said fondly "Signed a shiny contract with them and everything. I start dancing for them properly during this upcoming school year, between NEWTs."

Well, the NEWTs would be between dancing, if she was really going to set out her priorities, but he knew her well enough to know that.

"...And the constant travelling to perform might be a good thing, in times like these," she added.

"What, standing out on a stage in full view of everybody night after night?" he asked drily.

"There'll be an invisible protective barrier in place. Standard procedure during the last…" she trailed off, and then made herself say the word - because denial never got anybody anywhere "During the last war. I wrote to the company and asked about it, got a very nice, very long letter back going above and beyond to ease my concerns, so I must be worth something decent to them."

"Clever," he nodded with a sigh - and she didn't ask whether he was talking about her or the company "A right old shame that you even had to ask, though."

"Yeah, well…we can't all be brave enough to put signs up mocking him for all to see."

"No we cannot - but somebody has to bear the weight of all this glory. Might as well fall upon my very successful, manly shoulders."

"It's a burden you're enduring with impressive amounts of grace."

"And without even a single ballet lesson," he smirked.

"I still like to think my influence had something to do with it. Tangentially."

"You do like them rich," he teased - and then regretted it the moment he said it, wincing.

Marilyn smiled a tight-lipped, self deprecating sort of smile - mostly because freaking out every time Draco was so much as vaguely referenced was one way for her to really land herself in shit.

"Yeah, I suppose I did once. I'm afraid I've been put off of the bourgeoisie for life now, though."

"What about self-made entrepreneurs?"

"Is Fred available?"

That earned her a grin "I'll put in a good word for you."

The way the smile slipped from his face as he sat up and then leaned back, regarding her carefully, was her first hint not to get too comfortable. Those instincts turned out to have served her well when he spoke again.

"Look, I've really got no right to ask, and I heard that fact loud and clear when you didn't reply to my letter - which was fair, like I said, it was cheeky of me, but…are you and dear ol' Draco still in touch?"

Marilyn sighed. But the upside of her upbringing was the extent to which it necessitated lying - and therefore made her good at it. People liked to think they were good at spotting liars, it brought a certain level of comfort she supposed, but if everybody was so good at it, nobody would ever lie half as much as they did.

So she sighed heavily and shrugged slightly before hunching her shoulders in embarrassment, her gaze drifting down to her knees.

"No. Well, not really. Not since…Ugh. Look, it was a really rough summer, George. I had a moment of weakness and I wrote to him. I just needed somebody. Which he probably loved, but I wouldn't know because he didn't deign to write back - thank Merlin, that's probably the single kindest thing the prick ever did for me."

George watched her for a few moments as she explained, but as he listened his features smoothed over and then he grimaced before finally sighing. Relief washed over Marilyn, because she knew he believed her. What surprised her more than that was her complete lack of guilt - maybe because there was too much at stake here for her to cling to honesty above all else where this was concerned. Plus if George believed her, that meant others might if they asked similar questions. Although if others suspected enough to ask, too, she'd still be in a significant amount of trouble.

"Why? Let me guess, he decided to do a dramatic reading of it to the whole Great Hall during the start of year feast once you got back to Hogwarts?"

"Not quite," George made a face "He just said something odd to me in passing. Made me wonder."

Whatever higher power existed out there must have actually liked her - or at least decided to take pity on her today specifically - because the door to the office opened before much more could come of the topic, revealing someone who shared a remarkable resemblance with George.

"When Verity told me you'd snuck off to the office with a pretty blonde, I pictured something a bit more illicit," Fred said in greeting.

"Which is why you stormed in without knocking? Risky," Marilyn replied.

"What can I say? A man has to get his kicks somehow," Fred grinned "Hullo, Marilyn. What are you locked away in here whispering about?"

"The fact that you're more handsome than George."

"I see time hasn't dulled your excellent eyesight. I only came in because you're not our only visitor today - how do you feel about a few more reunions?"

She didn't see that she had much of a choice in the matter - but the idea didn't fill her with half as much trepidation as it might have a few months ago. Standing, she brushed off her forest green day dress and followed George and Fred from the office, once again pretending not to feel the nerves that threatened to tangle up her insides, her paranoid brain whispering that if anybody would be able to look at her and immediately discern the truth, that it would have been Hermione.

The Gryffindors stood fairly spaced out on the ground floor of the shop, noticing her one by one - first Harry, then Hermione, then Ron. Marilyn smiled at them, and was satisfied to find the smile didn't even feel wholly nervous. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she got a hug from Hermione, an only slightly awkward smile and wave from Harry, and Ron simply blinked at her as his face threatened to turn crimson. Apparently their time apart had brought back all of the shyness he'd once felt around her with a vengeance.

Harry, she noted, looked weary, slightly pale with the beginnings of dark circles clouding the skin beneath his eyes, despite the fact that he smiled and put on a good show of behaving normally. They'd all changed much in the same way Draco had - slightly different, but still them, a little bit older and less young looking. That in itself was kind of funny, because Marilyn could remember fourth year so clearly and how certain they'd all been that they were basically already adults who just hadn't yet earned the privilege of being treated as such. The knowledge that Cedric Diggory hadn't been much older than they were now when it had all happened just felt all the more scary now.

"I can't believe you're here!" Hermione exclaimed while Harry and Ron broke off to talk to the twins, leading her out onto the steps outside the shop so they could talk without obstructing the twins' business.

It also helped to not have mini fireworks exploding all about them, too.

"Yeah, well, if I wait 'til I get to Beauxbatons to buy my school books, they're all in French. Funny, that. It's not even a major problem, but then-"

"Then you have to translate it in your mind before you even start to take in what it's telling you," Hermione finished for her "I know what you mean, it's the tricky part of Ancient Runes."

"I'm surprised you don't view that as being the fun part," Marilyn smiled.

"Well it is, but that's just for Ancient Runes so it still has novelty – if it were that for every subject, I'd be doing just the same as you are," she said "It's just basic efficiency, really."

Marilyn breathed a laugh "I've missed you. God, it feels like we only saw each other last week."

"It's…certainly been a year," Hermione sighed "I saw in the Prophet about you, by the way. It was nice to see something in there that wasn't either bad news or propaganda."

"Well, you're welcome," she said with a tired smile, smoothing a hand over her hair "Glad I could be of some small amount of service. I really wish they wouldn't write anything about me though, I don't know how safe it-"

She stopped dead. At first, when she glimpsed a head of platinum blond hair out of the corner of her eye, she'd ignored it. Draco was on her mind more than ever as of late, keeping her from sleeping as she worried about him - it was no surprise that she'd keep thinking she'd glimpsed him in Diagon Alley. Compared to how she'd be spending most of the next year in France, it was more likely that she'd see him here, and her brain latched onto it.

But then the second head of equally bright hair came into sight, and she glanced over mid-sentence, and as a result forgot that she'd been speaking in the first place. Because it was Draco - standing by his mother, looking distinctly twitchy. He looked twitchier still when his eyes met hers. They widened for a fraction of a fraction of a second, and he seemed to go through the same process of disbelief and then denial that he was truly looking at her, blinking owlishly as she could do little but stare in response.

"Marilyn? What's wrong? Are you- oh, god," Hermione groaned when she turned and followed her gaze "One reunion you'd not been hoping for today, I'd wager."

Draco's cool grey gaze slid from Marilyn, to Hermione, and then somewhere behind her - and with each movement that cool shade of grey grew colder and colder still, until he was sneering at them so believably that she almost idly wondered if he actually meant it in her case. When she finally forced her eyes away from him and onto his mother - who, even if she didn't recognise her from the papers, was unmistakeably Draco Malfoy's mother - and found that she was watching her, too.

Years of performance was the only thing that stood between Marilyn's panic and her face, and by some miracle she kept her features impassive as Narcissa's eyes swept over her, then Hermione, and then - as Draco's had - somewhere behind her.

"Is it just me, or are Draco and mummy looking like two people who don't want to be followed?" Ron asked somewhere behind them.

He and Harry had moved to join them - likely upon spotting Draco - and were no doubt what the Malfoys had found so distasteful. As if to illustrate Ron's point, the two took one last look around them, and then slunk off in the direction of Knockturn Alley. Moving on what was probably instinct after years of distrust, the three Gryffindors were already stepping forward as if to follow - and then in an act of spooky unison, they halted at once and regarded her warily, as though suspecting she might want to join but hoping she would not.

"I'm…going inside," she said.

While she couldn't try and talk them out of following without looking suspicious herself - and therefore bringing only more danger to her and Draco - she had no intention of joining. That was the very opposite of laying low. The three looked just as pleased to hear that as she was to say it, but as she stepped inside she could only pray Draco wasn't up to anything as suspect as his demeanour suggested.

Chapter Text

Try as she did - and she really, really did - Marilyn struggled to put the fleeting encounter with Draco in Diagon Alley out of her mind for the rest of the day. There was just something about it that she didn't like. At all. Her mind just kept replaying the look on Draco's face when he first saw her; the way his eyes widened as though his heart had dropped out of his backside. What would it take for Draco Malfoy to react like that to the sight of somebody? She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer…but it was plaguing her even so.

Okay, maybe it was just because it was her. No doubt she'd looked similarly dread-filled, and she didn't even have any specific fears - it was just the shock of seeing him when she hadn't expected to, while surrounded by plenty who knew nothing about their continued interaction. Plus, he'd been with his mum. No doubt she'd be able to pick up on any of his weird reactions or discomfort miles more than any of the Gryffindors were capable of doing with her. And yeah, Ron had been right when he said they looked like two people who didn't want to be followed, but that was only natural, wasn't it? They'd been plagued by photographers and journalists all summer - not to mention being hounded by both sides of the war. Stepping onto any Wizarding street was probably hell for them, and while Marilyn had limited sympathy (or none at all, really) for Narcissa, the same could not be said for Draco.

All of this reasoning was fair, she felt. Logical. Sound. So it was just a bit unfortunate that she didn't really believe any of it, because her gut sang a very different song. Something had happened today, in Knockturn Alley, and whatever it was had Draco Malfoy looking like a man taking the long walk to the gallows - the expression on his face being one that wouldn't leave her mind.

Distraction was hard to come by, and she ended up curled up in her bed with a mug of hot tea and a book that she stared at more than she actually read, when a knock sounded at her door. Marilyn froze. It wasn't the landlady - she always announced herself as she knocked. Paranoia (or just plain old worry, perhaps, considering it was rooted in fact) fresh in her mind, she slid the mug soundlessly onto the bedside table, and slowly took up her wand. The knock came again. Did Death Eaters knock before they attacked? Maybe - if they wanted the element of surprise. Had they tried the doorknob already? She hadn't heard if so, and all of the doors here had anti-Unlocking Charm spells cast upon them, so it wasn't like-

"Baxter," a voice hissed at the door.

A very familiar voice. Slipping from the bed, she padded towards the door, unlocking and opening it quickly so Draco could slip inside. He looked worse now than he had earlier in the day as he pulled the hood of his cloak down once the door was shut behind him, his face dangerously pale and his hair in disarray. Without looking at her, he removed the cloak and slung it over the single chair the room boasted. He was carrying himself strangely, she thought, although she couldn't put her finger on how. Stiffly, almost, like he was injured. But she couldn't see any signs of injury.

Then again, she supposed darkly, He Who Must Not Be Named likely never left marks when he harmed people. Not unless he wanted to. Remaining by the door, she leaned back against it and watched him unsurely. His shoulders heaved in time with his breath - like he'd sprinted all the way here, or as if he was spoiling for a fight and just needed an opponent to place themselves within his sights.

"Did…" she paused, "...did your mother say something…about me? I tried to play it cool, but I really didn't expect to see you there today, so I don't know if my face…showed…I don't know…"

Draco scoffed "You don't think we've anything better to discuss than you?"

Right. Well. It was going to be that sort of visit, then. Eyebrows shooting up, she slowly folded her arms and watched him quietly. She wasn't going to give him whatever argument it was that he so sorely desired - she was well practised in not giving people the fights they sought, and she wouldn't be a punching bag. Not for him, not for anybody.

Luckily - for them both - upon seeing her face he sighed raggedly and then ducked his head, shaking it slightly.

"I didn't mean that - I…can we just forget I said it?"

Not quite an apology, but certainly one in Draco's own specific language.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked quietly.

She was sure she could smell wine.

"We had a party tonight," he said bitterly, sitting down in the chair "To celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"It doesn't matter."

This was going to be the way of things, she had a foul feeling. From now until…until whatever happened, happened. Him upset over things she didn't know about - and likely couldn't know about - and her straddling the line between wanting to be sympathetic, and refusing to be a vessel for all of his fear, anger, and sadness. Usually while worrying herself sick about what it was he would not and could not say.

And whatever it was, it had to be serious because he hadn't even made any nasty comments about her talking to all of his least favourite people again.

Finally, she peeled herself away from the door, walking towards the bed and straightening the covers before she sat down on top of them. When she looked back to Draco, he was watching her - some of the previous awfulness on his face replaced by mild confusion as he took in her attire. The purple polka dot pyjamas were proving a real ill omen when it came to attracting visitors.

"What in Merlin's name are you wearing?"

"Listen, if you announced yourself before you came I'd make sure to have the formal guest-appropriate pyjamas ready. Complete with a top hat and a monocle. You didn't, so you have to make do with my current glory."

Snorting, he shook his head and looked away "Always so absurd."

He said it more to himself than to her - but not unfondly.

"You're not okay," she said quietly.

Mostly because it seemed less inane than asking him if he was okay.

"No," he said "I'm not."

"Will you be?"

"I don't…" he almost told her the truth, before he straightened and sniffed "Yes. Of course."

"All right," she nodded "Good."

What else could she say? Either he didn't want to talk about what had upset him - whatever it was that lot had just been celebrating (and she dreaded to think, really) - or he flat out couldn't. The reality was a mixture of the two, she suspected. She wouldn't pry it out of him, and speaking of other things, of attempts at pleasant distraction or just anything to fill the silence, felt ridiculous. How could they discuss whether or not it might rain tomorrow with all that was at hand?

Maybe her presence alone was a comfort to him. That prospect caught her off guard, her method of comforting herself had always just been to stay distracted and stay busy, which worked for her but not for others. Not unless he wanted her to teach him how to do a perfect fouetté.

"Why do you still speak to me, Marilyn?" he asked.

She blinked "Sorry?"

"Maybe one day you will be. So why? Why risk it? What's in it for you?"

"What…Draco, I have no idea what you're going on about. What could be in it for me? What are you getting at?"

"I don't know," he shrugged jerkily "Information? The hope that…that should things go badly, knowing somebody on my side may help you avert disaster."

"Yes, Draco, during all of those many hours we spent on that couch in Hogwarts, I was sat there thinking 'one day this will really come in handy'. You caught me."

"You make it sound absurd."

"It is pretty ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Yes, you're mistaking me for Pansy. Or Crabbe. Or Goyle. Or any one of the rest of them."

"I'm willing to believe there wasn't any thought in…before…but when you wrote again? After it started becoming obvious it was heading towards a war. Why then?"

"I didn't believe it was going to come to a full blown war. Not then."

"That was stupid."

"Maybe, but if you're going to sit there and point it out, you can leave. You're going through something, I'm not blind - and no, I'm not stupid - but what you're not going to do is come here and take it out on me. I want to help, but I won't be a whipping boy."

Scoffing, he shifted in the chair and for a moment she thought he would leave…but then he settled again, shaking his head as his fingertips scratched restlessly against the knee of his trousers.

"I just want to know why," he said finally.

"I don't know," she sighed "It was a shit summer, and I felt very alone. You've always been good at making me not feel alone. Despite everything. Despite the fact that you're very good at being nasty when you want to be, too, and despite the fact that us having any sort of association isn't wise by any definition of the word. There's just…there's just something here. Something I can't turn my back on."

Whatever response he'd expected from her, it was clear that wasn't it. His eyes widened and the sneer that his features so often fell into by default slipped away. For the first time since she'd seen him that summer, he actually looked his age. But he didn't say anything. A beat of silence went by, and then another, and Marilyn hugged her arms about herself.

"It isn't just me is- er, is it just me, then? You don't feel whatever…this is?"

It felt pathetic to sit here and outright ask it, not when she'd been sure it wasn't just her right up until she'd started voicing it. But he had asked. And what if he'd asked because he didn't want to be the first one to voice it? Because he couldn't voice it? He wasn't used to dealing with somebody who sat and talked to him, rather than his surname or his money. Expecting him to leap out and acknowledge whatever this thing between them was first was a lot to ask.

When he stood, she half expected him to don his cloak and hood once again and leave - but instead, he left it where it was on the chair. When Marilyn rose in turn it was more or less on instinct, not wanting to be sat staring up at him like a complete idiot. What to do after that she would worry about when the time came - except the time came a second later, and she wasn't capable of worrying about it because Draco was kissing her.

They'd kissed before. A lot. But that had always been in their fourth year - and while it had hardly been unpleasant at the time, it hadn't meant half so much as it did now. Back then, as complicated as it had already been, it was simpler. You're attractive, you make me laugh, let's kiss. Now there was more there. Feelings. Very dangerous feelings. But ones that were reciprocated - even if he hadn't voiced it yet - based on how he pressed his lips to hers.

At first he did so softly. Like he expected, or feared, that she would push him back. Instead, she tilted her head upwards and wound her arms around his neck, stepping just that slightest bit closer to close the gap between them, her chest pressed against his as she kissed him back.

When he relaxed, she felt him do so, his shoulders easing as he finally put his hands on her, one smoothing around from her hip to the small of her back to keep her close as his tongue delved between her lips. His other hand snaked up to the scrunchie holding her hair up and tugged it away until golden waves spilled about her shoulders, then shifted to combing through it, pushing it back from her face in a move that could only be described as counterproductive. It might've made her laugh, were she not too busy melting into it.

His touch bordered on being reverent as his hands skimmed all over her - marvelling more than pawing or groping, and with a level of care and gentleness that he'd likely thoroughly deny were she ever daft enough to mention it. And anyway, she'd only do the same if he ever brought up how fiercely she clung to him, like she feared if she let go he'd disappear and she'd have to go back to worrying over where he was and if he was okay.

Despite all of that, though, and how little she wanted him to leave, when one hand tentatively began to inch towards the top button of her pyjama shirt, she let go and stopped it in its tracks. Draco pulled back, fighting to catch his breath just as much as she was, eyeing her without saying anything. She could sympathise with why - a question, or a request for explanation, could be seen as an argument. As pressure. But while Draco could be a lot of nasty things when he saw fit, that was never something she'd expect from him.

"Anything…" she cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks blaze "Anything we do now would be for the wrong reasons."

"Have you ever…?"

"No," she answered honestly.

Which was exactly why she didn't want to do it now. The first time wasn't going to be something tinged by fear and worry.

"Have you?" she asked.

He shook his head - and that surprised her. She made a point of never asking what exactly the situation was between him and Pansy Parkinson nowadays - in part because she didn't care, but mostly because she really didn't want to know, and the answer was something highly likely to live rent free in her mind regardless of whatever that answer ended up being. All the while, though, she'd more or less just assumed that they had something going on behind the scenes. It was part of his good little Malfoy heir thing, he didn't seem like the kind to sit back and pine over her from afar while not involving himself in anything else, and…loathe as she was to admit it, it would have been the smart move. If only to avoid suspicion.

"I want to," she admitted "With you, I mean, but…not now. Not like this."

"What if…" he exhaled, hesitated, and then spoke quietly "What if there won't be another chance?"

From anybody else, she'd have taken it as a ham handed attempt to manipulate her - the way shops put up signs reading 'one day only!' to try to convince people to impulse buy. But after what she'd seen from him tonight, and the genuine fear in his eyes now, she knew that possibility was something he genuinely actually believed.

"What do you mean, Draco?" she asked.

He shook his head, already making to step back, but she caught his hand and stepped forward again, keeping him close.

"Draco, what do you mean? Why would this be the only chance? What's going to happen?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, offering a tired - and very fake - smile "Nothing. It's just…there's a war on, isn't there? Forget I said anything, I'm being fatalistic. I'm tired."

"It didn't sound like you meant it that way - it sounded like you're worried for yourself specifically."

"Well that's not how I meant it. It's fine, Baxter. You're right, you know, it's…it's not the right time."

Yes, the new school year was just around the corner, but just because it mightn't be this year didn't mean it wouldn't be any year. Surely she could see him next summer? Hell, she'd even be happy to sneak out during one of the holidays or when she was with the ballet company rather than at Beauxbatons to see him. There would be time. There was time. Right? So, placations aside, why didn't he seem to think so?

This time when he made to step away, she didn't fight it, but when he did move to take up his cloak, she spoke up.

"You don't have to go," she said "I don't want you to…I mean, just because we're not going to…"

Oh Christ, she was turning into a rambling mess. But it at least prompted a small, tired smile from him as he abandoned his quest for his cloak.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

"No," he shook his head "I can't."

She took that as more to do with stress than it being his way of saying he was watching his figure.

"Well, I haven't eaten," she lied "I'll have something brought up, and you can pick at it, too."

Barely half an hour later, they were sitting on her bed with a gargantuan bowl of chips lodged between them - she figured they'd be bland enough for him to stomach in spite of everything he was so clearly feeling, even if he wouldn't tell her what those things were.

"Why haven't you?" he broke the quietness he'd slipped into once the chips were half-gone.

"Why haven't I what?"

"Done it?"

"You ask that like I'm forty or something, it's not unusual, you know," she snorted.

"I didn't mean it like that," he rolled his eyes "You have a way with people, though. Drawing them in. I'm surprised there hasn't been somebody. Somebody like Weasley."

"Don't tell me you're still jealous of George."

"I said somebody like Weasley, not Weasley himself."

"He's…not you," Marilyn sighed - very begrudgingly "But between the two of us, you're the one actively involved in some sort of…of situationship."

"Oh please," he snorted, shaking his head.

"You are. I'm surprised you and Pansy haven't done the, uh, horizontal tango yet."

"Are we in for many more horrifying dance analogies?" he wrinkled his nose.

"Only if you keep finding them that horrifying," she grinned "Way to avoid the question, by the way."

"It wasn't a question, it was a statement," he said "If you want to know something, you must learn how to phrase it properly."

"Okay, why haven't you? With Pansy?"

"Because, Marilyn, believe it or not we don't lose our minds the second anything vaguely resembling a girl crosses our paths," he drawled and then gave her a rueful look "And she's not you, so she's guaranteed to disappoint. Doesn't seem fair to anybody involved, does it? Least of all her."

Maybe they couldn't have labels, not with the world they lived in and the sides they fell into in that world, and maybe they'd never be able to contemplate things like being boyfriend girlfriend, but hearing those from Draco meant more than she suspected a label ever could.

"You know, you're the only lad I've ever met who actively wants people to think he's less likeable than he really is," she murmured.

"Do you like me?"

"A lot," she had no trouble admitting it - not here and now.

"So what does the rabble matter?"

Marilyn breathed a laugh. Yeah, there was her Draco.

Chapter Text

Two Months Later

Marilyn sat in the office that belonged to the woman who was inarguably the creative mind behind the Wizarding International Ballet, feeling far more nervous than she hoped she looked. The meeting was a necessary one, she knew that, but when she'd raised her concerns she hadn't expected all of this - the meeting, the paperwork, being pencilled in by somebody who could sack her the moment they felt like it. It all felt very grown up, and while she fancied herself as grown up as any other sixteen year old, sitting here and waiting for Ms Sabrina Koenig to arrive.

Yes, she'd done nothing wrong, and she knew she'd done nothing wrong, but that didn't erase the fact that she was very new here. To be seen as kicking up a fuss so early on could easily overshadow any amount of talent she brought with her in the eyes of the wrong person. So would Ms Koenig be the wrong person? When the sound of heels on hardwood flooring sounded in the corridor outside, she supposed she'd soon find out.

Rising to her feet, she turned to the door as it clicked open. She'd seen Sabrina before, a strikingly beautiful woman with copper skin and dark silky hair who was known for her impeccable, if not slightly eccentric vintage manner of dress, and had once been a ballerina herself. While she was pretty hands-on about everything, and she'd spoken to all of the dancers as a group and introduced herself to the newbies then, they'd never interacted properly one on one.

As she stepped into the room today, she wore black three-quarter length slacks, with a blindingly white shirt tucked into them, and a crimson cardigan that matched the flower in her hair, and the kitten heels on her feet. It had Marilyn feeling woefully under-dressed in her post-practise workout gear, which basically amounted to joggies over her leotard and tights, a sweatshirt, and a messy bun.

"Marilyn! Hello! It's good to meet you - now I can finally put…well, if not a face to a name, then a voice to a performance," she greeted sunnily, a barely detectable German accent lacing her words.

"It's good to meet you, too," Marilyn blinked, surprised at the warm reception "I…really didn't expect all of this when I talked to Helena about my worries."

"Yes, well," Sabrina's smile was strained "Something like this needs a serious response. Please, sit, sit."

Marilyn obeyed, crossing her ankles and tucking her feet beneath her chair as Sabrina rounded the desk and sank into her own chair, clasping her hands atop the desks.

"Now, I understand you've been receiving some distressing letters since our official cast list for the season was published," a great deal of the sunniness left her dark eyes as she spoke.

"Yeah - I, er, I have them here if you need to see them," she paused, reaching for her bag before the woman interrupted.

"No, no, I believe you, don't worry. Unless there's something in them in particular you think I should see?"

"Not really, it's just, uh, the bog standard sort of thing, I suppose," she grimaced "Mudblood filth, you're stealing the place of a real Witch, so on. Pretty uncreative."

"In line with official policy, I should caution you against reading the letters. They're all, of course, safety checked for curses, hexes, and jinxes - a policy drafted up in the first war - but even if all they contain is hatred, it's not something you should be exposing yourself to."

"I'd rather read them," Marilyn admitted sourly "I think it's all just stupidity, but if there are any real threats there and I miss what could have been a clue or a warning…"

She felt sick every time she did read them - dizzy, almost, from the sheer hatred they always contained from people who'd never so much as spoken to her. But it made sense to at least look at them. It was better than wondering and torturing herself over what they may or may not contain. Maybe she just feared the day when she opened one and saw that it read I know who you talk to.

"The decision is yours," Sabrina inclined her head "I cannot force you to act one way or the other - all I can do is tell you that they are wrong. Your position here is based on merit, as it always will be. But I have a feeling you already know this."

Marilyn flushed, but she did not argue.

"That merit is what spawns the attention, and that attention spawns the letters," Sabrina continued, geturing pointedly with her hands to illustrate her point "Unfortunately, you cannot have a career here without the merit or the attention, and therefore we cannot eliminate what draws in the hate."

"I thought…" she took a shaky breath in, furious at the fear that threatened to creep into her voice "I thought that by refusing to give interviews, by accepting nothing but the necessary exposure, that I'd fend them off. Slip under the radar, or something. But it didn't work."

"I'm afraid it appears to have done the opposite," Sabrina offered a sad smile "You now have a mystique about you. This lauded newcomer who has little interest in backing up her ability with empty words."

"It's not what I wanted."

"I know that."

"I thought it would make the letters stop, and they haven't."

"And I'm sorry for that."

"So I'm actively turning down opportunities, and hiding away like I'm doing something wrong, for the sake of a goal that I'm not achieving - and in that case, why am I still doing it?"

"What is it that you'd like to do instead?"

Marilyn's mouth snapped shut, and then she frowned down at her lap. She'd gotten carried away, and in that process forgotten who she was talking to.

As if sensing her apprehension, Sabrina leaned forward, prompting her to look up.

"I think, perhaps, you're aware that I'm a pureblood," she said carefully.

Marilyn nodded, and she continued.

"What you're likely not aware of, however, through my own efforts, is that my wife is a Muggle. So if you have any concerns as to where my personal opinion lies with all of this, I hope that would rid you of them."

It did. Her shoulders eased up, and if there was any worry within her that she should have just plastered on a smile and insisted she was fine without getting personal about any of this, it was gone when Sabrina waved her wand and two teacups brimming with hot tea appeared before them.

"I…I have to get angry, or else I'll just be sick with nerves all of the time," she admitted quietly "The anger, it…it overshadows the fear. The only thing that can, really."

And somehow she still felt nauseous and lightheaded every time a letter arrived for her. Even when she glimpsed Draco's handwriting on the front she hardly felt all that less scared, because then she was worried that it might contain something far more consequential than blind hatred. Sure, if anything big was happening, he'd hardly be daft enough to put it on paper, but that wasn't much comfort. And it didn't take an idiot to see that something big was happening.

His letters had shortened dramatically, the longest lines in them now being where he reassured her that he did want to keep writing - even if he didn't wish to contribute much to said conversation. Apparently her talent for endless bullshit-laden rambling was finally coming in handy and providing him with either comfort, distraction, or some combination of the two.

When his letters did have any kind of length to them, they were great big "hypothetical" rants, or concerned the world at large instead of what was going on with him specifically, often wondering half-furious and half-exasperated as to how the world was just pushing on as if a war wasn't going on. How the teachers, and the Ministry, and pretty much everybody, expected them to push on with their daily lives as if the war was little more than a backdrop.

It was something Marilyn sympathised with. Other than her very charming fan mail, and the precautions put in place by company, it hadn't really touched her life in the way it had his - thank Merlin - but even so, she often found herself feeling ridiculous as she went through her stretches, learned her routines, or studied for her classes, like it was any other year. Like fresh disappearances weren't still being reported. Dancers, and ballerinas in particular, were infamous for barely being aware of anything outside of dance, but even Marilyn (whose vision was more often than not painfully tunnelled) was having a difficult time playing along now.

It probably helped, or didn't help rather, that she was bearing the brunt of all of the blood purist hate. Getting death threats had a way of making playing ignorant difficult.

"Some might disagree," Sabrina said "But I think anger's as good a motivator as anything."

"Anger motivates these letters," she pointed out.

"I would argue that a great deal of it is fear and desperation too, deep down."

"So they're all just in desperate need of therapy?" she asked drily.

The question helped her pretend that the woman wasn't dangerously close to hitting the nail on the head as far as Draco's situation was concerned - but they weren't all like Draco. Maybe one or two were, she didn't know, but they'd be small in number. And she only believed they existed at all now because she did know Draco.

Sabrina laughed "Perhaps. But I won't pretend it's not anger and hatred, too. The difference is that yours is urging you in the right direction."

"They'll be telling themselves that, too."

"Ah, but we're in the right."

"Well," Marilyn snorted "I can't argue with that."

"I should hope not. But I don't think you're much interested in debating the philosophical side of this over tea with me."

"No," she remembered herself "No, I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I…I'm shunning all of the attention as much as I possibly can without actively harming my career," she explained slowly, thinking through her words before she actually said them "But it's not working. So why am I hiding like I'm doing something wrong?"

"Is there something you'd rather do?" Sabrina's demeanour did not betray her opinion on her thinking, nor did her face.

Not for the first time since she'd set foot in the shop, George's face came to mind.

"I don't suppose you've heard of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?""

Sabrina shook her head - another fatality of those ballet blinders that they all walked around wearing.

"It's this joke shop that my friend owns, but joke shop makes it sound more trivial than it is. They have a sign out from openly mocking You Know Who. Like it's nothing. And while I don't want to do that-"

"Nor could we encourage such behaviour," Sabrina murmured.

"There's bravery in it. Rebelling by laughing - by refusing to be scared. He operates on fear, and they won't grant him that. So why am I cowing to it if it's not bloody well helping? If I'm going to- if I'm going to die, I want it to be with my boots on. Or my pointe shoes, I suppose. Not cowering in the corner with my head bowed like a good little mudblood."

Sabrina's immaculately painted lips thinned, and Marilyn remembered herself, crossing her arms to disguise how her hands trembled.

"I'm sorry - sorry, I got carried away."

"Not at all," Sabrina admonished gently "This is precisely the sort of reason I invited you here. So we can discuss this."

"It's just, I've…" she paused, collected herself, and found that she had to stare at the desk rather than at the woman before her in order to continue "I've spent a long time biting my tongue, and hiding myself away in order to avoid conflict. I just got myself out of that situation. I can't resurrect it here, not with ballet, and maybe if it was working I could grit my teeth and bear it, but it's not, so I can't, and- thank you."

When she'd begun running the risk of talking herself into breathlessness, Sabrina had stopped her in her tracks by extending a box of tissues before her. Rather than using the silence to speak, the older woman simply continued to watch her, sincere sympathy clear on her face.

"Just…" Marilyn pulled herself together, wiping at her eyes and thanking god that she didn't choose to wear mascara that day "Please tell me honestly. Is there any risk of me losing my position here because of this?"

"Absolutely not," she answered without hesitation "We don't cow to terrorists, and doing so would set a dangerous precedent for these people. Marilyn, I cannot tell you what to do - not beyond things directly involving dance and choreography."

Marilyn set down her teacup.

"I know. I'm sorry. I just needed to get it out - I can't, not with my friends, and not with…yeah. I know. I didn't mean to ramble. And thank you, by the way. For the solos, and the opportunities-"

She was already taking up her sports bag and preparing to stand when Sabrina interrupted, holding up a hand.

"However, I do have an idea. It was one I had for quite some time, but with no intention of bringing it up. It wouldn't have been fair to do so, and you must know that you're entirely free to say no, but given what you've just told me…it seems prudent that you should at least hear it."

Marilyn slowly lowered the bag back down to the floor, curiosity piqued.

The WIB functioned almost like a whole Wizarding school in itself - well, if that school was catered solely towards ballet. The lavish structure was situated on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea not too far from Monaco - the ability for dancers to swim in the ocean as part-rehab, part-relaxation being a major point of pride for the place, although not quite a selling point because they didn't sell to anybody. They were the ones who chose, not the other way around. They had their studios, a hall with a stage dedicated towards larger scale run-throughs and dress rehearsals so that they could practise how the shows would look before they took them on tour, and then on the upper levels they had the dormitories for students like herself, or those who simply would rather stay with the company instead of returning to wherever home was at the end of each day.

Truth be told, she was already starting to see why so many on this path either didn't attempt NEWTs at all, or abandoned them quickly after a few weeks of studying remotely. Sure, she touched base with her Beauxbatons professors back in France at least once per fortnight, but lessons weren't an option with how demanding the Wizarding International Ballet was, and all of her learning had to be done via textbooks. If that wasn't enough to have her considering abandoning academics, the war on top of it all was.

As she left Sabrina's office and made for her dormitory on the top floor of the grand castle-like building, the last thing she particularly wanted to do was open a textbook and start reading up on the debatable medicinal properties of Hippogriff claws. On an ordinary day she probably wouldn't have the energy, but today especially her mind was reeling. It was a relief, for that reason, when she opened the door to her small bedroom and found Adriano sitting at her desk. It was one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, seeing as she'd yet to really make it her own. Matters of interior designed seemed a bit trivial these days.

"How did it go with big Sabs?" he enquired, leaning back lazily in the chair.

"You do know you'd never have the balls to call her that to her face, right?" she snorted.

"You'd be surprised what I can get away with when it comes to this accent - it's suave and charming."

"Unlike the rest of you."

He grinned "She must have truly stressed you out if you're this prickly. Here, I'll help you stall your answer even more - this arrived for you."

The lightness with which he held out the letter to her was markedly feigned. He knew all about the sort of mail she'd been receiving, he was one of the few she'd happily discuss it with. The only person, really, other than the official folk in the company. She sure as hell wasn't going to heap that shit onto Draco's plate, was she? He'd probably know the handwriting on the sodding letters. And anyway, he'd only freak out and demand that she do something mental like stop dancing, which wasn't an option. Ordinarily that level of protectiveness from somebody like Draco might give her the warm and fuzzies, but those warm and fuzzies were having a hard time getting through all of her fear and worry and tiredness at that moment.

Accepting it, she didn't quite breathe a sigh of relief when she recognised Draco's handwriting on the bloody thing. Sitting down on the single bed pushed up against the far wall, she cracked the seal and began to quickly skim the letter - she'd read it properly later, but unless she did this and proved to herself that it didn't contain outright world-ending terrible news, it would be all she'd think about until Adriano left. It did not, in fact, contain any more doom and gloom than was appropriate, but it still had her frowning…although she didn't quite realise that until Adriano spoke up.

"Another threat?" his usual, er, Adriano-ness had drained from his voice, his tone serious - icy, even.

"No," she shook her head "No, my friend from Hogwarts."

"You still write to each other?"

"Mm. He, er, he's quit playing Quidditch."

It had seemed like a fairly safe topic to bring up with him, if only so that it didn't feel like she was sending him mini autobiographies in every letter, asking how practise was going and when his next match was.

"Oh. Was he a gifted player?"

"I don't know, they cancelled the House matches during the year I was there. But he enjoyed it."

"Well, it's probably nothing. You said he was a Ravenclaw? Those are the ones known for being academics, no? Perhaps he wishes to focus."

"Yeah," she said dully "Maybe."

Folding the letter back up, she set it down on the bed and resisted the urge to slip it beneath her pillow or into the drawer of her bedside table. It would only look suspicious. If it had been a letter from anybody else, she'd happily leave it in the open, so that was what she had to do now - all while acting like she wasn't painstakingly aware of it where it sat. On the bright side, it made her somewhat more willing to discuss what had come up in Sabrina's office - and so she did so, without further prompting from Adriano.

As she spoke, he went from mildly interested, to confused, which then shifted into wide-eyed alarm, until he was leaning forward and staring at her intently, hanging on her every word as she outlined the plan that Sabrina had proposed. When she was finished, his dark eyes remained fixed on her, handsome features incredibly grave.

"You think I'm mad," she spoke when he did not.

"Are you going to accept? Go along with this?"

Marilyn hesitated. It was enough to spawn a reel of rapid-fire Italian in her direction - so quick and utterly profane (from the limited amount she could grasp) that it almost gave her whiplash when he returned to English, bringing both hands up to his head and dragging them over his long dark hair, smoothing it back against his head.

"You're going to do it? Are you mad?"

"I'm shit-scared," she admitted frankly.

"You should be! This is bad, very bad. The sort of attention this could bring, stellina. The sort of statement it makes…."

"Like death threats to what is, for all intents and purposes, my home address."

"Do you think if Quello Scuro means to kill you, he'll send a letter first? No, Marilyn! He will simply do it. There won't be a warning!"

"That's a chilling thought."

"You will be very chilled when you are dead!" Adriano's voice rose to a shout.

He appeared to regret it afterwards, although he remained agitated, fidgeting this way and that in his chair as he regarded her, shaking his head.

"I already have their attention, 'No," she pointed out quietly "The company dances before all of their high society each and every season. How many of them hate the likes of me? If I don't leave, it's only a matter of time before I become a prime target for them to score bragging rights with their master. And I'm. Not. Leaving."

He saw her point - she could see he did, his eyes cast downward and his leg jerking up and down as he tapped his heel incessantly against the floor. Her own restless energy was demanding to be channelled, so she kicked her shoes off and pushed herself backwards until she was sitting with her legs crossed on the bed, curling her arms around her so she wouldn't fidget. As if a lack of fidgeting could sell him on this.

"You really mean to do this?" he asked gravely.

"My gut's telling me I should," she replied "I wish it wasn't, but it is. Dumbledore, he said something during Cedric Diggory's memorial. That a time would come when we'd have to choose between what is easy and what is right."

She expected Adriano to curse her - to tell her that Dumbledore himself would call her mad for even considering this idea. Instead, though, he stilled, sighing heavily.

"All right. Very well. I'm in."

And that wasn't what she'd wanted, either.

"What? No! You're not even a Muggleborn - there's no way you can-"

"Muggleborns aren't the only one who can choose sides in this fight," he rolled his eyes "And I'm not letting you do this alone."

"Adriano," she said, her voice thick with emotion "This is dangerous."

"I know - I was just trying to make you see that. In any case, you know how I loathe to share the spotlight. Jot it down to my ego, and pray we both survive this. I'm too pretty to die before I get a chance to party my looks away."

It was then more than ever that Marilyn hoped to high bloody heaven that she was doing the right thing.

Chapter Text

Autumn was fast turning to winter, and the nip in the air outside was threatening to pervade even the usual warmth and cheer of the Great Hall. Although Draco had been immune to that cheer all year, so it made little difference to him - save for that it provided an excuse for him to wear his gloves indoors. They offered some comfort, for they were the ones Marilyn had knitted for him nigh on two years ago now.

His gambit with the necklace had been a disaster, and now he was left looking to other avenues. Those would show themselves soon, no doubt - for Christmas offered plenty of opportunities for all sorts of unexpected and unexplained items to turn up without seeming sinister in the slightest - but he wasn't half so daft as to think that this might be easy. He'd even considered staying at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays, but given that he so rarely did that, it would only draw suspicion. Plus, it would leave his mother alone. Yes, she'd have his aunt Bella, but only a few moments spent with her betrayed the fact that solitude would be preferable.

No, he would make the most of what remained of the term, and then he'd endure Christmas at home. As well as all of the questions and the expectant stares that went along with it. No doubt his mother would feel obligated to throw their usual Christmastime soiree (because not throwing it might suggest something was wrong, and then the sharks would work themselves up into a frenzy), so he'd spend whichever night that fell on dodging Pansy and her ever-renewing stock of mistletoe.

The girl in question was sitting beside him at the table - having arrived after he'd already sat down, and occupied the space without asking. Although he'd hardly have been able to turn her down had she asked. That didn't change the fact, though, that he wished he'd told her to piss off once she'd unfolded her copy of the Daily Prophet and begun to crow over the headlines.

"Oh, this is too good," she snickered to herself.

And then she kept going on. 'To herself'.

"I can't believe it," she continued, and when he still did not ask she pressed on "Unbelievable. Always knew she'd put her foot in it before long. Disgrace."

Oftentimes Draco would take a petty sort of pleasure in purposefully not asking the question she so desperately wished he would, but now he just wished she'd shut up and leave. He wished this whole bloody hall would shut up and leave, and that he could just have a few moments of peace and blissful silence.

But then Pansy continued, and he found himself facing problems far greater than noise.

"The Wizarding International Ballet, what a joke. Well, I dare say they'll get theirs very soon."

He'd always considered the description of blood running cold to be very melodramatic, but in that moment Draco swore he could feel the contents of his veins drop to sub-arctic temperatures. It took a concerted effort for him to maintain the posture he'd had before he'd realise what it was she was talking about, and he did so only because he knew it was his only hope of looking unbothered. Then he adopted a bored tone and forced out.

"What are you on about now?"

Apparently she was too delighted by the headlines to care about his dismissive tone, turning to him and showing the paper.

"Remember that mudblood cow from fourth year? Look what she's done. Can't see her being around much longer after this."

It took everything he had not to snatch the paper from Pansy's hand as she turned it to him so that he could read the headline - WIB Makes a Stand Against Blood Purists - but the moment he read the words, and then finally comprehended them, he wished he had not. Pansy was looking to him for a response, and it just so happened that this time around his first thought was one he could actually share.

"What a fucking idiot," he breathed.

"Right?" Pansy agreed with a grin "Even roped that blood-traitor into dancing with her. It's his funeral, I suppose."

Shaking his head, he grabbed his bag from under the bench and making to stand "I'm going to the library."

"What? We both have a free period first, I thought that-"

"I need to study. And to forget that she- that mudblood exists. Ruined my bloody appetite," he grumbled.

Unable to hear whatever protests Pansy might have offered over the hectic pounding of his heart, he stormed out of the Great Halls and then through the corridors until he spotted a first year Hufflepuff, sitting on the ledge of one of the archways that led into the courtyard, poring over the paper. Without hesitation, he strode over and snatched it from his hands. The kid put up a half second of protest before he saw who it was that had taken it from him, and quickly left. It was the sort of thing that would have once given Draco a pretty streak of joy, but now he felt nothing - not beyond blind panic and fear, his ears filled with his own heartbeat.

The temptation to go through it right then, right there, was overwhelming, but he knew anybody could happen across him and he was very quickly losing his grip on his ability to appear unbothered. So he had to move. Wedging the paper under his arm, he began striding in the direction of the ground floor boys' toilets, loosening his green and silver tie as he walked because he couldn't bloody well breathe.

Only once he was in a cubicle, his bag dumped atop the closed toilet lid and the door locked behind him, did he open the paper. Tearing through the pages (and quite literally tearing one or two of those pages in his haste to find what he was looking for), he finally reached the full article and felt sick when he found it hadn't all been some terrible shared hallucination between himself and Pansy.

But no, there in the photographs was Marilyn Baxter herself - being swung about the stage by some twit in white tights with dark features and hair so long it brushed his shoulders. Draco wrinkled his nose at the pictures (of which there were many), his priorities momentarily forgotten by a voice in his head that insisted that the photos alone wouldn't bother him half so much if she was alone in them. Or if the costume she wore wasn't little more than a loose, flowing nightgown that floated about her form with her every move.

The dance was clearly meant to be a romantic one, judging by how they were all but wrapped around one another for most of it, the dolt staring simperingly into her eyes as he dipped her low in one of the photographs, the back of one finger tracing gently down the side of her face as she gazed up at him adoringly. They weren't quite as close in the next photograph, although that would've hardly been possible without it involving actions not exactly appropriate for a stage, dancing up to one another before one always parted from the other, looking back at them as if hoping they'd follow - which they would, prompting another series of nauseating twirl-laden embraces.

Finally, the third photo depicted something he'd already seen; Marilyn doing what Clarabella Vane was so well-known for, dancing atop a broom while her dolt of a partner watched from below, appearing enamoured and entirely dim-witted.

But how was any of this taking a stand? This was just ballet. Unless they meant she was taking a stand by existing, or by dancing at all, which people in his circles would surely agree with but was hardly something he could take issue with her doing. Taking in a few deep breaths, he waited until he'd calmed enough to be able to read the body of the article, and he had his answer - his terrible, stomach-dropping answer - in the first few paragraphs.

What place the arts have in politics - if indeed they have any place at all - is a question that has been, and likely always will be, fiercely debated by those who take any interest in theatre. However, it appears that the Wizarding International Ballet have offered an answer to that question; as far as they are concerned, at least, beginning their new season with a pointed statement for all in the audience to see, and to hear.

Miss Marilyn Baxter has, wittingly or not, made herself a distinct point of interest in ballet circles for some time now, refusing interviews and instead letting her rumoured keen skill speak for itself. And speak it did. Audiences last night were stunned when the curtains rose in Paris fifteen minutes early, and they found themselves bearing witness not to the first act of The Veela and the Vampire, but to an entirely original piece masterminded by creative director Sabrina Koenig, male soloist Adriano Fallaci, and Miss Baxter herself. One that had more than one group of attendees standing up and leaving before they'd even had a chance to see the ballet they paid to attend.

What was this piece? I hear you ask. Miss Baxter, a young Muggleborn witch, seamlessly managed to execute a technique which Clarabella Vane - of the Sacred Twenty-Eight Vanes, no less - pioneered in her day over a century ago…and she did so to Muggle music. The song chosen, perhaps aptly or ironically, was believed to be Bewitched by Frank Sinatra, a Muggle singer well-loved by non-magical folk. The combination of what is widely considered a Pureblood triumph, executed by a Muggleborn dancer to Muggle music, has scandalised many and, as we understand, WIB have no intention of this statement being a one-time occurrence.

There was more, but Draco stopped reading. Namely because his hands trembled too much and the words were practically vibrating before his eyes as a consequence of that fact.

He felt sick - in fact, sticking around inside the cubicle was probably a good idea because of how nauseous he felt. She was an idiot. But he knew her - and he knew her not to be an idiot. Only a few months prior he'd sat and watched her pale as he emphasised the very real danger she could be in, before she swore up and down not to draw attention to herself. And now this? Practically mocking the Dark Lord and his fanatical followers to their very faces? If Potter was public enemy number one, she was at least now in the top ten, if not the top five. She…she'd signed her own death warrant.

Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe the company had strong-armed her into it, and she'd had little choice in the matter. If it came between keeping her career and keeping herself out of the Dark Lord's notice, Draco knew well enough which decision Marilyn sodding Baxter would take. Perhaps that was it. She was at the mercy of a creative director - this Sabrina Koenig - and her mad grab for fame at any cost. But that made little difference, for it was not Miss Koenig that had her face plastered across the papers.

Throwing the newspaper to the floor with such force that it smacked loudly against the worn white tiles, he lifted his hands and raked them through his hair. If there was ever a situation that warranted sending a howler, it was this one.

Chapter Text

The finely polished grand oak dining table at the WIB headquarters was always abuzz with a particular kind of chaos that Marilyn couldn't help but love. Just over thirty actual active dancers called the headquarters home, which spoke volumes as to how highly coveted a spot in their ranks was, but the noise up and down the table would befit sixty or more. All of her fellow dancers would chat animatedly around her in more languages than she could count - and most of which she could not speak. Sure, there was the French, and the English obviously, and snippets of Italian thanks to Adriano (most of it foul or blasphemous) - and then she could piece together bits of languages she didn't technically speak thanks to what she knew from those she did. Mostly, though she just enjoyed it.

Whether they were speaking the same actual language or not, they all spoke the only language that mattered much to her - ballet. They understood it. The commitment, the toil, the life, and how worth it all of it was. If there was ever a place Marilyn felt like she belonged - bar the stage - it was here.

It was those sort of thoughts, the overly sappy and sentimental ones to do with camaraderie, that she was lost in when an owl flew overhead and dropped a gleaming silver envelope into her lap. And then no languages at all were being spoken around the table. The letters she'd been receiving were no secret, not here amongst those who could also be impacted by them, but there seemed to be more to their silence than that.

Frowning, she plucked it up from where it sat innocuously atop her leggings and scanned the writing on the envelope. Draco's. She knew that on sight by now. But the envelope was new - different. And different drew notice, so why had he used it. Adriano noted her confusion from where he sat at her side.

"It's a husher."

"You mean a howler?"

"I know what I mean. A husher - same concept, flipped on its head."

"So it's not going to explode?"

"No, it's not going to explode. It's made for secrets - once opened, it relays a message in the sender's voice, but only the intended recipient can hear it. Useful for something one might not wish to put in writing. And very dangerous, for somebody in your shoes. I would burn it, were I you."

His concern was more than understandable. As somebody who was the ever-ongoing recipient of death threats both terribly unimaginative and worryingly creative, the concept of somebody coming up with something so heinous that they didn't wish to commit their handwriting to it was a dire concept indeed.

"It's - er, it's from my friend at Hogwarts," she murmured.

"Or somebody who can mimic his hand," one of the older girls down the table pointed out.

"Is this friend of yours inclined to boast of his association with ballerinas?" Adriano asked.

"He's inclined to not tell a single soul," Marilyn shook her head.

"Can't be like any boy I've ever met, then," another soloist across the table muttered.

"Nobody else will be able to hear it?" She turned to Adriano for confirmation again.

"I'm a nosy bastard at the best of times, but I wouldn't set you up like this," he vowed.

Grimacing, she cracked the seal on the letter and it sprang from her hands. Much like the howler's she'd witnessed a few of her fellow students at Beauxbatons receive, in an impressive feat of origami the letter folded in on itself until its creases resembled a mouth, and then Draco's voice met her ears. Given that nobody around the table gave any indication that they were aware it had begun speaking, she knew Adriano had spoken truthfully. There was no way at least one of them wouldn't give the game away had they been aware. Instead, they all made no attempt to disguise the fact that they watched her intently for any sort of indication as to what the letter contained.

"Baxter!" His voice hissed - utterly incensed despite the half-shout, half-whisper he was so clearly struggling to limit his voice to, lest he be overheard "Have you lost your mind? Do you want to die? Is that what this is? You're- you're one of these idiotic masochistic artists who hopes to die young in a blaze of glory to add a permanent edge to the mark they leave on history?"

Pressing her lips together until her teeth threatened to break skin, she lowered. her gaze and listened as his tirade continued.

"I don't know what sequence of events might possibly be worse - the idea that you were strong armed into it, and if you were I'll be on more than one warpath this month, or the idea that you had a real hand in this farce yourself. Do you have any idea what you've done? Do you have any idea what he will-"

He cut off then, and Marilyn felt the blood slowly begin to seep from her face. Not because he was saying things she hadn't already thought of, but because she was certain that he'd stopped speaking abruptly to try and mask how his voice had ventured dangerously close to cracking.

A moment of silence went by, and she wondered if that was the message finished, but then she heard him draw in a breath before he continued, his voice steady.

"Undo it, Marilyn. I don't care what it takes, I don't care if it loses you your position, I don't care what it costs. Take it back. Undo it. Do something. And pray that it ends up being enough, because I cannot look at tomorrow's headlines and have them announcing your death. Do you hear me? I'll…Ugh. I imagine you're miffed now after hearing this. I don't care. Evidently you don't have anybody with a brain telling you these things over where you are. Just write back to me, let me know you're still breathing for the time being."

She truly thought it was the end then. The way he'd spoken certainly held a definite note of finality, which suggested that what really did end up being his final words hadn't been entirely planned.

"Mother always likes to spend a day or two of the holidays in Paris. Ordinarily we'd go to the ballet, but I think that's off the table now. She doesn't care what I do while we're there - the paper says you'll still be in town. Perhaps we might meet."

If she didn't already have an absolutely concrete idea of just how much she was playing with fire (a massive, fiery volcanic inferno, not some measly little candle) she would have then - because the only reason he'd push so hard to see her again at a time like this would be because he feared it might be his only chance.

It was a sense she couldn't help but share. Draco was intelligent and, recent decisions aside, so was she. It was one of the very few things they had in common. So, in spite of that, she just had to hope that they were both wrong about this. That it was her fear and her dread speaking. And she was done acting based on those two things.

…Although her next letter to him might require a touch more code.

18th December 1996

Dear Draco,

I was so happy to receive your letter, and I am heartened to hear that you are doing so well. I find no trouble in admitting to you that I share your stress over exams and the step up to NEWT level work - my parents expect me to be a credit to them, and I know you face the same expectations. No doubt the trouble will be worth it in the end, and we shall both do just fine.

As you say, you at least have Paris to look forward to. We cannot make it this year as mummy and daddy much prefer Florence at the moment, but I can definitely make a few recommendations - there is a wonderful bistro not two streets east from the Opera Populaire, if you think you might be able to stomach the crowds going to see the tripe they put on these days. Luckily, the crowds are all gone by around eleven or so, and late suppers are in fashion these days.

As for me, I'm not sure when I'll be leaving for Florence. My parents are in disagreements over whether we should leave on the 27th, the 28th, or the 29th. No doubt they'll manage to agree on a day soon, and I'll be eating spaghetti before the month is out.

Kisses,

Meryl Monroe

The day after sending her letter to Draco, Marilyn was readying herself for yet another performance. Given that they both understood the danger one another faced and therefore found themselves in need of similar amping up routines, she and Adriano shared a dressing room before their little solo performance. There was little modesty between them, anyway, and their work contained so much of one another's bodies that it was borderline impossible to see anything inappropriate or titillating in seeing the other half-dressed now.

"These arrived for you," Adriano nodded in greeting, gesturing towards a massive floral bouquet.

It was a wild arrangement that held flowers of just about every colour flowers could possibly come in, with a bright orange and purple note sticking out of the foliage branded with a gleaming 'W'. Smiling despite herself, she plucked up the note.

Baxter,

Welcome to the rebellion. It's great fun here. Break a leg.

G & F Weasley

"Your Hogwarts boy?"

He was already in his costume, and was busying himself with his stage makeup in the mirror, glancing at her between swipes of eyeliner around those dark eyes of his that captivated audiences so.

"No," she said - and then ignored the fact that she'd walked right into admitting she had a Hogwarts boy "Well. Sort of. Friends, but not that one. The Weasley twins."

"Ah. Well, you'll be pleased to hear I'm also being inundated with love and support for my selfless role in all of this. Not that I was hurting for admiration to begin with, but we all like a nice little compliment every now and then."

"Or every day," she teased as she began to change.

"Every hour, at least. I wake at night like clockwork to hear them called to me from my window."

The process of slipping into her costume was already becoming something resembling muscle memory - although it helped that, as far as ballet costumes went, the one for their little solo piece was very simple.

"Selfless of you, really. Making time for your fans."

"It's the least I can do - looking out for the little people and all that."

"Speaking of," she said slowly - figuring she wouldn't soon get a neat little segue like this again "I really wouldn't blame you if you wanted to duck out of this, you know."

"Of what?" He frowned.

"This," she repeated "It's been in the papers, it's attracting a lot of notice. It's…it's getting dangerous."

"It was always going to be dangerous, stellina."

"In theory, yeah, but now it's real. Now we're in papers as the dancers taking a stand against him. The danger it's…I don't know, it feels like a matter of when rather than if now."

"And what kind of man would that make me if everybody saw me flinch? If I hid away and left you to do it alone?"

"A living one, preferably."

"What if I want to die young? Like all of the best icons."

"Keith Richards would like a word."

"I'm not backing out, Marilyn. That would be the only thing worse than not elbowing my way into this thing in the first place. You're not the only one with skin in this game, you know. It's my name attached to it, too. I will not be the one who backed down and hid in the corner like a good little boy. I will not live like that. This is my world too, god damn it."

"All right," she said "All right. I just had to make sure it wasn't because of me."

At that Adriano cracked a wry smile, halting his beauty regime to put the pencil down and turn to look at her properly rather than just her reflection.

"You really need to get that ego of yours under control, yes? Try to be as humble as me. You might learn a thing or two."

Marilyn grinned and shook her head. Maybe she would.

With that matter settled, and her flowers from the Weasley twins suitably fussed over, she was free to turn her mind to the performance. While she was hardly immune to pre-show jitters, she'd never faced them to such an extreme extent as other dancers did. It was probably that wild, out of control ego of hers again, but her nerves had always been easily interchanged with excitement, and so she'd always just used them as fuel - meanwhile some of the others here, even though everybody here was a damn good dancer, worked themselves up into such a state before hitting the stage that the crew kept sick buckets at hand. Different people had different pre-show rituals, she supposed.

Now, though, she was getting a glimpse into their world. It didn't help that the other dancers - and even some of the crew - looked at them like they were on their way to the chopping block as they moved through the backstage area towards the entrance to the stage. For the whole walk tonight, just as every other night, Marilyn felt a heavy sort of nausea, intermingled with feeling too hot and too cold all at once. Even her hair, left to fall about her shoulders in loose romantic golden waves felt too much, and she could feel it sticking to the back of her neck as she walked with Adriano.

As they had ever since their first walk to do this damn thing, they linked arms. Like that would help. Okay, it did a little, but only because Adriano clung onto her arm as tightly as she did his - the knowledge that both of them were more nervous than they'd ever let on was somehow helpful. More helpful still, though, was her anger. She clung to that even more tightly than she gripped her dance partner, along with her indignance.

Adriano was right. Despite how she'd somewhat hoped that he would agree to duck out, everything he'd said to her in response to the suggestion was something she'd already thought to herself many times over. Why should she shrink back to the shadows, a supplicant hoping the big bad blood-purist bastards might overlook her when they began to wreak havoc upon her and hers for…existing. Like she had something to be ashamed of? She had nothing to be ashamed of. Not one single thing. She refused to act like she did, not when Harry was out there facing this thing, and no doubt Ron and Hermione with him. She refused to hinder herself and her career for the sake of a small chance at an easy life while Draco was out there doing…doing Merlin only sodding knew what, really.

If things were going the way that they felt like they were going, whether she'd done this or not would have done nothing to change the fact that a day would come when He Who Must Not Be Named and his merry band of utter fucking psychopaths put pressure on the company - and every other business and establishment in their world - to sack the Muggleborns from their ranks "or else". If they then refused (which she suspected Sabrina would, considering her involvement in this here and now), they'd become targets anyway. At least this way she was taking charge. She was making a stand.

That had to be worth something, right? Draco might not think so, but she couldn't live her life based on what he would or would not approve of, either.

Striding out onto the stage with Adriano, she looked at the grand red velvet curtain which had yet to be raised, and then the magical protective barrier that sat just an inch before it. It was difficult to spot - entirely invisible to the audience from their vantage point - the only giveaway lay within the way the edges at the far sides and right all the way up at the top glimmered an iridescent silvery-blue.

They took up their position in a way that was very much second nature, Marilyn standing with her feet flat on the floor in front of Adriano, who wrapped his arms around her waist, his hands resting at her abdomen. All it took was a nod to the side of the stage, and the moment they faced forward again the curtain was shifting up.

A distinct downside of the candlelit Wizarding stages was that the candlelight that lit the stage didn't blind those on it in the same way that Muggle stage lighting did. Thanks to that, they were both painstakingly aware of the audience as they fixed them all with matching smiles. Mostly, Marilyn directed her gaze to whatever was not a person - the doors at the back, the elaborate golden carvings of the balconies. Anything. Then, when the smooth deep tones of Frank Sinatra took over, punctuated only by the fluttering of a harp in the beginning, she could finally move up en pointe, look to Adriano and feed off of his energy.

"She's a fool and don't I know it, but a fool can have her charms. I'm in love and don't I show it, like a babe in arms…"

As the first verse rolled out, Marilyn spun on one foot to face him, and they gaze at each other like they were each utterly captivated by the other. Her right arm snaked around his left shoulder, while his left arm supported her at her back as he spun her and then dipped her down low, before slowly righting her again, and then they repeated the process at the other side, her toes remaining pointed and fixed in one spot the whole time as she relied on him wholly for balance.

They then repeated the process again as the next verse rang out, only this time he rolled her even closer to the ground, their noses almost brushing as they stared at each other unflinchingly with soft smiles, as if they were standing perfectly still.

"Love's the same old sad sensation, lately I've not slept a wink…since this half-pint imitation put me on the blink…"

The first verse drew to a slow end, Sinatra's voice trailing off as Adriano righted her again and she wrapped both of her arms around his neck, gazing up at him adoringly.

"I'm wild again, beguiled again, a simpering, whimpering child again…"

Lifting one leg to point out straight behind her, he moved in a slow, careful circle which had her spinning on the toes of one foot, and after they'd gone through one full rotation she unfurled her arms from around him and used the toes of the other to spin away from him, directing a cheeky grin back at him as he watched her like he was captivated.

"Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I…"

He danced closer to her with a few long, graceful strides, but she was dancing away with a few quick, delicate steps - leaving his fingertips to barely catch at the hem of her dress in her wake.

"Couldn't sleep and wouldn't sleep, love came and told me I shouldn't sleep…bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I…"

A similar process repeated itself again afterwards - with her character turning back to watch him coyly, expecting him to follow once again only to lower herself down to stand flat on the stage and watch forlornly as he did not, before resolving to go after him instead.

It wasn't until the finale when she pulled off her feat, though. The broom (one of a light, warm wood unlike the white one Draco had once gifted her) floated down as if from the heavens as Sinatra's voice picked up in power, truly belting out the final verse and drawing out the words for longer and longer as he sang them, while she hopped up to stand atop it while it was already in mid air. A feat that would impress a seasoned tightrope artist, she liked to think.

"I'll sing to her, bring spring to her, and long for the day when I'll cling to her…"

Adriano remained on the ground, reaching up towards her as the broom floated steadily upwards. Executing a series of very difficult but quick little chaînés in which she spun on both feet, en pointe, towards the handle-end of the broom so she could reach down towards him in turn, she waited until the final line began to really boom out before she made her next move. Sighing forlornly as if realising it was fruitless, she turned away from him, tensed the muscles in her left leg to test her balance, and then slowly lifted her right out behind her into an arabesque, stretching it out further and further still, one arm stretched out behind her and the other reaching out in front of her, channelling as much grace as she physically could into every ounce of her posture.

"Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I."

The final note was the longest - longer than she could have managed to hold any note, filled with power and emotion. It was that note which drowned out the sound of the spell that was flung her way; not from the audience, but from the rafters up above, from which there was no barrier between her and them. The spell did not hit her, but it likely wasn't intended to. Instead, it hit the bristles of the broom, sending it spinning off balance and out from underneath her.

There was no time for anybody to react - least of all Marilyn - and she was hardly aware of the yelp that left her lips before she was tumbling down and hitting the solid stage floor hard with a sickening crack.

Chapter Text

Draco was in a foul mood as he exited the Slytherin common room and began to make his way to breakfast. Today was the day that those inclined to leave Hogwarts for the holidays would do so, and last night - his last chance to work on the Vanishing Cabinet before he left - he'd been nabbed by Filch and accused of trying to sneak into Slughorn's Christmas do, of all things. Then Snape had gone and stuck his nose in, and he'd been too wound up to sleep much at all.

With any luck, though, his back-up plan would work. Slughorn would give Dumbledore the mead while he was gone, and news of the old dolt's death would reach them while he was too far away to be tied to anything to do with it. Then again, he'd hoped the same with the necklace and that stupid cow Katie Bell hadn't managed to be of any use. Was it too much to hope that Slughorn would be any better?

He was almost at the stairs that led up towards the ground floor of the castle when Snape stepped out of his office, his dark eyes landing on him immediately.

"Mr Malfoy," he said "A moment."

Any other year Draco would have hid his annoyance - or he mightn't have been annoyed at all in the first place - but this was not any other year. Sighing, he ground to a halt and shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes. Snape might've punished him for that any other year, too. As it was, he jerked his head in the direction of the office, and then led the way inside.

For a moment Draco considered not following at all, but his day would only grow more annoying if he didn't, so he strode after Snape and resisted the urge to kick the door shut behind him. Once he had closed it - gently, with his hands, because he had the patience of a saint - he turned and remained where he stood, watching as Snape moved to sit behind the desk.

"I assume, given that you have not yet been to breakfast, that you have not seen this morning's headlines."

Draco stilled "Why? What's happened? Is it my father? Or just another fascinating think-piece on the rise and fall of the House of Malfoy?"

"Take a seat," Snape ordered, his face not giving anything away.

Despite his foul mood, Draco did not push his luck by arguing. All but falling into the chair opposite the desk, he leaned back as he sat and waited for his Head of House to finally arrive at whatever point he appeared determined to make.

He finally did so, but only after fixing him with one of those unyielding stares for a moment that seemed to stretch on for an insufferably long amount of time. When the paper slapped down onto the desk in front of him, though, Draco thought he'd rather preferred the staring contest.

Ballerina Attacked Mid-Performance! The headline read, getting directly - and almost gleefully - to the point. It took all he had not to seize the paper and begin scanning it for details, and more still to tear his eyes away from the photograph nearly the full size of the front page. Marilyn, teetering on the toes of one foot on the length of a broom, followed by a bolt of light shooting down from above the stage, hitting the broom which sent both it and her off balance. The photograph ended as she landed hard on the floor, easily twenty or thirty feet below, and did not move - even as that stupid dance partners of hers rushed towards her. Then it began to loop.

He did not watch it a second time.

"Why should that concern me? I hardly recall fourth year at all."

She was not dead. No, she couldn't be. If she was, the headline would say so. Ballerina killed mid-performance, something like that. And they wouldn't have run the photograph. If it showed someone dying. If it…if it showed her dying. Would they?

Snape's lips thinned "Your face betrays you, Mr Malfoy, and you must bring it under control before you go out there, amongst your peers, who will expect you to celebrate this turn of events."

"Why shouldn't I celebrate it? Stupid, foolish, idiotic little- little mudblood got what she deserved."

"You must also be sure to say those words a shade more convincingly next time."

"What are you implying?" Draco scoffed.

The older man's black eyes stared unflinchingly at him, and Draco stared back with thinned lips. So long had gone by since that damned dinner with Snape and his parents, and so much had happened in that time and demanded his attention - with it going entirely unremarked upon, no less. He'd always sort of assumed that he'd just…forgotten. Or at least he'd hoped that he had. It was a nice thing to tell himself when the world seemed to be doing its very best to cave in on him.

"She did not die," Snape said matter-of-factly "She was, however, seriously injured and spent the night in Paris' finest Wizarding hospital having many of her bones mended. She is expected to make a full, swift recovery. There is some speculation as to whether she will return to her place upon the stage, and whether doing so would leave her vulnerable to further attacks. Of course, we know quite well that it would, and that it will."

And Draco knew quite well that none of that would stop her. He also knew that his relief had shown on his face.

"Why have you brought me in here, then? To threaten me with this absurd little story you've dreamt up?"

"No," Snape replied mildly - which in itself caught him off-guard, for he'd expected fury in response to his cheek "This is a delicate time, and he does not need your…youthful indiscretions distracting him from the task currently at hand. Little good could come of it."

Draco continued to stare at him. It was tempting to be relieved - much, much too tempting. But this would be an easy game to play, wouldn't it? The 'don't worry, I'm not going to tell anybody, just tell me everything and it'll all be fine' just to get an admission of guilt. If this was indeed what Snape was doing, Draco knew he'd never know regret of the like that he'd feel if he walked into that trap.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Something flickered in Snape's gaze, and he hesitated before he responded.

"I admit, your commitment to denying it offers some reassurance, but under these circumstances that reassurance is only ever bound to be limited. You are not the first to find yourself in a position such as this."

"Oh, Merlin."

"Nor are you likely to be the last," Snape pressed on sternly, speaking over him "But I promised your mother I would watch out for your best interests, and it is for that reason that I find myself compelled to inform you that there is a long history of those in your shoes soon finding themselves dead - or worse. Both parties involved, or occasionally only one, but all the same instances where neither find themselves on the wrong side of a Killing Curse are rare, if indeed they have ever occurred at all."

"We don't tend to wax poetic about the tales of the mudbloods who didn't get what they deserved," Draco pointed out flatly.

"Indeed. We do not. Be that as it may, I have given my word to act in your best interest, and I shall endeavour to do so. That is a fact worth keeping in mind, going forward."

Draco's brow furrowed, and he stared at his Head of House in suspicion. That sort of statement was the kind of thing he'd expect to lead up to some grand insistence that he cease whatever it was Snape believed he was up to with Marilyn. But it did not. And he'd already made it clear that he had no intention of telling anybody about it - about her, about them. That's what most in their circles would mean if they said they were going to act in his best interest. So what did Snape mean by it?

That he wouldn't snitch on them, yes, but he'd already established that, and the way he spoke and the way he stared at him while he spoke seemed to suggest something greater. Which, by sheer process of elimination, could only mean…

Surely he wasn't saying that he would cover for them?

Draco stared at him in disbelief, and when Snape saw that it had clicked, he nodded slightly and then leaned back in his chair, busying himself with the parchment on his desk.

"That is all, Mr Malfoy, you may go. Give my regards to your mother."

He left the paper on the desk as he took his exit.

A broken collarbone, a couple of cracked ribs, and a royally fucked up pelvis. To use the medical terminology. Apparently that was what happened when one fell at a great height down onto a surface that was decidedly unforgiving. What did not tend to happen, however, was the recipient of those injuries walking out of hospital that very same night without even a single bruise. Well, beyond the emotional sort. Were she a Muggle, it was the sort of injury that could've very easily seen her walking with a cane for the rest of her life - if she could walk again at all.

The pain had been horrible, the memory of it so vivid that she swore she could still feel the pain radiating through her bones whenever she moved, and the fear hadn't faded anywhere near enough yet to even become a memory yet. Which was why she jumped out of her skin when a knock sounded at her door.

Her wand hadn't left her hand since she'd been brought back to her dormitory room late last night, plied with calming draughts and potions to supply her with a dreamless sleep. The rule about underaged magic and Wizarding schools was extended to WIB headquarters precisely for those in her shoes (pointe shoes, at that) - for she could hardly be expected to learn magic without being able to practise a charm or two. Now she was grateful for that fact as she adjusted her grip on the smooth, light wood of her wand.

"Come in," she called.

Adriano slipped into the room, and her grip relaxed.

"I don't think I've ever seen anybody look so tense while on bedrest," he commented, and then cast a glance about the room and muttered something in Italian.

She couldn't blame him for that - every flat surface the room boasted was littered with flowers. The desk, the dresser drawers, the nightstand, the window sill, and the floor when she finally began to run out of space. It was one thing to get a bouquet to her dressing room after a performance, but this? This she did not like. Lying in her bed and looking at it all had her feeling like the corpse in a funeral parlour. It might've been nice for them to wait until she was actually murdered before they started treating her as such. Even those walking by outside lowered their voices to hushed whispers as they went by her door.

Sure, that could have very well been because they were worried she was sleeping and they were just being considerate, but she was feeling grumpy and chose to overlook that sound logic. Attempted murder did that to a girl.

"Don't tell me you're here to scold me."

"No, I'm here to help you," he gave her a rakish grin, and produced a small, sleek silver case from his jeans pocket.

Frowning, Marilyn shifted in the bed, sitting up and watching as he approached. Well, she watched his face more than she watched his eyes. She was having trouble with that today - eye contact. That was a fairly new phenomenon, Christ knew she wasn't much of a shy little wallflower, but he was the third person to visit her today (following Sabrina Koenig herself, and then Madame Garnier), and he was the third she couldn't quite look in the eye. Maybe she feared seeing pity there. Or it could have been that she feared what they would see in her own gaze.

The case - a cigarette case, she realised as he opened it, contained something that was not quite a cigarette.

"You're joking."

"What? You think anybody around here will know what this is?"

"Adriano."

"It's-a medicinal - an old Italian herb from the home country. We put-a it on da pizza, no?" he affected a ridiculous accent worthy of Super Mario, and she couldn't help but laugh - which was probably the point.

"Right before you bake it, no doubt," she muttered.

"I bring a get well soon gift and this is what I get? This is your gratitude? Puns? You disappoint me, stellina."

"On this, the day of your daughter's wedding?"

"Don't reduce me to a stereotype, you know how I hate that," he said as if he hadn't just done the very same not a full minute prior.

As he scolded her without any bite, he moved to the window the room boasted and pushed it all the way open. Then he moved the flowers on the ledge, setting them down on the floor, and waved his wand towards the heavy wooden door to her room. It clicked, locking itself. Only afterwards did he lift the joint between his lips, lighting it with the tip of his wand.

"Are you joining me?" he asked, his words muffled.

"Is it a good idea? With the paranoia?"

"It's not paranoia," he paused to blow out smoke "If the fears are based in reality."

Well. He had her there. Scooting off of the bed, she adjusted her joggers and then moved to join him, accepting the joint and practically leaning all the way out of the window so she could take a few puffs.

"Do you want to back out? Of our little performance?"

"Do you?"

"No. I told Sabrina that this morning."

Although it hadn't been easy - even amidst reassurances that they'd up the security further still. The wards, she'd assured her, would be extended from a screen between them and the audience, to what would essentially be a box encasing her and Adriano throughout the entirety of their performance. Nobody would be able to attack, not from the rafters, not from backstage, not from anywhere.

In theory.

"I know, she told me. I'm not asking what you're going to do, I'm asking what you want to do."

"If I quit, they win," she pointed out.

"Your quitting doesn't have anything to do with them winning or losing, Marilyn, you're not going to win the war through the art of dance."

"I know that," she allowed "But this doesn't end if I stop, either. It's too late for that. They're not going to sit back and go eh, well she stopped doing her little indie performances, no harm done, guess we'll let it go. I'm on their shit-list now. Only way off of it is in a body bag."

"And that's your plan, is it? Suicide?"

"Of course not. But if I don't get up on that stage tonight and do my little dance, it sends a message."

She handed the joint back to him, and then kicked the ball back into his court along with it.

"You haven't answered. What about you?"

Adriano hesitated, shaking his head as he took a long draw.

Marilyn continued "I need you to hear what I'm saying, and really take it at face value. There'll be no problem between us, ever, if you back out. If I were you, I might do the same."

"I doubt that," he scoffed "And I'm not doing it, either. Not now. But…but I cannot promise that I never will."

"Good," she nodded.

"Good?"

"That tells me that you're only still doing it because you want to - and you know where the exit is. The second you feel the urge to take it, the very second, you go for it, yeah? Promise me that."

He chuckled - a tired, humourless chuckle as he shook his head yet again "I promise. You're too brave to be younger than me, you know that? It's emasculating."

"I'm younger by a year. And not even a full year," she rolled her eyes, accepting the joint back "It's not like I'm twelve. If I was you'd be a right wrong'un for supplying me with drugs."

"Too long among the Gryffindors, I think, that's what did this to you. The Potter effect," he muttered "Speaking of - which one of these lovely offerings is from your Hogwarts boy?"

"None of 'em."

And then she wondered if she should've just lied. But the weed was kicking in, and she found herself having to perch on the window ledge just to take the weight off of her legs, which were beginning to feel unreliable.

"Oh."

"It's been less than twenty-four hours," she said "And…it's complicated."

"I don't doubt that, nothing is simple these days. Perhaps he's sifting through the finest offerings the Wizarding botanist industry has to offer."

"Probably not - I'm not expecting anything. Here, you can have the last of it."

Adriano took one more draw, and then flicked what was left out of the window, out towards the rocky cliffs below.

"A boy who writes you that many letters can send you flowers. Even if you are still pretending only to be friends."

Marilyn gave him an unimpressed look, but she didn't deny it. Denying it would only make her look more guilty - and it likely wouldn't do much good. Flirt as they might with one another for fun, Adriano was just a friend, and he therefore knew fine well what friendship with her looked like. Enough, at least, to be able to tell even from an extreme distance that it wasn't what was going on with her and "David the Ravenclaw".

"It's not that it's the…the optics. It wouldn't look right. His family…"

"They're on the other side?"

"What? No! Of course not. Christ. But they're not Muggle-born either, and they wouldn't approve of him putting himself in danger with any big shows of support."

She wondered if he'd still turn up for their little meet-up. Or if she should turn up for it at all. It was highly likely that he'd deem it too dangerous to turn up to…and if he did, he'd give her the bollocking of a lifetime. Deserved or no, it wasn't something to look forward to.

The high was washing over her - like she'd just slipped into a hot bath at the end of a long performance. Adriano had been right, it was what she'd needed. Her problems would still be waiting for her when it wore off, but they'd be no worse for being ignored for a couple of hours.

"Cowards," he snorted "Him, too, if he listens."

"I don't think it's that simple," she sighed, shaking her head "People…they're just doing what they need to do, at the minute. That looks different for everybody. These are shit times."

"Your year of studying under Dumbledore's eye has you speaking like him," Adriano teased.

Marilyn thought about that for a moment, and then she snorted - which quickly devolved into a fit of giggles. Giggles which Adriano joined in on despite not knowing what she was laughing at.

"What? What is it?"

"Just- imagine Dumbledore getting up and standing before all of the students, sighing, and saying very seriously these are shit times."

Grin widening, Adriano laughed, raking his free hand through his hair before muttering ruefully "If anything could make him do so, it would be the state of everything now."

Chapter Text

Marilyn had always considered her pokerface to be, if not decent, then at least passable. A perk of having the mother she'd been blessed with - she was used to greeting vitriol with a blank expression, rarely betraying what it was she was thinking or feeling. Maybe that was some sort of subconscious reason behind her bonding with Draco, who knew? What she did know was that, thanks to recent events, dancing her first few performances back with a serene, simpering smile on her face was more difficult than the actual bloody steps involved. When the curtain fell and it was time to prepare for the actual show, she almost collapsed with relief every time, the adrenaline coursing through her paying no mind to the fact that there was still an entire show to get through.

It was a shame that they couldn't put it at the end of the show - leaving her with little to do afterwards other than decompressing in a dark room while her heart rate returned to normal - but if they did, it would defeat the point. People could always just walk out. Although it could very well be argued that those who would walk out at the end were the ones who now boycotted the company to begin with. Their absence set her mind at ease, at least. Somewhat. But when the first day of the set of dates she'd given Draco arrived, no amount of substances both legal and, ahem, frowned upon could stop her from feeling distinctly edgy.

He hadn't replied to her letter. It was impossible to tell whether that meant he wasn't going to show up at all, or if he just deemed it safer not to respond. Of course, safest would be for them not to meet up, but recents events told her more than anything else that she'd stopped dabbling in safe long ago. Safety was but a speck on the distant horizon, and it only got smaller by the day.

That very cheerful thought was what floated around in her mind as she stood side-by-side with Adriano, scrubbing her face free of makeup and sweat. If she was feeling especially vain, she'd have then reapplied some non-stage makeup - as if a coat of mascara and a bit of lip gloss would dissuade him from scolding her like she was a child - but that would only raise suspicion. More-so than what she intended to say next, even.

"Everybody's going out for dinner tonight, right? At that restaurant by the Louvre?"

"That's the plan. Why - aren't you?"

Marilyn hesitated. If she tried to throw some half-arsed cover story at him - if she insisted that she had a migraine or that she just wasn't up to being a social animal, there was a danger that he'd elect to hang around with her instead. They were already thick as thieves before all of this, but undertaking this…this ridiculous plan had brought them closer still. After all, they were the only two people in the company who knew what it was like being out on that stage with Sinatra blaring out to potentially murderous zealots night after night. It would've been enough to make even the worst enemies pretty insular.

But she couldn't tell him the truth.

"There's something I need to take care of, but I don't want word about it getting around. Would you cover for me? Please?"

Any delusions she had that it would be as simple as that were firmly stamped out when he stilled beside her, and she had to pretend to be very engrossed in brushing her hair out of its bun just to avoid meeting his gaze in the mirror.

"Take care of? What?"

"I'm…I'm meeting a friend. The one from Hogwarts. But it's all very hush-hush, because his parents would have a heart attack if they found out their son was anywhere near WIB's biggest pariah."

"How did you arrange this meeting?"

"Via letter."

He dropped the face cloth he'd been using down to dressing table before them and turned to look at her properly now, rather than just at her reflection.

"And who knows of your friendship with this boy?"

"Nobody," Marilyn busied herself with a particularly stubborn knot in her hair, but knew the longer she kept up the nonchalance, the more false it blatantly was.

"How sure are you?"

"I'm certain."

"How certain?"

"Adriano."

With a sigh, she set down the brush, and finally turned to meet the brunt of his dark, concerned gaze, hugging her arms to herself.

"No, I'm serious - is it possible somebody learned of this friendship and intercepted the letters to get you alone? Maybe- maybe a Slithering, or whatever the hell it is they call themselves?"

"It's definitely him - and it's fine," she insisted.

"And you're certain he's not under the influence?"

"His handwriting doesn't betray him as a drunk, no."

"Of a curse, Marilyn, stop trying to be cute."

Merlin, but they'd get along well. So long as they could bond over their exasperation where she was concerned, at least.

"I'm certain," she said.

"And you'd bet your life on that?"

As if there was any doubt over just how serious he was, he placed his hands on her shoulders, stooping slightly so they were at eye level with one another.

"Yes," she answered immediately.

Because the thought of that risk had already occurred to her - and she knew if she hesitated, he'd never believe a word she said on the matter. Even without that hesitation, he still didn't look convinced, his gaze intense as his eyes flickered back and forth between hers.

"I think you're being foolish," he sighed, his hands slipping from her shoulders.

"We're foolish on that stage every night," she argued - albeit half-heartedly - before sighing and continuing, a tad more sincerely "Look…this…this might be the last chance I get to see him. Times are rough, and they're only going to get rougher. Last time I saw him, I swore up and down that it wouldn't be the last time, but the more this all goes on, the more likely it is that something's going to happen to one of us. Is it a risk? Sure. But it's one I'm willing to take, and it's one I'm being smart about."

Starting with wearing shoes that she knew she'd have no trouble running in, if it came to it. Turning, she bent at the knee to take up her battered trainers that once might've been white, but now were a questionable shade of grey. At first she'd planned on wearing a cloak to disguise herself, but that would only draw attention. If she slipped out in joggers and a hoodie, she'd be just another Muggle in a sea of them - and while that would hardly make any lurking Death Eaters warm to her, it certainly made her less of a specific target.

After one final long, piercingly scrutinous look, Adriano relented with a sigh, shaking his head and muttering incoherencies to himself as he continued to strip the stage off of him.

Marilyn didn't dare tempt fate by thinking that he'd given up far more easily than she'd expected - because when she'd imagined this conversation, there had been a lot more cursing involved. Both literal and spoken. Or shouted - in English and Italian. The pièce de résistance, as she imagined it, would involve rope. Decidedly unkinky rope.

Still, her attention was demanded by the nerves that continued to build within her now that this hurdle had been dealt with. Maybe it wouldn't matter. It was pointless getting all worked up before she knew Draco really was coming - and maybe he wouldn't. Not tonight, or even any other night. This newest development, these latest headlines, could force things to swing in either direction. Maybe he'd turn up through sheer force of anger. Or maybe he'd refuse to ever speak to her again. She knew which one would be the smarter choice for everybody involved, and Draco Malfoy was not stupid.

She supposed there was little left to do other than find out.

The streets were just as Marilyn liked them as she scurried out into the night - chilly, and quiet. Enough people milled around here and there to beat back her paranoia, but none spared her more than a glance and the cold air helped ground her to the present. As did her grip on her wand.

The meeting place she'd supplied Draco with wasn't far - she could count on one hand how many streets she'd need to go down had she not been taking a roundabout way. As it was, she walked in a quick stride and took the most roundabout way she could think of - doubling back at times, going in circles, even dipping into and then sprinting through alleyways until she reached the next well-lit street. She didn't think there was anybody following her (or at least there never was when she turned her head to check), but these precautions costed her little to observe.

It was only when she began to finally turn to her destination that it happened. There was one final alleyway for her to cut across, and she was halfway across it when a hand shot out of what first appeared to be empty darkness, wrapping around her front and pulling her bodily back against them. The other hand quickly found the wrist of her right hand as she reached for her wand. Inhaling sharply, Marilyn drove her left elbow back towards them, and was met with a grunt and a curse.

"Merlin's balls, Baxter, it's me," Draco hissed into her ear.

When she spun and ripped herself from his grasp, he let her - and as her eyes adjusted to the dark she saw him rubbing at his ribs with a moody glare. That was fine, she was moodier.

"Are you mad?" she hissed "What the fu-"

"You're the last person alive who can ask anybody that question right now," he replied sharply "And keep your bloody voice down. You're being followed."

Unlike her, he had not opted for an inconspicuous hoodie and joggers combo, and instead wore a dark cloak with the hood pulled so low across his face that she could barely see his eyes.

"What? I can't be - I've been running about in circles for ages."

"You have been," he confirmed "And I've been watching as some fool follows in your footsteps each and every time. Your path hasn't been making any sense, so why would they be following? For an autograph?"

She'd find it in her heart to forgive him his skepticism at such a prospect.

Despite her denial, she lowered her voice and stepped closer. This was bad. Not just for the obvious reasons, but for the attention it could bring. Maybe she'd be able to get away with an accusation of underage magic - the times being what they were, and the attention she was drawing. As a Brit she fell under the Ministry of Magic's jurisdiction, and they weren't in the habit of turning the whole thing into a big song and dance like they had with Harry Potter a year ago. Not with plebs like her, and not now that they had bigger worries.

But in Draco's case? In Draco's case it would raise questions with his ilk if he got slapped with an underage magic case - and that was a best case scenario, reserved for if whoever was tailing her happened to not be a dear family friend of his. But it was a small world, the world of Death Eaters being smaller still (or so she assumed), and that was unlikely.

"You should go," she murmured "If you're seen with me…"

He took barely half a step away, and then lingered, hesitating.

"We could make this work if it is somebody I know," he said doubtfully "I pretend I spotted you and got to you first…you…oh, I don't know, hit me or something and run. I already have the bruised ribs to support the story."

It was a skit more befitting Looney Tunes than anything she could imagine being pulled off in real life.

"Is it somebody you know?" she pressed.

The cobblestone alleyway was more quaint than sinister - or at least it had been up until this. The great big dumpster that they were now huddled behind was the only really grimy feature of it, and it was lit at either end by warm amber street lights - the glow of neither reaching where they now stood.

"I…don't think so," he admitted grimly "He's dressed as a Muggle. Most of my acquaintances would rather die."

"He?" a slow suspicion began to gnaw at her "What did he look like?"

"Dressed like you are, more or less - tall. Dark hair."

"To around here?" she indicated with her hand at her jaw.

Draco nodded.

"Shit," she made a face "He's a friend."

She knew Adriano had given up arguing with her far too easily.

"A friend?" Draco echoed.

"The one I've been dancing with."

"Oh," his face soured "That friend."

Marilyn laughed. She couldn't help it. All of the very serious discussions she knew were in the works between herself and Draco, and he was seeing fit to start it off with petty jealousy - over a lad who would only ever be a friend. Christ, she was too busy worrying about him most days to even acknowledge the fact that Adriano was, factually speaking, a very handsome guy. And Adriano was too busy marvelling at himself in the mirror to look twice at her. For that she couldn't judge him, because if she wasn't so preoccupied with aforementioned worry over Draco, she'd be doing the same thing. It would be a simpler time. She'd have probably narrowed down the best eyeshadow shade for her skin tone and eye colour by now.

"I told him I was meeting a lad, and asked him to cover for me."

"You told him?!"

"That I was meeting David the Ravenclaw," she returned with an eye roll "It'd be more suspect if I didn't say a word after all of the lett-"

She cut herself short when a new set of footsteps drew near, and Draco's arm snaked around her - but before he could pull her further back into the shadows she was already backing up into him, so much so that she could feel his heart pounding against her back.

Peeking just barely over the top of the dumpster, she looked to the mouth of the alley as a figure that was unmistakably Adriano walked slowly into view. He was dressed pretty similarly to her, in a baggy hoodie and jogging bottoms, but the hood was down - and even if it wasn't, she'd recognise him on sight. It was impossible to dance with somebody as much as they had with one another without recognising their physique (although she didn't share that fact with Draco, considering it appeared to be a touchy subject), and that meant she recognised his tells.

Watching as he slowed down, tension practically rolling from his shoulders, he prowled back and forth, peering into the darkness for any signs of life. Considering she hadn't seen Draco until he was upon her, she knew there was a good chance Adriano wouldn't see them. But it mightn't remain the case if he decided to walk by.

Her hand found Draco's where it grasped at her middle, her palm flattening over his knuckles. His skin was just as cold as hers. Adriano peered into the alley, and then looked around him for any trace of her. The sigh he gave afterwards was more visible than audible, his shoulders slumping and his hair brushing his jaw as he shook his head furiously. And then he walked away.

"Come, it would be foolish to go to the place you suggested in your letter, we'll go elsewhere."

"Next you'll be telling me you won't be front row throwing me a bouquet of roses at my next performance."

"Ugh."

Despite his noise of disgust, and despite the fact that her heart was still racing in her chest, it warmed her to find how easily they slipped back into annoying the shit out of each other. They always did. Maybe it wasn't the dramatic reunion of the movies - they didn't sprint towards one another in front of the Eiffel Tower before sharing a tearful embrace, but that was never going to be them, was it?

Draco's hold loosened on her but didn't fall away completely, and she entwined her fingers with his as she began to lead him towards the opposite end of the alleyway.

"Where are we going?"

"I bought a room at a Muggle hotel."

"How the hell did you get Muggle money?"

"I got a job in a Muggle shop selling telly-hones, the hours are good but the conversation leaves something to be desired."

"Really? That's great, could you get me a deal on a new mobile?"

"Of course not, Baxter, stop being ridiculous - what do you think I did? I stole it."

Despite his griping, he kept holding her hand as they reached the other end of the alleyway…where they ran smack into Adriano, his wand half drawn from his hoodie pocket. The downside of his being a year older was that he could Apparate already - she just never even considered that he might do so in the middle of a Muggle area, quiet as it may have been.

Marilyn halted immediately, Draco's grip tightening on her hand as if he was considering whether he could drag her away in the opposite direction at a full sprint. Then, finally, he let go.

"Are you mad?" she hissed "What on earth are you-"

Adriano's focus was not on her, though, but on the heavy silver snake-emblazoned ring on the ring finger of the hand that had just let go of hers.

"People literally want to kill you, Marilyn, of course I followed you," he said "I thought the symbol of Ravenclaw was a bird?"

She ignored the question "Look, it's not a trap, it's really him, he's fine, we're going."

"Does he not have a voice? Or a face for that matter?" Adriano pressed - because even if she couldn't feel how pale she was growing, she knew he was no idiot.

"Adriano…"

"Show me."

"No," Draco said behind her "Now leave us be."

Adriano was unmoved.

"That's a very fancy cloak. I was looking at one just like it over summer, but it would've cost me half my savings - and that's saying a lot, you know, given that WIB does not pay poorly so long as you have anything resembling skill," his eyes turned to Marilyn next "I can think of only one person who goes around wearing snakes in the way that lot does, who is obscenely wealthy, who you would need to keep your association with a secret."

Throughout his skirting of the point, which was beginning to look more and more like a foregone conclusion, Marilyn remained silent. What could she say? He might not have been present at Hogwarts throughout her fourth year, he might not have personally witnessed everything that had occurred between herself and Draco, but it was the sort of gossip that spread. Even the following year, it might not have been a particularly hot topic of conversation - not the kind that had her dreading class in the aftermath of that spectacle in the Great Hall - but it was still a notable enough story to start making the rounds. She'd had to summarise the whole sorry mess more than once during her fifth year, after folk heard second, third, or fourth hand accounts and came to her seeking the juicy details.

Well, she didn't explain it to all of them. Most were sharply told to piss off. But Adriano? Adriano she told. Sure, it was the CliffsNotes version, but still. And any few who hadn't been totally sure who Draco was sure as hell knew now, even outside of Britain, after his family's escapades had been plastered throughout all of the papers over summer.

When he realised she wasn't going to answer, Adriano pressed her more directly.

"Tell me that's not Draco Malfoy under that hood, Marilyn. For the love of Merlin, tell me that."

"Keep your bloody voice down, you fool," Draco hissed.

And that was all the answer he needed. Shoulders slackening and head lolling back, Adriano closed his eyes in disbelief, shaking his head as he did, before finally sighing deeply.

"You're an idiot," he announced simply - more to himself than to her "You're an idiot, and you're going to get yourself killed."

Rather than wait for a reaction, he spun on his heel and walked away. Behind her, Draco took a step or two forward, and then stopped unsurely. Marilyn only watched his back as he left.

"You can't…you can't just let him go," Draco said behind her.

"What am I supposed to do? Chase him down? Threaten him? He won't tell anybody, Draco. It's more likely to get me killed than you, not that…"

Not that that isn't a foregone conclusion, anyway.

She stopped short - refusing to voice it for her own sake, as well as his. So she asked a question instead.

"Are you going to leave?"

There was a beat of silence as he considered the question, and then murmured a quiet "No. I can't."

He said it like he resented that fact, but his hand found hers once again.

They didn't speak again until they got to the hotel - they hardly dared to. Between constantly checking around them for onlookers or pursuers and, in Marilyn's case, worrying about whether she'd just put an end to one of her closest friendships, there wasn't much room for conversation. It was up to her to work the lift as they stepped inside, and after Draco tried and failed to work the keycard to the room, that was her job too.

Only when they slipped into the room, mostly bare and decorated in thoroughly depressing shades of drab blue, and she switched the overhead light on with the switch by the door did he slowly ease the hood of his cloak down. Marilyn tried to school the shock from her features, but she wasn't sure how successful she was, worries about her own shit, about Adriano, about what awaited her when she next stepped onto the stage, about everything fading from her mind in favour of concern for the lad standing before her.

He looked terrible. Everything about his appearance that had worried her last time she'd seen him was amplified now - the hint of dark circles beneath his eyes that had been there before now so dark that they might as well have been bruises. The paleness that had been difficult to distinguish from his usual pallor was now almost grey, and his already distinct bone structure now threatened to be gaunt as he clearly wasn't eating much these days.

Even worse still was his expression. He looked exhausted - like he'd lived a hundred terrible years since they last saw one another. And when he saw the shock and the sadness on her face, it was worse still because his jaw clenched and he looked away, lips thinning. But rather than spew out some defensive nastiness - as she expected him to do, and as he usually would have done - his hands trembled and then tears filled his eyes.

It took less than no time for her to decide how to act - stepping forward and wrapping her arms tightly around him, rising to stand on her toes so she might hug him properly. The fierceness with which he clung to her in response caught her off guard and compounded her fears all in one, and she could feel his breathing shudder as he buried his face in her hair, pulling her to him so tightly that she barely had to rest any of her weight on her own two feet at all. There was something in the way he held her that threatened to rip the air from her lungs - and she suspected it was reciprocal, because everything she felt emanating from him as he pulled her close was everything she felt too, until she didn't know whether the pounding in her chest was his heart or her own.

"I had a bloody heart attack when I saw the papers," he mumbled into her hair.

She breathed out a laugh utterly bereft of humour - it sounded more like a sob.

"It wasn't much fun for me, either."

Of all of her jokes that he absolutely hadn't found funny, which was most of them, really, this one seemed to be perhaps the absolute least amusing to him. He only held her all the tighter for it, though, and when he finally did relent his hold on her it was only so that he could kiss her. Just as he had with her hug, she returned it with all she had, threading her fingers up through his hair, and then down the back of his neck, sliding around the front towards his collarbones so she could undo the fine silver cloak clasps, and that very expensive black cloak of his fell to the floor.

When she finally stood flat on her feet again, it was to allow him to guide her backwards towards the bed.

Chapter Text

He kept his shirt on. Throughout it all, he kept it on. He allowed her to unbutton it, sure, but when she moved to push it down past his shoulders, he took her hands in his and distracted her with more kisses. The first time she didn't think anything of it - she barely noticed at all. The second time, it snagged her suspicion. The third? The third sent alarm bells ringing. But she didn't say anything, and she didn't attempt it a fourth time. Afterwards, though, as they lay in the bed, she couldn't help but feel a tad underdressed. If her career didn't quite literally involve having her body gawked at for all to see, she might've felt self-conscious - but as it was, her thoughts revolved almost entirely around why Draco refused to take his shirt off.

She rolled her shoulders to fend off the shiver that threatened to wash over her, and Draco responded by grasping the covers and pulling them up so that they covered her upper back and shoulders. Marilyn hummed her thanks, one forearm beneath her chin as she lay on her front, watching him where he lay sprawled beside her on his back, both of their breathing slowly returning to normal. It was hot in here - too hot. Obviously they'd worked up a sweat, she could see it in how his platinum blond hair stuck to his still-flushed forehead. There was no reason for the shirt to still be on. No good reason, at least.

"Are you alright?" he was the first to break the quiet properly, eyes hooded as he looked towards her "Did it…are you hurt?"

"I've got a high pain threshold," she shrugged slightly "And it wasn't half as bad as people say it'll be."

"My, high praise," he snorted, but the teasing had no real bite to it.

"That's not what I meant," she replied with a small smile "I enjoyed it. I should've thought that was pretty obvious."

He shrugged lazily "It's easier for girls to fake it than it is for guys."

That was a sound enough point, she supposed.

"It was…you were…nice."

Yes, there had been awkward moments - and a fair bit of fumbling, both of them unsure and trying to find their way - but they had found it, and none of that had detracted from it in the end. In fact, she was sure she'd be lying here a smiling, giggling twit if not for thoughts of the world outside, and of Draco Malfoy's left arm.

He still looked like he wasn't sure whether or not to believe her, and she continued - having a rough idea of what it was he really wanted to ask.

"I don't regret it," she said, and sincerely at that.

That appeased him enough for her to feel happy continuing.

"Do you?"

Maybe she wouldn't have asked if she thought he did, but some part of her still needed to hear it all the same.

"No," he shook his head "Although I probably should. As should you."

"Should, would, could," she murmured.

He made a low, rueful sound of agreement. Marilyn shifted a little there, her mind half made up to move, but then she stilled once again. She knew what she wanted to do. It was just that he wasn't likely to take it particularly well. But if she didn't, she knew she'd regret it far more than she'd ever regret this - not just because of her distaste for bullshit and pretence, nor even due to sheer morbid curiosity, but because she suspected Draco needed her to see it. Oh, he'd put up a fuss and likely hiss and bare his claws like any surly cat did when cornered, but after that? He wasn't…he wasn't well. Whatever weighed on him, whatever they were doing to him, was eating him up inside. She wasn't stupid enough to think she could fix it, but she could listen if only she could get him to talk first.

It took a hell of a mental pep talk - one that ended with if you can get up on a stage and provoke Death Eaters every night, you can damn well do this - but finally she eased her arm from beneath her chin and slid her hand towards the arm closest to her. His left arm. At first he seemed to think she was trying to hold his hand, or maybe he just grasped her fingers in a half-hearted attempt at a distraction, but when she shirked his grasp and her fingertips brushed the cuff of the shirt his entire body tensed beside her.

"What are you doing?" he scowled.

His scowls had long stopped bothering her - years ago, even. Tearing his arm away, he began to splutter nonsense about being cold, but Marilyn threaded her fingers through his and looked at him sadly.

"Draco, I know what's under there. Whether I see it or not, I know. So what difference does seeing it make?"

"If you're so certain you know, then why do you need to see it?" he snapped in return.

"Because I care about you. Deeply. And I'm worried."

Had she only said that last bit - the part about being worried - he'd have brushed her off. She knew that as a fact, thanks to how well she knew him. For a split second it looked like he was going to do so anyway, his mouth opening with some clever remark he probably had prepared since before she'd even spoken. Then, though, her words seemed to actually register with him and any force spite that had previously etched that scowl onto his face vanished with record breaking speed, afterwards he looked how he had when they first stepped into this room. Tired, and hopelessly sad.

Finally, he brandished his arm towards her, holding it ramrod straight and tensed tightly, like he half-expected her to bite it off. Marilyn's chest felt just as tightly wound as all of him was. It took every bit of dancerly discipline she possessed to stop her hands from trembling or faltering as she took hold of the cuff and slowly began to fold his shirt upwards. One fold exposed his wrist and little more, the next the pale skin of his lower forearm. His palm faced downwards, so all she could see was the outer part of his arm. She folded his sleeve up a second time, and a hint of black crept up, just a slither visible. It was enough to confirm her fears, though, and even thought she knew, there was that…and then there was knowing.

And what kind of grand prick would she be if she insisted on seeing, and then crumbled once he gave her what she demanded? So she sucked in a deep breath, steadied herself, and folded the sleeve up two more times - gently, pulling it far away from the skin as she did so, like it was a new Muggle tattoo that was still healing. When Draco didn't turn his arm over of his own accord once she was done, Marilyn wrapped her fingers gently around his wrist. His pulse hammered frantically beneath her fingers, standing in sharp contrast to the utterly expressionless look on his face. Only when she turned his arm for him did he move, and then the Dark Mark was snarling up at her - a grim skull with a snake unfurling from its mouth, blacker than black.

Her breath hitched in her throat, and she had to clear it before she could speak. Even then, her voice was reedy and weak when she managed it.

"When-" she stopped, coughed, and began anew "When did you…when did they…"

"That day in Diagon Alley. When you saw me."

"Oh, Draco…"

He pulled his arm from her grasp and this time she didn't try to chase after it - and she was still too shaken to even feel much surprise when, rather than pulling away entirely, he simply sat up enough to rid himself of the shirt altogether before he settled down again. She remained sitting up, uncaring of how exposed she was, right up until those icy grey eyes fixed her with a doleful look and he held out his arm to her - the right one this time. Allowing him to pull her close, she waited until she was settled down, her face nestled in the base of his neck, to speak again.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when he wants it to," he said, very quietly "It's fine for the most part. The process of getting it - earning it, they called it - was no fun. Evidently my pain tolerance is not so high as yours."

Marilyn didn't laugh at the half-hearted attempt at a joke.

"I thought it was only his inner circle that got them."

"It is."

"So what does he want with you, then?"

"Thanks, Baxter."

"You know what I mean, Draco, you're sixteen. This is…this is ridiculous."

"I shall pass on your disapproval with his business practises, I'm sure he'll take it well."

"Did you have a say in it?"

"Of course not."

His answer was so swift, so unthinking, that she couldn't doubt it - but they still paused afterwards all the same, and she knew they were both thinking the same thing. A few years ago, this was the sort of thing he'd have openly pined for. Now? Well, now his face said it all. While she wouldn't go as far as to think that she was responsible for the change of heart - not entirely, and maybe not even mostly - she did wonder if she had something to do with it.

"I've been thinking," he said quietly "That we need a signal. A code. Something."

"For what?"

"For me to send you. If you're in danger - if you need to get out, if you need to run. A warning."

"I'm already in danger, I'm not sure it's needed."

"It's going to get worse, Marilyn," he said quietly "Soon. When this war starts in earnest, if I catch wind of something and I find out you need to flee - for the sake of your life - we need something I can say. It also means that if somebody were to find out about us and try to lay a trap, you'll be able to differentiate a genuine warning from something sent under duress, or a forgery."

"Draco, if you sent something like that you'd be risking your own life."

"No more than he already has me doing so."

"What?"

"Forget I said anything," he said.

"I can't forget that. Draco, what is it he has you doing?"

"I can't tell you that," he echoed a version of her own words back to her.

"But it's dangerous?"

He hesitated, and that in itself was an answer. The alarm coursing through her, sharp and cold, was so intense that it bordered on nausea. It left a heavy, sick feeling building steadily in the core of her chest.

"It wouldn't be much of a punishment if it wasn't," he answered finally.

"Punishment? For what?"

"My father failed him. Why do you think he's still in Azkaban? He could get him out if he wished to, but not doing so fully cements our fall from grace. Failure is not rewarded."

"This…this thing he wants you to do. Draco, could you die?"

"If I fail he'll kill me himself. And my family. No more chances."

She didn't have to ask any questions in response to that, nor even reply at all, because now that she'd got him talking he kept going - probably relieved that he actually could talk about it now without being deemed weak or doubtful or treacherous, as his lot likely would if he voiced any of this to them. And what other alternative was there? It wasn't like he could swan up to Harry, Ron and Hermione to voice his doubts, fears, and regrets. Couldn't he go to Dumbledore? If anybody might understand, he would - Snape's presence at Hogwarts given his past (and questionable current alliances, no less) said it all on that score. She was sure if Draco went to him, he'd help.

It was a suggestion she left unsaid. Not only because the more she thought about it, the more problems she found with it - the risk alone was astronomical - but because she knew if she voiced it, he'd think she didn't understand his position at all (however much she could understand it) and lock up. Instead, she only listened as he continued. If it was all she could do, she might at least do it well.

"Even calling this a chance is laughable," he said, his voice small and barely above a whisper, like he feared He Who Must Not Be Named was hiding in the en-suite listening in "What he wants me to do…it's not something even he's managed yet. He's set it before me fully expecting that I'll fail, and then he can exact his real revenge. This is just part of the retribution - a year of nothing but fear and dread before the Killing Curse hits. He delights in it."

His voice grew thinner there - and he took a moment, in which she suspected he was collecting himself until he could trust his voice not to crack.

"I don't want to succeed, but I've no choice. If I don't, I'll die. Even if I do, I might die. If I get caught, if things go sideways if…oh, I don't know. And if I do, and I live? He's not the forgiving sort. Bygones won't be bygones, he'll continue to punish us in whatever way he sees fit because he revels in it. And even if he didn't, if he decided to be magnanimous and we were restored to our former glory in his eyes, it would only last until the next mistake. And if there were no more mistakes? If we were model followers and stood by his side as he enforced his view for the Wizarding world and all that lies beyond it? That's the best case scenario for us, and even that makes me feel sick because that's the one that sees you dead or- or enslaved. Even if you hadn't been doing what you've been doing. There's no winning this, Marilyn. Not for me. There's just…not dying. And sometimes I even ask myself if that's worth it when surviving comes with living with…with all of it, but it's not just my life on the line. It's my mother's. My father's."

He paused again, and then breathed a bitter, humourless sigh.

"That makes me sound far more noble than I am. Like I'd fall on my wand if mine was the only life on the line. I wouldn't. I'd still be here, doing all of this. Perhaps I'm a coward, but at least I'm a self-aware one."

Marilyn was speechless. Not because of all that he was unloading, although that broke her heart, but because of the change in him. Draco I'm god's gift to man Malfoy was lying beside her, denouncing himself as a coward. If there was one thing that was emblematic of the change he was being dragged through now, that was it.

"You're not a coward. Anybody in your shoes would do the same thing."

"Not Potter. He'd be dead already, having smugly refused orders."

"Yeah, well, we can't all be Harry."

"Thank Merlin," he said, and then hesitated before adding "You wouldn't be doing it either."

"You can't know that. Nobody knows what they'd do until they're faced with it."

"I do know that - you're up there risking your life to prove a point every night. Idiotic or not, it's certainly not cowardly."

"You make it sound like I go up there every night absolutely raring to prove my point."

"That does sound like you."

He sounded like he wasn't sure if he meant it as a compliment or an insult, but there was a note of fondness to it either way.

"I don't. That's just what I put forward to hide the fact that I'm absolutely shitting myself every night. Okay, maybe there's some self-righteousness there - afterwards, when I get the adrenaline rush and it's all done and I didn't die, and sometimes I'll cling to my anger just because it's the only thing that overrides the fear, but at this point? At this point it's just easier to keep going than it would be to bottle it and stop. I'm…I'm more scared of what stopping will say to the world than I am of making the big bad folk angry."

"If you knew what they were capable of, those fears would rank differently."

"I've seen it so far. The other night."

Sometimes she almost swore she could still feel the odd streak of pain shooting through the bones she'd broken.

"That? That was nothing. Not in comparison to what they could do. What they want to do."

"I know."

"You don't. You've no idea what he's capable of. The things he wants to…I could almost laugh, when I think to what I used to say only a couple of years ago. You should hate me, you know."

The question there was clear. Why don't you? But Marilyn could make a similar point.

She could hate him no more than she could hate any other kid born into any other bat-shit cult. Especially now that he was no longer the nasty little twerp who had humiliated her in front of the entire Great Hall. If he'd come here still spouting shit about blood purity and her lot getting theirs? Sure. Then she'd have difficulty. Then she'd be fully clothed, if she was even here at all. But as it stood, she could hardly even recall the last time he'd said anything that implied the existence of such beliefs. Sure, he didn't renounce them…but he didn't outright say that he wanted his Dark Lord to lose, either.

If there was a failing, it lay at the feet of his parents. They'd raised him into this. But she knew voicing that wouldn't be wise - not now that his dad was in Azkaban and his mother was worrying herself sick over him and whatever exactly it was that he was being put through. That was one of the few ways Marilyn could sympathise with Narcissa bloody Malfoy.

"I mean, the same could be said for you," she pointed out "You should hate me, too."

It was sort of the whole point of his lot and their stupid bloody war.

"That wasn't for lack of trying. In the beginning."

The TriWizard Tournament felt like decades ago now. It was funny, they'd thought themselves so grown up at the time, but they'd been utter babies.

"Right back at you," she replied, and then offered a confession in the darkness "I will never not be glad that I caved and replied to that letter over the summer, you know."

"You may feel differently before the end."

"Never," she reiterated firmly "I mean it."

His chest jerked a few times beneath her hand, at first she thought he was laughing another one of those tired, humourless laughs that was supposed to hide just how much he was currently despairing. But then his arms wrapped around her, and from the way they held her, she wondered if it wasn't yet another sob attempting to break through his façade. His grip was tight - a cling more than an embrace, and one she returned with just as much vigour - like he hoped that if he just held on tightly enough to her, they'd never have to leave this room. At least not until the world righted itself.

"I don't regret you, either," he confessed, one hand lifting to smooth over her hair "Not even slightly. If I was the noble sort, I would - for your sake. But I can't. I could never regret you. Not now."

Marilyn always thought nobility was pretty overrated anyway. That was the sort of joke she would've made had she not been rendered speechless - and downright bloody breathless - over what was basically a confession of love. So she only held him tighter, pressed a kiss laden with meaning to the hollow of his throat, and tried to will the outside world to disappear entirely.

Chapter Text

Draco left her, in the end, with a final, long kiss and a warning that she should keep her wand on her at all times. Marilyn didn't see fit to add to his woes by letting him in on the fact that the company had already come to a similar conclusion, and had come up with a solution. A holster, for lack of a less simplistic term - that would strap her wand to her inner thigh (the only part of her body that was long enough and would not cause it to bend and break as she danced, nor would it inhibit her movement), where it would sit concealed by the loose, flowing skirts of her dress. Even if they did catch a glimpse, her wand was lightly coloured enough that it wouldn't be too noticeable to the audience where they sat in their seats. Not in the candlelight that lit Wizarding stages, anyway.

If they were working with real Muggle spotlights and the harsh glare that went with them, it may have proven a problem, but given everything? Nobody would blame her for keeping her wand close. A charge of underage magic seemed a small thing to contend with these days. Sabrina even argued that if they did glimpse her wand and speculate on it, it added to the performance - like it was some statement piece on just what sorry times they'd found themselves in, where ballerinas could not even dance without being suitably armed.

Marilyn had resisted the urge to point out that plenty of folk wanted to bring about that exact world.

In any case, she voiced none of that to Draco. She voiced nothing to him, not really. They stood by the door hugging one another so fiercely that they were practically in danger of merging into one. Somehow that felt more meaningful than the kiss they shared after, even though they drew it out to the point where if they continued, they'd have ended up back on the bed again. There wasn't time for that. And it would only make leaving even harder than it already was.

There hadn't even been any words of reassurance - no insistence that they'd see each other again, soon or otherwise, or even that they'd be fine. This was all becoming far too real, and they knew they couldn't make promises like that anymore. It was difficult to say which was the biggest sign of that - the brand on his arm, or her recent attack.

She rejoined her ballet kin and they returned to the WIB headquarters together afterwards - Adriano was silent the whole time, carefully keeping himself at the opposite end of the group at all times. Marilyn felt bad for how relieved she felt at that fact, truth be told. Too much weighed on her, too many thoughts and emotions all wrapped up into one, for her to begin thinking how she'd even begin explaining herself to him. The fact of the matter was, if anybody else was in her position, swearing up and down that Draco Malfoy was good at heart, she'd think them a fucking idiot. Christ, she'd only just gotten over deeming herself an idiot for thinking so.

In any case, none of the others asked where she'd been - even though it turned out that having sex for the first time left one feeling like they were walking around with a sign over their head announcing that fact in flashing neon lights - and she didn't much have the energy to work out whether Adriano had covered for her after all, or if they just didn't really care. Upon returning "home", she dipped into the healer's office and grabbed a contraceptive potion. Apparently they'd learned as early as the sixties that leaving these resources out in the open to be grabbed, no questions asked, was much easier for everybody involved than ballerinas dropping out left, right, and centre, because of certain consequences.

It was only after all of that, when there was quite literally nothing left to do - after she'd washed, gotten to her dormitory, changed into a cosy pair of pyjamas, brushed her hair out, and finally curled up in her bed, by which point it was well into the early hours of the morning - that she allowed her mind to turn to Draco.

She was still sore. Not unbearably so - not in comparison to the state a day of work often left her in afterwards, which was always somewhere between feeling like her muscles had been replaced by unforgiving steel, and that she'd been hit by a bus. If anything, it was kind of nice. A reminder that she'd seen him, and that it had happened, while everything outwardly had to revolve around furiously pretending that she hadn't, and that it didn't. Soon the soreness would fade, as would the dark love bite he'd left to the right of her ribcage (because she'd forbidden him from leaving any elsewhere, refusing to spend extra time in front of the mirror slathering it with makeup), and she'd be left only with her fears and questions over whether she ever would see him again.

Bringing her knees up to her chest, she closed her eyes and pulled the covers tighter around her. If she squeezed her eyes shut tightly enough, and used the bedding to block out any ambient noise from around the building, she could almost kid herself that she was back in that hotel room again. That he was dozing behind her, well and very much alive. It offered barely a shadow of a shred of comfort, but it was still something.

The whole 'star crossed lovers' thing sounded much more fun on paper - or in ballets, for that matter. In real life it just really, really sucked.

It would be a lie if she pretended she wasn't a bit of a zombie over the course of the next day. Mostly she just went through the motions - stretching, barre exercises, lunch, and then preparing for the show ahead that night. At one point before breakfast she did try to speak with Adriano, but he remained stony-faced and simply told her that he wanted space, barely even looking at her as he did so. That surprised her, because he wasn't really the type to stew in silence, but then again she wasn't the type to sleep with Death Eaters, so she respected his wishes. What else could she do?

If time and distance were the two things he needed to maybe get to a place where he could at least hear her out, she'd be fucking over both of them if she refused him that. It wasn't like it was a conversation she was looking forward to having, anyway, so the time was a bit of a boon to her, too. Even if she just wanted them to be on good terms again. She'd never been on Adriano's shitlist before, and she never wanted to be on it again.

Others were noticing the difference, too, given the odd looks they received once it was clear they were giving one another a wide berth and they no longer wandered around as a pair, thick as thieves. When they asked Marilyn what was going on, she gave them the brush off. If they went to Adriano, he ignored them entirely - which only drew more suspicion in the end, because it was so uncharacteristically frosty. If she hadn't already known damn well how severely she'd pissed him off, she would have after that.

He'd just never been the sort to handle his anger this way. He didn't freeze people out, he ranted and raved and expressed just how angry he truly was…and then made up. Ordinarily. But the more she thought on it, the more she knew just how naïve she'd been to think everybody might be as understanding about her association with Draco as George Weasley had been back in their fourth year. Christ, even George would probably react the same way if he knew it had continued on now - and if anything only deepened since then.

Throughout the day, she set new milestones in her mind - at which point she was sure Adriano would come to her to talk. After their morning rounds of physio, which then became after their barre class, which then became after lunch. The gaps between those milestones became shorter and shorter, too, as the day pressed on and still he showed no desire to speak to her at all, because surely he wouldn't want to get on stage with her that night when they still weren't on speaking terms? She realised how sorely misguided that notion had been by the time they stood in their dressing room again, getting ready in silence. By that point, she had to stop and ask herself if this hadn't strayed from "you've done something to anger me" territory and leapt into "what you did has fundamentally changed my view of who you are as a human, and whether I want you in my life".

Mostly, she bore it as best she could - meeting it head on, refusing to allow herself to put the radio on in order to ease the awkward silence, and not pushing for him to just confront her already as she wished he would. Even as she pulled on her tights, and then her wand holster, and then her dress, she waited for him to say something. Anything. Even if that confrontation began mid-rant, continuing on from whatever internal monologue he had running through his mind, she'd accept it. A firm 'I just can't believe you'd be so stupid', or a question as to how long it had been going on. Anything that wouldn't find them having to dance like they were in love while she was sat wondering if he'd ever actually speak to her again. Hell, up until now she'd been wondering if she'd arrive tonight to find he'd pulled out of their performance entirely, opting only to dance in the actual main show.

Once she was finally ready and had nothing left to occupy herself with, she turned to him and watched as he half-heartedly combed his dark hair back from his face, studiously avoiding her gaze in the mirror.

"Five minutes, guys!" somebody called from the other side of the door.

Even then, he scarcely glanced towards her.

"Okay, thank you," Marilyn called back when he said nothing, before finally addressing him "Are…you ready to go?"

He blinked at her, and then he finally nodded. Opening the door, Marilyn waited, offering her arm to him, like they always did. Adriano brushed past her without accepting it. Whatever heavy, ominous feeling had been plucking absently at the strings in her chest began to seize at them more tightly now. But she followed - half a foot behind him, her eyes fixed forward. They remained that way more or less right up until they took their place at centre stage, Marilyn stepping in front of him as he stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her front, hands pressing over her abdomen. There was an unfamiliar uneasiness in those arms, their familiar stillness nowhere to be found in how she could feel the muscles in his arms tensing and untensing to such an extent that they almost trembled as they wrapped around her.

She felt sweat begin to pool at the small of her back, despite the fact that the curtain hadn't even gone up yet. A whistle somewhere to the left told her that they were waiting for the signal, and she belatedly turned her head and offered the smallest of nods. Then the curtain did go up, and she was forcing a smile onto her lips despite herself.

That feeling of wrongness didn't go away. The first verse began to sound, the wistful nature of the music contrasting sharply to the dread in her chest as she spun on the toes of one foot to face Adriano. It was difficult to gaze at him with longing when he still would not look at her, his gaze downcast rather than at her face. It was wrong, it was very wrong. There was little in this life that she took more seriously than dancing, and few who she felt could match her dedication never mind outdo it, but if there was one who could fit that bill, it would be him. He wouldn't do this - bar perhaps if she'd slaughtered everybody he held dear the night before, and even then it would be an "if".

Her right arm looped around his shoulder while his left came around loosely to her back - too loosely, as he spun her and then dipped her low. The grip was wrong, and she had to cling to him so that she didn't fall, rather than being able to rely on his strength to keep her right. His hold remained inconsistent - painfully tight one second then uselessly loose the next, to the point where he nearly completely dropped her as he dipped her again to the other side, and then righted her. The smile nearly slipped from her face when she was standing straight again - and he didn't even try to return it at all.

Something was very wrong. Sinatra continued to sing.

"I'm wild again, beguiled again, a simpering, whimpering child again…"

As Marilyn lifted one leg to point out straight behind her, he should have moved in a slow, careful circle, supporting her as she in a slow, full circle on the toes of the other foot. But again his movements were off, and the whole thing took much more effort on her part than it ordinarily would have. The smile did leave her face now. Adriano would never mess up a move so simple as walking in a damn circle - no matter how angry he was. On pure principle, he just wouldn't damn well do it. This wasn't him, he wasn't…he wasn't himself.

Something in her seized up, and when she let go of him so she could spin away, trying her damnedest not to let on until she was out of arm's length, she finally used one hand to rip her dress out of the way so that the other could yank her wand from the holster at her thigh. Her haste sent her off balance and she slipped, screeching to a halt to face him, wand in hand as she finally righted herself and dropped to the flats of her feet. Just in time to deflect the Killing Curse that came within a foot of hitting her.

Another followed in short order, Adriano's face blank as he fired curse after curse at her. Marilyn was too busy deflecting them all to even really notice the screaming that was beginning to echo all around - from the audience, from the sides of the stage. Hell, from the stagehands and security officers up in the rafters. The barriers caging them all the way into this little box of stage space didn't mean a damn thing now. All it did was turn this into a cage match.

"Couldn't sleep and wouldn't sleep, love came and told me I shouldn't sleep…bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I…"

The music still went on, everybody apparently panicking too much to do anything about it.

It was the Imperius Curse. It had to be. His poor dancing had given him away, perhaps evidence that he was trying to fight it underneath, but it would've been worse still if it was some random under the influence of Polyjuice Potion. Unfortunately, that meant she was limited with what she could fire back. He was under no such limitations.

There were folk at either side of the stage working hard to bring the barriers down, but in the time it had retracted barely three feet, she'd deflected just as many more bolts of sickly green light, her heart doing what it could to lurch up out of her throat.

"Stupefy!" she cried.

It was deflected easily, but that deflection stopped him from firing another Unforgivable her way, and the knowledge that if she hadn't had her wand strapped to her she'd be dead flew through her mind with far too much coherency for comfort. As if to emphasise the impact of that thought, the music finally stopped, leaving only screaming to meet her ears as the audience scattered towards the back of the theatre. Was she imagining the odd shout or two of encouragement she heard, though? Was the encouragement meant for her?

The next curse hit uncomfortably close, and it was followed by a single gleeful shriek of joy from the crowd. There was no room for doubt after that - but nor any for her to stop and look, either, the furore of the spells Adriano pelted in her direction over and over contrasted eerily by the complete lack of any expression on his face.

She needed to turn the tables and do it quick - so she took up his own tactic, and flung disarming spells at him over and over and over, even if it meant she had to physically dodge his attacks rather than deflecting them magically. Her reflexes were quick, though, years of athleticism working in her favour, as did the jerky motion of Adriano's arm on more than one count, pulling his aim off-course at the last second. The first Disarming Charm didn't hit, but the second did, and then the third did again anyway, because she was so intent on barraging him with them that she didn't have the room to wait to see if it was working.

His wand flew from his hand, skittering across the stage, and right to the feet of those on the other side. They'd finally managed to bring down the wards.

"Stupefy!" she cried - because there was no way she was waiting for somebody else to do it.

Adriano hit the floor barely ten seconds after his wand had, which was good - because it was at that point that it all caught up with her, and she began to shake too fiercely to even grip her wand properly. Her ability to stand left her next, and she was on her ass on the floor by the time Sabrina was rushing to her side.

Unlike the last incident, Marilyn already knew there'd be no recovering from this.

Chapter Text

Marilyn was spirited away to her dressing room, a heavy grey blanket wrapped around her and a hot mug of tea pressed into her hands. It was all with the aim of making her feel better, she knew that, but that was difficult to do. Not because she felt terrible but because, well, she didn't feel much of anything at all. It was shock - she knew that, too. But knowing that did nothing to undo it. She could barely feel the blanket about her shoulders, and she didn't even flinch when the tea burned her tongue. It might as well have been water, for all she tasted it.

Adriano was, to her knowledge, where he had dropped - being put through anti-Cursing measures to rid him of the influence he'd been put under. What he chose to say when he was brought around would be his decision. It wouldn't be unreasonable for him to blame Draco. Maybe it was unreasonable of her not to suspect him at all. It didn't matter. Adriano would tell him what he wished to - what he believed. As was his right. She'd need to deal with whatever came from that. As was her lot.

While it wasn't the least of her problems, it also wasn't all that was on her plate. This second attack coming so swiftly after the last was the nail in the coffin as far as her run was concerned. If she didn't have the faculties to realise that herself, the murmurs outside of her door would've tipped her off.

"All of this because of her? When is enough enough? What's next? None of us will be safe."

"What do you expect them to do? Ban Muggleborns from the company? They can't do that."

"Of course not - but she doesn't need to go rubbing it in everybody's faces like she does. If she'd just kept her head down, none of this would be happening."

She didn't know if her sisters who were speaking knew she was in here - if it was being said for her benefit, or if she really did just happen to be overhearing what they would've said anyway.

"It's not all her. Sabrina pushed for it, this whole thing was her masterplan."

"Sabrina's not the one they're trying to get to, though. What does she expect, provoking them like she is? They weren't even out to get her 'til she made the first move. She spent too long around Harry Potter back on that Hogwarts trip - now she fancies herself a hero."

"Maybe it wasn't Harry Potter she spent too long around. When she first started all this, one of the other Beauxbatons girls told me - she had a thing with Draco Malfoy. Then he found out about her blood status and humiliated her in front of the whole school."

"Oh, shit. Is that why she's doing this?"

"A woman scorned…"

Dropping the mug to the dressing table so quickly that half of the tea jumped out of it, she lifted her hands to her ears and leaned forward, closing her eyes and blocking it all out. She didn't want to hear what they had to say next. Faintly, in the back of her mind, she contemplated changing out of her costume, but that idea was out the moment she began to think about all that doing so would entail. The small, simple steps of untying her shoes, removing all of the infrastructure packed about her toes, peeling off her tights, all of it, that she'd gone through countless times before now suddenly seemed intolerable. Impossible, even.

A commotion began to sound outside - one that had her throat seizing up and her hand flying to her wand as she jumped to her feet.

"Wait! You can't go in there yet! Hold on!" somebody was shouting - and they then repeated the plea in French, as if hoping it would make whoever they were shouting at heed them more.

The response they got was neither English nor French, though, but Italian - heated, furious Italian that she could hear clear as day through the door, even if she couldn't understand a whole lot of it.

When the door slammed open and Adriano burst in, it was Adriano. She could see it right away, all of the strangeness that had her hair standing on end nowhere to be seen now. No, his face was anything but blank now - his brows knitted together as he paused only long enough to make sure she wasn't about to freak out at the sight of him, and then he was yanking her into the tightest, most bone-crushing hug of her life. One she returned just as fiercely - rising up until she was almost en pointe just to give herself a better angle to which she could press kisses to his cheek as she clung to him.

"Are you alright?" she asked without letting go.

"Are you?" he countered with a humourless laugh "I was angry with you, but not that angry. If you hadn't realised when you did…"

Over his shoulder, she noticed the door to the room was still open. The girls she'd heard talking were still standing outside - one met her gaze and then quickly looked away again, down at her shoes. Apparently they really hadn't known she'd be able to hear them, then.

"Your dancing gave it away," she mumbled to Adriano, closing her eyes "You were making mistakes."

It spoke to just how much what they did often came down to the most minute detail possible that it made a difference in the end - considering those tiny, infinitesimal mannerisms were the only ways he'd been able to rebel against the influence of the curse.

"Let us be glad it wasn't Fabien you danced with, then," he sniffed shakily "You'd never have noticed in that case."

She couldn't even make a sad attempt at a laugh.

"If they'd decided that they'd be happy enough getting rid of you without trying to get to me…" she said quietly.

"Or if they'd decided to have it done in the dressing room. Or back in the dormitories," he pointed out "There were many opportunities, all before you even suspected…"

They were lucky. Not least because the Death Eaters (whether singularly or as a collective) had decided that since she and Adriano had been making their statement on a stage, they wanted their counter-argument to be just as public. If this had been a case of function over form, she'd have been dead hours ago.

Maybe next time, they'd learn from that mistake. Maybe next time she wouldn't see it coming.

She couldn't say whether it was due to that realisation, or just because Adriano was well, and he was himself, and he was still hugging her, but she was consciously aware of that being the moment where the numb fog of her shock began to wane, and her limbs started to shake. Or maybe vibrate was a more apt word.

"It's a clear case of self defence, with countless witnesses," Adriano said, finally letting go of her and stepping back "You're in no trouble - not as far as underaged magic is concerned."

"But in the case of the people who did this…?" she filled in the blank "Did they catch them? Someone was shouting in the audience - cheering. Could it have been…it must have been, right?"

His lips set into a thin, grim line.

"They did not catch them, stellina. They're still investigating, but how can you follow someone after they Apparate? I suspect what they're doing now is just for show. It's better than coming back and shrugging and asking 'eh, what can you do?', you know?"

"Barely."

"They want to interview us. They wanted to be interviewing me now, but I insisted on coming here first to make sure that…pah - it sounds silly to apologise. It wasn't me. But, if it had succeeded…"

It sounded a whole lot less scary than the big bad they. Using the word "it" made it sound like some sort of freak natural disaster, rather than focused and purposeful hatred.

"It didn't."

Which of the two of them needed to hear that most, she didn't know.

"I need you to tell me now, and tell me honestly, if there's even a slightest possibility in your mind that he was involved in this Marilyn. The most fucking sneaking suspicion. A shred. Is there?"

"No."

Admittedly, she did wonder if the swiftness with which she answered would work against her. But her answer wasn't so stupidly quick as to be defensive - and she was certain. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"And he…was with you for all of that night? Until we saw you again?"

She nodded, and either her face betrayed her or he just knew her so damn well that it didn't matter how closed she tried to keep her features, because she suspected he knew exactly what had happened that night judging by the traces of exasperation in his eyes as he sighed.

"Well. We can discuss that idiocy later."

"You believe me?" she asked quietly, eyes widening in disbelief.

"I do. Because it was a woman who got to me - well, women. Two of them. But I did not see their faces. Were he in on it, he would have brought you to them, no?"

She supposed she was lucky he didn't view it as some sort of ploy - that Draco was sent in as a diversion or something, but such a plan was too convoluted and too tricky to make sense of. If they'd known that she was nearby, they could've cut out the middleman and Imperio'd her - instructing her to get on the broom, glide all the way to the top of the stage space, and promptly Avada Kedavra herself or something equally impressive. No, Draco's presence was purely a coincidence. Even if it was a hell of a coincidence. A terrible one.

The more she thought on it, the more terrible that coincidence really became. Whatever the time frame between Adriano leaving them and getting accosted, it was far too small for comfort. The shorter the time-frame, the slimmer the physical proximity was between she, Draco, and the Death Eaters. For all she knew, there'd only been one street and a couple of wrong turns between she and Draco running smack bang into them herself. And then they'd all be dead.

Shit, who was to say they didn't know? That they hadn't seen anything? However tempting it might've been to think that the retribution would be instant and bloody loud at that, it really hadn't been very long. The shaking in her limbs worsened.

"Sir, we really must insist you talk to us now," there was an Auror in the doorway, insisting to Adriano.

Muttering something in Italian - which, as far as she could gather, revolved around 'fucking idiots' and something to do with their jobs - he turned back to them, and she sank back into her chair. Her hands trembled so badly that she could barely get the blanket over her again.

Draco was woken from a fitful sleep by his Aunt Bella's maniacal shrieking laughter. Knowing instantly that there'd be no getting back to sleep - his sleep came primarily in naps these days, and even those were hard-won - he sat up in his bed and listened.

"Did you see it? Did you see it, Cissy? Ha!"

"Hush, Bella, you'll wake Draco."

Something about his mother's tone piqued his interest. What had happened? While part of him was tempted to close his eyes and pull his pillow over his head so that he could not be troubled by what he did not know, he ignored it. It was a toss-up these days - whether the truth of whatever had happened might be worse than whatever his mind could conjure - but he knew that an awareness of what was going on was one of the few, flimsy ways that he might stay alive these days. So he slid from the bed and walked quietly, shoeless, to the door of his bedroom in their French holiday home.

"Good! That's why you wanted to do it, was it not? For him? The boy should hear it. It was a shame it didn't work as we planned, but Merlin it was funny."

Easing the door open so that it wouldn't click or creak, he slipped into the hallway and moved towards the stairs until he could look down into the entrance hall. Bella's cloak was already gone as she meandered around the space in aimless, bouncy circles as though trying to burn off excess energy. His mother was much more subdued, removing her own cloak and carefully hanging it up by the door. Bella was not content for her sister not to match her energy.

"Look! Cissy! Who am I? Who am I?" she cajoled, rising up to her tip-toes and holding her hands aloft over her head.

The stance was near-enough a universal one - blatantly mimicking a ballerina. Draco's heart doubled in weight where it sat in his chest. Then it quadrupled, when Bella mimicked being hit by some invisible force and went tumbling down to the gleaming hardwood floor with a shriek of gleeful laughter.

"Oh come on, you have to admit it was good," Bella said when his mother still did not so much as smile.

"We did not succeed, Bella," she replied flatly.

It was those words - the ones that filled him with hope as much as they apparently filled his mother with disappointment - that had Draco speaking up from where he stood.

"What's this?" he called down to them.

Both of their heads shot up to look at him, Bella remaining giggling on the floor while his mother sighed.

"It's nothing, Draco. It doesn't matter."

Walking to the top of the stairs, Bella rose to her feet as he began to descend them.

"We went to the ballet," she said with a grin.

"The ballet?" he echoed flatly "I thought it had been taken over by mudbloods and blood traitors."

"That," his mother said quietly "Is why we went."

He stopped once he reached the bottom of the stairs, frowning at the two of them. Belatedly, he realised he had a white-knuckle grip on the bannister and then let go, shoving his hand into his pocket. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to let the matter go, his mother's shoulders slumped and she beckoned for him to follow her. Bella rose clumsily to her feet and began to follow along, giggling and doing what she probably thought looked like ballet moves as she trailed along behind them.

Once they were in the sitting room with the doors shut behind them, he lowered himself into the great overstuffed armchair furthest away from the fireplace, for he was already sweating quite enough, doing his best to ignore the way his heart hammered in his chest like nothing else. It was a wonder they couldn't hear it.

'We did not succeed, Bella' - that was what his mother had said. It had to mean something. It had to mean something good. It had to. The only other possibility was much too terrible.

"Tea?" his mother offered as the fine china on the coffee table began to fill itself with a wave of her wand.

He shook his head, he didn't trust his voice.

"You should have some, Draco. You look terribly pale."

It took everything he had not to scream at her that he didn't want any bloody tea - that the only thing he did want was for her to tell him where in Merlin's name they'd just been, and what it was they were doing there. He cleared his throat and then said lowly.

"I don't want any."

His mother relented at that, picking up her own cup and slowly sitting while Bella took up a biscuit and sat down by the fire while she nibbled at it. Draco turned his attention from her and to his mother instead.

"You know of this Marilyn Baxter, yes?" she asked, and his eyes almost widened before she continued "The one in all of the papers?"

"She was at Hogwarts for the TriWizard Tournament," he said.

It was what he would have said if he hadn't seen her since - and it made it look like he kept no secrets about their having crossed paths. In response, Bella wrinkled her nose and made a disgusted noise; one that had nothing to do with the biscuit in her hand.

"Sounds just like that oaf Dumbledore," she grunted.

The mention of the man's name had that familiar sense of nausea roiling in his stomach.

"Yes, well, she's been making quite a name for herself in all of the wrong circles," his mother replied evenly "And we thought - your auntie Bella and I - that it may…please the Dark Lord if something was done about her. That it would further his cause, and remind others to know their place."

He could read between those lines with a fair amount of ease. Talking about her intentions in front of Bella was like talking about them as if he himself was in the room with them, and so they had to speak carefully. But her intent was clear. She was hoping that if she'd do away with such a vocal rebel, it would earn them at least a shade of favour in his eyes. Enough goodwill to perhaps make life bearable as he sought to carry out his task. It was probably wise thinking. Draco despised it.

"Is that not unwise?" he asked slowly "He has many plans, and no reason to share them all with us. What if he had something in mind for her and you interfered with that?"

"Anybody other than Potter is fair game unless the Dark Lord explicitly states otherwise," Bella gave a shrug, growing bored with the biscuit and throwing the half she had not yet eaten into the fire.

The smell as it burned threatened to knock Draco sick.

"In these small acts of retribution, we further the cause. We remind those who think they can oppose him that we're still here, and that nobody is safe. Not even from one another."

Small acts of retribution. That was how she described the decision to murder the girl he–

Draco spoke before he could finish that thought, interrupting it so that he didn't have to face it.

"What did you do?"

It took every shred of willpower he had to keep his tone devoid of any emotion as he asked.

"Tried to kill the stupid little bint, but it didn't work," Bella muttered sourly.

"We…happened across her dancing partner late last night, and put him under our influence," his mother's answer was far more delicate "He was supposed to do away with her mid-performance tonight, but something tipped her off - she suspected, and she caught him in time."

"Boy must be a half-blood as well as a blood traitor," Bella grumbled "Else he would've managed it."

"So she's not- she didn't…" he paused, collected himself, and then tried a third time "The plan did not succeed?"

His mother seemed to take his agitation as disappointment, pursing her lips and sighing tiredly.

"Not as we intended, no. She survived the attack, but her career will not. The WIB will not endanger all of their dancers for the sake of one mudblood - she'll be cast out, and then dealt with at a later date. It may not be the outcome we sought, Draco, but it's still a favourable one. A message has been delivered."

"If we can do that to somebody on a stage, in front of an audience, what can we do to the ones who cower and hide in their homes?" Bella snickered.

"No doubt we'll soon find out," Draco said.

His mother seemed as warmed by that prospect as he felt when he looked to her, but the glee in Bella's eyes made it clear she hadn't caught onto the general mood of the room - or if she had, she did not care. She was riding on a high from the night she'd had.

"I'm going back to bed," he said - after counting to a hundred in his head, so it didn't look like he was hurrying off in a flurry of emotions "I was sleeping when you arrived."

"That's good," his mother smiled sadly "You need more rest."

"He does," Bella confirmed, earning looks of bemusement from the both of them at her apparent care before she continued "He's got quite the school year ahead of him."

His mother's face all but threatened to collapse at that and she looked away, an expressionless mask fixing itself over her features. Draco knew how she felt. He was wearing an identical one right then, was he not? He paused only to kiss her on the cheek, finding it difficult to even be secretly furious with her over the events of the night when he knew exactly how it was she was feeling, and then he left.

It was tempting, in the hallway, to begin falling apart then and there, but it was too soon - to out in the open, too close to where he might be overheard. So he balled his hands into fists until he was sure his fingers were about to snap, and took the stairs slowly despite the urge he felt to sprint up them two and three at a time. He was struggling to control his lungs as it was.

Stepping into his bedroom was like coming up for air after being submerged underwater. The moment the door was shut and locked behind him, he began gasping for a breath, his chest heaving as he took a handful of steps towards his bed before the will to stand abandoned him altogether and he ended up kneeling on the floor beside it as though he was about to pray. Perhaps he'd be tempted if only he thought it would be any help at all.

It had been too close. Entirely too fucking close. No doubt he'd see just how close when Bella started doing fan dances across the house with the latest editions of the Daily Prophet come morning.

Not only that, but they'd been there, in the same area, on the very same night he'd been with Marilyn. They hadn't seen anything - nor did they know anything - he was confident of that for a fact. Perhaps his mother would have been able to hide it, but Bella never would have. She wouldn't be laughing and dancing and eating biscuits, she'd have had her wand jabbing into his throat the second she saw him after learning of it.

Still, it had been far too close. If they'd stumbled across that bloody Italian at the same time he'd stumbled across him with Marilyn, if they'd decided to interrogate him before they set him upon this terrible task of his. It was a good thing they thought they had no reason to. Under the influence of the curse, he'd have told them everything, no torture necessary…despite the fact that Bella would've likely thrown it in anyway for a bit of fun.

The hint of his white shirt, the one he'd worn while…the one from that night poked out from beneath his pillow - where he'd stashed it so that the elves wouldn't take it to wash. It still smelled like her; like whatever perfume it was she wore - pomegranate, and something vaguely floral, with an odd fleck here and there of the glitter she hadn't fully managed to shed from the stage.

Too close. It had been much too close. He told himself that even as he pulled the shirt towards him and fell back onto his arse, holding it up to his nose and feeling like the world's most pathetic prat as he found himself relieved that the perfume still lingered. The way he had to clench his jaw against the tears that threatened to spill didn't help. He never used to be a sodding crier. He'd never been that pitiful. How many near-misses would they have before something actually hit? And when that day came, they'd sit back and wish they'd heeded all of these multiple warnings.

Worse still, why did that not stop him from loathing the idea of cutting ties entirely?

It mattered little - whether he loathed it or not. He couldn't write. Not now. It simply wasn't an option. It was too dangerous for everybody involved, and the only reason he could think to do it would be if he wanted to get the both of them killed.

He just had to hope she would not take his silence for involvement - but surely they'd come too far for that now.

Chapter Text

Sabrina had done her best to delay their very inevitable meeting. That was Marilyn's first hint that she wouldn't like what it would entail - the way the older woman kept trying to convince her to give it another few days, to have a break, to relax, to collect herself before they discussed what might come next. The next indicator was more of a great shining beacon than a hint, coming in the form of the ashen colour of her face when the meeting finally did come the very next afternoon, upon Marilyn's insistence. But she still didn't realise just how bad it would be. Which was how she found herself tearfully packing her cases in her dorm room when Adriano entered.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

It was tempting to bite out a what do you think? or something equally snarky, but he was the only person in this building who had been through more than she had in the last day or two, and he was undeserving of her ire. In fact, she owed him more gratitude than she'd likely ever be able to actually give him. So she answered.

"Packing."

The sheer dismay in his eyes as they widened was enough to have tears springing to hers.

"They kicked you out?"

"No," she said "Not technically. I…I went into the meeting thinking it was just our little performance that was over. Turns out it's more than that."

There was a tightness at the back of her throat - like a rubber band, being stretched to absolute capacity. If she stopped, and took some deep breaths, and if she got a fucking grip, it eased up a bit. But then she'd say a few words, and it was right back to being ready to snap again. It took a while for her to recount what had happened thanks to that, but Adriano was patient, sitting down on her bed and staring at her with those impossibly dark eyes of his.

"It's over," Marilyn said as Sabrina entered the office.

She said it before the woman even managed to close the door behind her, too, some small part of her hoping that maybe if she said it first, it would be less painful. The woman was free of her usual immaculate manner of dress - donning blue jeans and an oversized white cable knit jumper, her hair piled atop her head and not even a trace of red lipstick or winged eyeliner in sight. In all of Marilyn's time here, she'd never seen Sabrina dressed down.

It didn't bode well.

"Yes," Sabrina replied hesitantly - and only once she'd reached the chair behind her desk "I'm afraid it is."

"It's…it's time for it to be done," Marilyn shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself "With what happened to Adriano…and it'll only get more dangerous from here…I couldn't get up on that stage again and say the risk is worth it. Not when it's more than just me getting hurt."

Sabrina's eyes were fixed intently on her as she spoke, her eyebrows creeping up and up as though surprised to hear her saying all of this. It was difficult for Marilyn not to be offended by that. Did she really think she'd take this latest development as an occupational hazard and insist they continued?

"Maybe it's cowardly of me, but I'm actually relieved," she admitted - and Sabrina's eyebrows almost hit her hairline at that, at least until she continued "It'll be nice to just be a normal dancer again without all of the extra stress. It's not half as scary just being in the corps de ballet, it'll be nice to return to that. Pay my dues there, you know? It's also one less costume change to…worry about…"

It was the very visible reaction that Sabrina was giving her words that had Marilyn trailing off. Her eyebrows stopped rising and quickly began to move in the opposite direction, furrowing deeply - sadly - her lips pressing together in a thin line as her hands came clasping together atop the desk.

"Miss Baxter…Marilyn…" she sighed.

"What? What is it?"

"Some concern has been expressed," Sabrina said carefully "By your fellow dancers - as to how safe, or rather unsafe, they may be if forced to continue sharing a stage with you. I'm afraid they view Adriano's ordeal as a sign of things to come."

Marilyn stared at her. Sabrina stared back. For a time. Then, finally, she sighed and lowered her gaze. Still, she did not speak.

"I'm out," Marilyn breathed.

She meant it as a question, but it didn't come out as one - which was just as well, because she already knew the answer.

"I didn't say that," Sabrina shook her head.

"That's what it sounds like."

"You are under contract with the company for the next nine months still, and we recognise that recent events are not your fault and therefore we will happily honour the contract still. You are more than welcome to remain here, to continue making use of our facilities and our classes, but we cannot put you on a stage again. Not for the time being."

Marilyn stared blankly at her.

"You will also still be paid, regardless of whether or not you actually perform, given that we recognise that the reason for your inability to perform is beyond your control."

Inability. That was a funny word for it.

It was impossible for Marilyn to know how much longer she spent sitting there, staring at Sabrina in disbelief. And then, finally, she rose.

"I'll go and pack," she muttered.

"Marilyn, let's not act rashly," she said "As I've already stated, you're more than welcome to remain on the grounds, and-"

"Yeah? How long will that last?" she asked flatly.

It was hardly a great leap from we don't want to share a stage with her to we don't want to share a building with her. And what use were the facilities to her if she wasn't performing? What was she to do? Rehearse for parts she'd never get? Learn the moves for ballets she'd never dance in? Watch others progress while she could not? For something that was ultimately Sabrina's bloody idea, while they all sat back and looked at her like she'd masterminded the whole thing on her own with no help or encouragement?

In response to her question, Sabrina's face fell, and then she faltered, her mouth opening but producing no words. It told Marilyn all she needed to know about the sort of time limit she had left as far as hanging around here was concerned.

"You could go back to Beauxbatons…" she suggested slowly.

"Yeah, and then I'd be their problem, right?"

The school year was halfway done and she was dropped out in all but technicality. The 't's had not been crossed and the 'i's not dotted, but she hadn't looked at a textbook in weeks. Keeping up with NEWTs on top of the demands of being a ballerina was virtually impossible, and she'd been busy telling herself that no ballerina needed anything more than OWL qualifications, anyway.

Even if Madame Maxime was willing to have her back with her newfound notoriety, she'd gone through all of her previous years with ballet blinders on. To return now, kicked out of the WIB, would be more humiliating than what Draco had done to her in the Great Hall of Hogwarts a thousand times over.

"There's still the money," Sabrina pointed out.

The money was good money when living here - not at the mercy of bills, rent, and a need to buy her own food. Out there? Out there it likely wouldn't go far. And she'd only have it until September. The WIB would not renew a contract of a ballerina that could do no work for them, and the moment they could stop paying her would be the moment they would stop paying her. Shit, they'd probably do it now if they didn't worry that it would create the scandal of a lifetime. No doubt some Wizarding lawyer looking to make a name for themselves in the name of aiding Muggleborns would be all to happy to take her on.

Her ballet career was over before it was even truly beginning - unless He Who Must Not Be Named dropped dead tomorrow, which wasn't bloody likely - and now she found herself unqualified in just about literally everything else, unable to stay, and with nowhere to go.

"Yeah," Marilyn replied flatly "Great. How exactly has all of this impacted your career, by the way?"

Sabrina pursed her lips and looked away. Yeah. That was what she thought. The face of an act of rebellion was all too easy to turn into the scapegoat when that rebellion became inconvenient.

None of it felt quite real at the time. It only felt marginally realer now, in fact, while she stood in her grubby trainers, joggers, and a plain white t-shirt, stuffing anything and everything she owned haphazardly into her beaten blue Beauxbatons luggage. The weight of it all settled upon her in dribs and drabs - primarily when she stopped moving. So she did not stop moving.

"Oh, Marilyn…" Adriano breathed, hanging his head.

"Don't," she said sharply "You'll make me cry. I refuse to cry about this."

At least not until she was out of the building - alone, in private. She wouldn't be pitied. Not by these people. With most of her stuff seen to, one of the few things that remained was the pile of letters atop her desk. They'd arrived over the course of the morning. One from Hermione, judging by the handwriting, another from Fred and George - betrayed by the purple and orange stationery - along with some from school acquaintances, and a few others from strangers. Those would either be words of support, or cries of good riddance.

"Are any of them from him?" he asked quietly when she picked them up.

"No," she shook her head.

It didn't surprise her, and she didn't allow it to disappoint her. It was for the best. Neither of their lives were worth a half-hearted scolding and a quarter-hearted peptalk. With how things were going, she couldn't help but suspect the last time they saw one another would be the last time they saw one another. It was a hell of a way to end things.

"It's a good thing, too," she added quietly, when he continued to stare at her.

"I know that," he said "I'm surprised you do."

"I try to be clever in my idiocy."

"Using this time to berate you for foolishness feels cruel now," he mused.

"Look at it this way - if you do, it won't even be in the top five worst moments of this week for me."

She already felt like the world was falling apart around her - literally. Like how calm and quiet this room felt was only a facade, a delayed reaction, and that it was only a matter of time before her surroundings caught up with that fact, and the walls would crumble and the floor would give way beneath her feet.

"He was that bad in bed, was he?"

Marilyn laughed. But laughing felt too close to sobbing, and it opened the way for tears to finally start falling down her face. Standing, Adriano made to hug her but she shook her head, stepping away and extending a hand.

"Don't," she said quickly, fighting to pull herself together "I love you, and thank you, but don't. I can't. Not here. I'm not going to give them that."

He nodded his understanding, but he still took her free hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, like a bloody Victorian gentleman.

"Explain to me," he said "About him. You're so pitiful right now that I'll actually listen."

The smile she gave in response to that was wobbly, but genuine. And so Adriano helped her move her case from the bed to the floor so that there was enough room for them both to sit, and then she explained everything from start to finish.

Some of it he already knew from rumours, and from the half-truths she'd already told him - how she'd gotten talking to Draco and how he'd made some rather incorrect assumptions about her blood status. How things got out of hand from there, and how he really wasn't happy when he discovered the truth. The rest he was rather more unfamiliar with. How they'd gravitated back towards one another, the gift of the broom, the Yule Ball, their secret hideaway room, and Cedric Diggory's memorial, as well as the almighty row that had followed. When they reached that point, the deep frown on Adriano's face suggested he thought her more idiotic than ever.

But Marilyn pressed on - explaining her return 'home', how any plans she had with the Weasleys had fallen apart, the way the year of writing to one another had brought them closer than she suspected a year of attending the same school ever could have, and all that had followed since.

Admittedly, she didn't explain everything. Draco trusted her too much, and already had too much on his shoulders, for her to go blabbing about the Dark Mark now sitting on his arm, nor delve into details about whatever great and terrible task He Who Must Not Be Named had set before him, but she didn't need to provide those details to explain how it was that he struggled, how clearly unhappy he was, how she was sure if he hadn't been raised into that mess he wouldn't willingly join it now…and how she couldn't help but wonder if she had at least a shred of something to do with his dismay over his former cause now.

By the time she was finished, the furrow in Adriano's brow had smoothed over, and he looked as tired as she felt. For that, Marilyn could not blame him. By the end, she'd talked herself hoarse, she felt like she'd just run a marathon, and she was forced to contend with the fact that she had no greater amount of history with anybody in the world than what she had with Draco sodding Malfoy.

When she was done, silence settled over them for a good few minutes, and Marilyn spent it fiddling with the silver charm bracelet at her wrist, the letters from earlier discarded to the side.

"Per amore di Merlino…" Adriano murmured "This is…a lot, Marilyn."

"Yeah," she breathed a laugh "It is, isn't it?"

"I was hoping you'd just say he was a good lay and then I could denounce you as a total fool and sleep well at night."

"I wish I was that stupid," she replied drily "Or that clever, maybe. But he wasn't involved in this. I know he wasn't."

"I'm inclined to believe you," he admitted "Much as I'd like not to."

"Still, it's over now. It's too dangerous. Far too dangerous. Look at what happened to you without anybody knowing this. What if they'd come upon you sooner? Found us all? It would've been a death sentence. Maybe they're not wrong to kick me out."

Even if they were being bloody cowards with how they were going about it. Like a lad who'd treat a girl like shit until she ended things, just so he wouldn't have to get his hands dirty and do the dumping himself.

"They're letting them win," he said, voice grim "The fact that they'll continue to pay you gives them just enough, er, negazione plausibile."

"Plausible deniability?" she guessed, based mostly on the second word at all.

"Yes, that," he nodded "It's a fact they can trot out when they're accused of cowing to him. She's still on our payroll, blah blah blah. But it's a win. For him. And a big loss for you, personally. The company will feel your absence in the end."

"That doesn't mean it has to be for you, too, though," she said "A loss, I mean. If the Death Eaters kick back and celebrate their win, they'll leave you alone. Dance with a nice pureblood girl or two and you'll be the lad who learned his lesson. If they kept going after people who gave into their way of thinking, it wouldn't be much incentment for others to follow that example, would it?"

Adriano's smile was more of a grimace than anything else "I hope you're right. Although if things keep going how they are, I'm not sure any of us will be dancing much longer. There's little need for ballet in the midst of war."

"A shame, other than that it sounds like so much fun."

He chuckled, slinging an arm around her and pressing his head against hers. Marilyn relaxed into the embrace, sighing quietly.

"This, uh, this'll be the last time we see each other for a while," she said.

"Where will you go?"

Without pulling away from him, she reached for the stack of letters by her side, and then brought them to her lap and rifled through them until she pulled out the orange and purple one, sealed with a large seal emblazoned with a 'W'.

"I have an vague idea," she admitted quietly.

Chapter Text

Six Months Later

Draco's former Muggle Studies teacher was suspended in mid-air above the dining room table. Unconscious. It would've been a difficult thing to ignore under any circumstances, but given that her presence made him think of the girl he'd spent the last six months doing his utmost not to think about, ignoring Professor Burbage's presence was impossible.

A few copies of the Daily Prophet lay strewn around the table, the most recent of which was at the head of the table, in front of the Dark Lord himself. One of the older editions was in front of Bellatrix, who took great joy in ripping off shreds, rolling those shreds into little projectiles, and flinging them up at Burbage's motionless form. A few scraps stuck in her hair, or in her robes, but most ricocheted off of her and hit others around the table…all of whom carefully ignored it, so as not to provoke his aunt's wrath.

He had grown used to tuning out his surroundings. Perhaps that wasn't the phrase - for he was still aware of them. One did not fail to pay attention to the Dark Lord. Draco was always aware, he just…retreated inwards. What happened played out somewhere above the surface, while he watched idly from somewhere far away. It was an easier coping mechanism to cling to when he was alone. When there was no fear that the Killing Curse, or even the Cruciatus Curse, would zip across the table because it might amuse the Wizard sitting at the head of it. But Draco tried his best all the same…although it became more difficult when Professor Burbage began to stir - twitching and gasping where she was suspended in mid-air. Bella snickered.

The meeting did not begin in earnest until Snape arrived - his footsteps echoing through the halls of Malfoy Manor, preceding him before they saw so much as his shadow. He drew to a halt at the end of the long table. Draco did not look at him, seeing him only in his peripheral vision as he stared at the patch of table before him. Looking at Snape would be a gateway to looking at Burbage. Or at any one of the newspapers atop the table.

"Severus," the Dark Lord greeted silkily "I was beginning to worry you had lost your way. Come. We've saved you a seat."

Snape obeyed, taking the seat that had been left vacant for him and offering no explanation for his lateness.

"You bring news, I trust?" the Dark Lord enquired.

"It will happen Saturday next - at nightfall."

"I've heard differently, my lord," Yaxley cut in "Dawlish, the Auror, has let slip that the Potter boy will not be moved until the thirtieth of this month. The day before he turns seventeen."

Draco did look up now, to find that Snape watched Yaxley impassively, unbothered by the contradiction and how it might incur the Dark Lord's wrath - depending on who he decided to believe.

"This is a false trail," he said simply "The Auror Office no longer plays any part in the protection of Harry Potter. Those closest to him believe we have infiltrated the Ministry."

"Well," the Death Eater to Draco's right rasped with a chuckle "They've got that right, haven't they?"

That earned laughter around the table - and even a terrible, cold smile from the Dark Lord himself before he spoke.

"What say you, Pius?"

At the other end of the table, Thicknesse replied.

"One hears many things, my lord. Whether the truth is among them is not clear."

Draco's shoulders ached with the tension held within them, even despite the fact that the Dark Lord breathed a soft laugh. He knew how quickly that could change.

"Spoken like a true politician. You will, I think, prove most useful, Pius," there was a grim sort of promise in those words before he turned his gaze back to Snape "Where will he be taken, the boy?"

"To a safe house. Most likely the home of someone in the Order. I'm told it's been given every manner of protection possible - once there, it will be impractical to attack him."

His aunt Bella cleared her throat and then spoke up, leaning forward as she did so "My lord. I'd like to volunteer myself for this task. I want to kill the boy."

A cry interrupted her, and whatever calculated ease had been fixed to the Dark Lord's face as he shouted furiously across the hall.

"Wormtail! Have I not spoken to you about keeping our guest quiet?"

An odd sense of relief threatened to well within Draco then. If the Dark Lord was occupied with disciplining Wormtail after this meeting, he could scurry off and be left well enough alone. Wormtail stammered out his apologies and fled in the direction of the dungeons to rectify his error.

"As inspiring as I find your bloodlust, Bellatrix, I must be the one to kill Harry Potter."

Bella shrank back in her chair as though chided.

"But…" he continued "I face an unfortunate complication. That my wand and Potter's share the same core. They are, in some ways…twins."

The word once again had Draco training his eyes away from the papers on the table - some of them opened to a photograph of a pretty blonde girl standing between two lanky redheaded gits, all three unaware of the photographer standing outside of the doorway that framed them, snapping the shot. Rising, the Dark Lord walked silently towards where he and his parents sat.

"We can wound, but not fatally harm one another. If I am to kill him, I must do it with another's wand. Come…"

Draco's jaw twitched and his eyes fell to his lap as one pale, spidery hand wrapped around the backrest of the chair he sat on for a moment.

"...Surely one of you would like the honour? Hm?"

He moved past him, a few chairs down, and Draco almost had the lack of sense to feel relieved. Until he stopped. And then he turned back.

"What about you…Lucius?"

Draco's father sat to his left, and then the Dark Lord returned to them in order to stand behind his chair. Hesitantly, Draco turned his head in time to see his father look up at the Dark Lord, disbelief and dread mingling on his face.

"My lord?" he asked softly.

It was likely as close to a 'no' as he would ever dare give.

"My lord?" the Dark Lord echoed mockingly - and this time there was no laughter from anybody as he extended his hand "I require your wand."

Poorly concealed reluctance was written all over his father's face - but Draco suspected he wouldn't be punished for that. No, in fact he'd like it all the more that he would still do something he so clearly did not wish to. His mother watched on, sitting at his father's other side, with the barest hint of a frown on her face. Not only because with one request, the Dark Lord was essentially forcing his father to live as a Muggle, but likely because she knew as well as Draco did that this could get so much worse.

Drawing up his cane, his father removed his wand from it slowly - and then held it in two trembling hands before he moved in the barest, slightest of increments towards the grasping claw of their master. He continued to stare at it even as the Dark Lord wrapped his long, white fingers around the snake head grip.

"Do I detect elm?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ah."

As if it was of little consequence, he snapped the handle from the wand. His father flinched as he did so, and his mother finally looked away. Draco could not.

"And the core?"

His father made to respond, but had to clear his throat and begin again when he attempted to do so "Dragon heartstring, my lord."

"Dragon heartstring," the Dark Lord echoed before he'd even fully finished, a strong thread of mockery still in his voice "Hmm."

He threw the snakehead handle to the table. This time Draco flinched along with his father. When he looked around the table, he found some - Snape, primarily - watching the scene with grim, stony expressions. But others? Others watched it with poorly concealed smugness. Most of them the same people who had vied for their approval and their friendship not three years prior.

The Dark Lord turned to the right, facing him, and Draco swallowed - wondering if he would be the next target. But instead, he tutted as though just remembering something and lifted his newly stolen wand. Professor Burbage's suspended form began to drift forth until it floated directly above the table. She whimpered in response.

"To those of you who do not know, we are joined tonight by Miss Charity Burbage, who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her speciality was Muggle Studies."

Memories drifted to the forefront of Draco's mind unbidden. Baxter, mimicking his handwriting to fill in the answers of a quiz he did not fill out when Burbage announced that those who failed would have to come back at lunchtime to try again. The way she winked at him when he asked her how the hell she knew the answers - unaware of her blood status. The snickers that the Dark Lord's words drew had the memory twisting around in the pit of his stomach.

"It is Miss Burbage's belief that Muggles…are not so different from us."

Baxter's elbow nudging his accidentally as they worked on homework at the back of the class, sitting side by side. Well, she was doing homework, he was pretending to and musing whether he thought she was a half-blood, or just one of the lesser pure-bloods. He could have easily believed both. All of the many letters they'd shared in the two years that followed, during which he was quite certain nobody had ever understood him so well - nor tried to do so, for that matter.

"She would, given her way…have us mate with them."

Baxter, sprawled out beneath him in the bed of that hotel room, crying out in pleasure as she-

His aunt Bella gagged dramatically at the notion amidst rounds of groans and laughter. Draco's fingernails cut into the skin of his palms beneath the table until he was sure they would soon draw blood.

"To her, the mixture of Magical and Muggle blood is not an abomination, but something to be encouraged."

Draco looked up without entirely meaning to, and locked gazes with Snape's dark, impervious eyes. Whether he knew what was on his mind or not was debatable (although Draco knew what he personally suspected) but either way, he did not let on at all. And then Burbage spoke.

"S-Severus, please," she sobbed, and then whimpered out "W…We're friends."

If this was what he did to somebody who supported fraternising with Muggles and half-bloods, what would he do to those who actually did it? To his followers who failed to uphold the proper values, and to Muggleborns who forgot their place-

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green struck across the table, and Burbage's corpse thudded onto the table directly in front of Draco. Only fear kept him still in his seat - and he knew that fear showed on his face. Snape met his gaze again, his expression stony. Draco did what he could to match it.

"Nagini," the Dark Lord said softly "Dinner."

Draco's eyes returned to his lap as the snake enjoyed the meal its master had bestowed upon it.

"Of course," the Dark Lord continued, as though the beast on the table was eating something of little more consequence than a dead field mouse "She was not the only Witch who failed to recognise her place."

Flipping a few pages after Burbage's essay for the Prophet, he came to a stop on the page that a handful of the other papers were already open at, leaving no illusion in Draco's mind that this topic was incidental. It was a 'where are they now?' style piece, filler content more than anything, not even taking up one full page where it looked back on the incident six months thereafter. On the page, Baxter nodded attentively as she listened to what one of the Weasley twins said to her, toting an armful of mail that she'd no doubt been tasked with handling. When one was done, she turned to the other and said something clever - judging by how he smirked at her when she finished. Then she turned her back to the camera, making for the winding staircase in the centre of the shop.

All things considered, she looked good. Tired. But well.

"My lord, we dealt with the ballerina bitch," Bella said, always eager for another pat on the head "My sister and I."

"You did," the Dark Lord indulged her "And you did so admirably, but not permanently. The message was a fair one, but we are reaching a time where it would be prudent to truly reinforce our point."

"I'll finish what I started," Bella said - all but ardently "I can go to Diagon Alley tonight, my lord, this very night."

Draco felt certain that he was going to vomit. If not because of Nagini's maw and its slow progress up the shins of his former professor, then certainly because of this. But what could he say? He was at these things because he had no choice, he never spoke during them unless explicitly called upon to do so (which in itself was rare), his plan of action otherwise being to remain as unnoticeable as possible and leave the table with his life and all of his limbs. And both of his parents. To have this be the first time he spoke up would be foolish. The Dark Lord was no fool.

"That may not be wise," Snape intoned coolly.

Bella glared at him, but he was unperturbed, and when the Dark Lord turned to look at him he continued, face impassive.

"My lord, the mudblood clearly has strong ties with the Weasley clan," he said the latter part drily, earning some scoffs and snickers from their brethren "If we were to strike now - at such an insignificant target, no less, it would drive them directly into lockdown. They would be on their guard. They may change their plans. And for what? A diversion we shall be free to pursue at a later date."

Draco could feel his fists trembling where they sat atop his knees beneath the table, but all of the energy he had was being driven into keeping his face devoid of emotion as the Dark Lord considered Snape's words…and Bella's bloodlust.

Finally he inclined his head.

"A matter of priority? Perhaps not. But I should look warmly upon the one who puts an end to the so very brave Marilyn Baxter should they come across an opportunity to do so. It goes without saying that Potter is the priority. However, certainly once our world has been brought truly to heel, I see no reason for her to continue breathing long thereafter."

It was difficult to feel relieved, with an endnote like that. The thirtieth was less than a month away - far less - and there would be a price on her head thereafter.

Unlike the last time Marilyn Baxter had been a topic of conversation in his circles, when Draco shut his bedroom door behind him he did not fall apart. He didn't even crack a little. It had been a long six months between now and then. Apparently they'd managed to harden him, if the sense of solemn determination that threatened to wash over him was anything to go by. That was good. It did not, however, help him with his dilemma - beyond preventing him from allowing fear to rule his thinking. It was still there, it always was as of late, but it had long become his new baseline. He'd given up on wishing for a day when it would no longer be so.

But he hadn't given up on all but praying that his loved ones would get out of all of this alive - no matter which side won. Although the sad fact of the matter was that the Dark Lord's defeat seemed the safest option for them, even if it put them on the wrong side of the war. And where Marilyn was concerned? That was the only option.

He'd been good. He hadn't contacted her since the last attack - and either she'd gotten the message and followed suit, or she took his silence as guilt. It was difficult to get high and mighty over that considering his mother and aunt had been behind it, and he could insist all he liked to himself that it still didn't make it his fault, but that self-righteousness lasted right up until it was announced that Marilyn Baxter would no longer dance with the Wizarding International Ballet.

The verdict would've destroyed her. Nobody would ever mistake him for a great master empath, he had the self-awareness to know that well enough, but when photos surfaced a month or so later of Marilyn rubbing elbows with the Weasley dolts in that absurd shop of theirs, he didn't even have it in him to be annoyed about it. Well, not once he noted the dark circles below her eyes and the strained nature of her smile in the photograph as she turned and nodded in response to something one of her new bosses was saying.

Their last night together - their first night together, in a manner of speaking - was something that seldom strayed from his mind. The part of him that strived to be all impressively stoic tried to insist that if it was the last interaction they were to ever have, it wouldn't be a bad thing at all. Unfortunately, that part was rather drowned out by the fact that he didn't bloody want it to be the last time they had anything to do with one another.

Things had eased up now. Marginally. That display at the table was a stark reminder to never grow comfortable, and it wasn't even a semblance of the true horror the Dark Lord could inflict for his own amusement. They were hardly in his good books, but the longer things pressed on, the more Draco suspected he did not have good books. Even his aunt Bella, with her simpering, sycophantic fanaticism, was hardly treated with warmth beyond vague amusement. Unwavering, psychotic loyalty was expected, not appreciated. And anything less was punished severely. Draco had even begun to wonder if the fabled glory days he'd grown up hearing so much about had really existed, or just been a product of rose-tinted spectacles on his parents' behalf. He couldn't much imagine the Dark Lord being much sunnier during the first war.

Even had Marilyn never existed, even had he never sat down beside her during that fated Muggle Studies lesson, he knew he'd think the same now. It wasn't like it was her existence that kept their leader cruel and foul tempered, or even impacted the Dark Lord in any way at all.

But it did impact Draco. The tiny, sleek black box buried at the bottom of his dresser drawer proved that well enough. There were no eyes on him. Not now that Dumbledore was dead. The risk of doing nothing was greater than the risk of doing something. Or so he told himself.

It was her birthday soon - the box had been sitting there for a month already with that in mind. He'd already turned seventeen, it would be a small thing to nip out, borrow an owl, and send it anonymously to her new place of work. She'd know who it was from, for even if the Weasley's new business venture meant they could afford such a thing, they didn't have his good taste. And they wouldn't think to add to the bracelet she still wore. Or at least he hoped they wouldn't.

It just so happened that the gesture might come in handy now - if he needed it to precede a warning. Draco only hoped he'd have the courage to give that warning if and when the time came. Or, failing that, the stupidity.

First, though, he would need to charm it correctly. A charm on a charm. Perhaps she'd see the humour in that, if she ever found out about it.

Chapter Text

"I'm curious," George stood, leaning against the door frame of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' back office.

"Does that make you Curious George, then?" Marilyn asked dully, leafing through piles of parchment in her bid to organise them.

"A Muggle reference?" he hazarded a guess.

"A low-hanging one - just couldn't resist. What are you curious about?"

"What you're doing two weeks from today - the first of August."

"Turning seventeen, mostly."

"No," he grinned his disbelief "On that exact day?"

"On that exact day."

"Why didn't you say anything?" he entered the office properly, taking up the seat at the second desk the room boasted.

She shrugged slightly "Didn't want to make a big thing of it."

"Well do you have plans? Beyond moping?"

"Nope, I was planning to make a full day of it. Do some really deep-reaching self pitying, you know? Only wear clothes with elastic waistbands, eat my body weight in very expensive ice cream - you know, the kind that has caramel and bits of brownie in it. That sort of thing."

"Do we pay you enough for that?" he frowned.

"Fortunately so."

"Oh. Well in that case, you're welcome," he said "But I was going to recommend something that might be a bit less, er, completely and hopelessly depressing."

"Oh?"

"Bill's wedding. To Fleur Delacour - you remember her? It's at the Burrow, it's going to be a whole big fancy do, and you're very good at seeming respectable up until you speak and the accent ruins it."

"George Weasley are you asking me to be your date?" she teased.

"Mm, I don't know if I'd use the word date…"

"Shy, are we?"

"Nah, just hopelessly out of your league."

"I seem to remember a very underwhelming kiss that says otherwise."

George gasped his offence "Low blow, Baxter! And to your boss, as well!"

"Boo hoo," she smiled tiredly at him to take the bite out of her words.

"And I place the blame for that underwhelming factor squarely on your shoulders, by the way."

"Convenient."

"D'you want a rematch to find out who's right?"

He wriggled his eyebrows as he asked her - just to make sure there was no danger of her taking that offer seriously.

"And to your employee, as well," she echoed his earlier words back to him "I'm sure that's grounds for a sexual harassment case, you know. I could sue the pants off of you."

"Marilyn Baxter," George gave a long-suffering sigh, closing the door to the office with a wave of his wand "When you came to us six months ago, destitute…"

"Still on a full-time ballet wage," she corrected drily.

It didn't run out for another month and a half.

"At the mercy of the elements," he continued.

"What, the light drizzle?"

"So very clearly searching for something, deep, deep down…"

"Yeah. A job. I was pretty open about that. The clue was when I asked 'George, Fred, can you please give me a job?'"

"I knew then what sort of task was being set before me," he said.

"Management?"

"A calling, if you will."

"I will not."

Despite the annoyance she did her best to lace her tone with, she couldn't help but fight back a smile.

"A noble cause," he pressed on grandly "A higher purpose."

"Oh, Christ."

"Much like his, yeah," he sniffed "I knew what it was then that I had to do."

"Make sure my summer wasn't wedding-less?"

"If it took proposing to you myself," he said solemnly.

"Well, remind me to thank Bill and Fleur for saving us from that eventuality."

"I'm proud of you for hiding your broken heart so well. It's impressive, Baxter, truly."

It was difficult to say what part of his sentence had her remembering Draco - the dry use of her surname, or the allusion to her broken heart, however sarcastic it might've been. Shit, the sarcastic humour was probably just yet another thing that reminded her of Draco, too. Either way, it all had the combined effect of the smile freezing on her lips, then becoming more of a grimace than anything else.

George, of course, caught it and his face softened somewhat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"You're better off shot of them."

Well, at least he didn't know where her mind had actually gone.

"Yeah," she replied lightly "Who needs the most prestigious ballet company in the Wizarding World, anyway?"

"That's the spirit!" he grinned "In all seriousness, though, I can't allow you to spend your seventeenth sat about that poky little den of a flat you have, alone and depressed. It's too tragic. I can't let it go on. But given that I also can't particularly ignore my brother's wedding to celebrate with you…"

"And you call yourself a friend," she shook her head with a sigh.

"Oh, trust me, I wish I could - the preparations alone are unreal. At this point I'm fairly certain that if I ever take the leap, I'll either elope, or do it in my pyjamas at the breakfast table just to save the bloody fuss, but if I ducked out mum would have my hide, and the death of Bill's brother might just take a bit of the shine off of the nuptials."

"Depends on the brother. He's got quite a few others."

"Yeah, but those others include Percy - who, thank Merlin, will actually not be there - and Ronald. Fred is the only real competition there. Charlie, too, I suppose, but only because he handles dragons. That always adds a cool factor."

"Not a hot factor? Given the, you know," she used a hand motion that was supposed to mimic fire-breathing.

It earned her a look that was so thoroughly unimpressed that it also reminded her of Draco, too. But it morphed to sincerity too quickly for her to really sit back and celebrate her victory.

"Come to the wedding with me. Please. If it sweetens the deal, it'll really piss Fred off, because mum will be walking on air if I bring a ballerina to this thing, especially because you're actually fairly decent at pretending to be all sweet and nice when the situation calls for it."

Marilyn rather suspected that the identity of the ballerina might take a bit of the shine off of it. From what she knew, she was notorious for reasons not exactly to do with bravery among George's crew.

"Is it an open bar?" she asked.

"Of course, we're not animals."

"No, that's my lot - according to some very angry masked individuals these days," she said "Fine, I'll come."

"I should've led with that, eh? The promise of free booze would tempt any northerner."

"No, just anybody tethered to you for a whole event."

"Working on that sunny and sweet demeanour already, I like it," he grinned "Good! It'll be fun. I was starting to think I'd have to kidnap you to get you over."

Wisdom told her he probably wasn't even joking with that threat. But he was continuing before she could respond.

"By the way - this arrived for you, addressed here. I was going to give you grief about a secret admirer, but now I'm guessing it's a birthday gift, which is a bit less exciting."

"Depends on who it's from, really," she murmured, accepting it carefully.

"She says while looking distinctly unexcited," George pointed out.

Shifting in her seat, she hesitated and then put whatever acting skills her time on the stage had instilled with her to use, sitting back and sighing with a shrug and an annoyed grimace.

"Anybody I was close to got my address once I was settled back in England," she pointed out.

That list amounted to Adriano, and the company - so they could contact her about anything that might concern her wages. She might've been bitter, but she wasn't about to pass up an easy bit of money to sit on.

Of course, there was one person who was pretty much a permanent fixture in her mind these days, who it would've been near suicidal to contact with an address slip due to the likelihood of it falling into the wrong hands. If she was a betting gal, she'd put money on there being more wrong hands than right ones in Malfoy Manor.

"That only leaves the people who would only be able to reach me here, after the Prophet printed that thrilling think piece of theirs. Like there's not a sodding war going on. Making this," she held up the box "Either an annoying bit of arse-kissing…or pity."

Or a third, secret thing.

"Let's see what their pity's worth, then," he wriggled his eyebrows.

Smiling a little, like her chest wasn't so tight that it felt like every breath in might split her skin, she undid the silver latch of the box and flipped the lid open - 'incidentally' angling it so that George wouldn't be able to see it before she did. If it was something that would require a bit of explaining, she at least wanted time to dream up that explanation first.

In the middle of the box sat a gleaming silver charm in the shape of the outline of a heart. The middle was hollow, save for one sparkling blue gemstone set into the centre. Marilyn blinked down at it, her mind falling utterly silent. Curiosity apparently having grown too great for something as insignificant as patience, George rose and moved to stand behind her, leaning over her to peer at the box.

"No note?"

"No note," she said - and then she lied "I wonder who sent it."

"Beauxbatons blue. Looks like somebody's upset you didn't return for NEWTs."

If that was the explanation that George wanted to go with, she wasn't going to waste energy coming up with a story of her own. But it wasn't Beauxbatons' own particular shade of blue. No, she'd been surrounded by that for enough of her life to know it when she saw it. This shade of blue was significantly lighter, and tinged with the slightest hint of green. Some would've thought it muddied the gemstone and ruined the look of it, but Marilyn knew better - because it was the exact same colour as her eyes.

Christ, but she felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs. Not only was she still on his mind, but she was on his mind vividly enough for him to be able to replicate her eye colour perfectly.

"Of course," he added conversationally "If they were a serious contender, they'd have sprung for the chain that the pendant is supposed to go on."

"Maybe the next one will send just a chain and I can have them duel to the death for the honour of my time and attention."

It was a testament to the sheer amount of shite that she so often effortlessly talked that she was able to do so now, when she was only half present in this conversation - hell, in this room. No, the moment she opened that box, her consciousness had been hooked and yanked out of her body and dragged all the way to Wiltshire.

"Spoken with all of the modesty a girl could possibly have," he teased.

Marilyn gave a tired smile - and this time her hesitance wasn't thanks to her reeling mind. Seven months ago she'd have laughed and proclaimed that modesty was for people who didn't know what they were about. Not truly. But these days she was one of those people, whatever jokes she might make, so there didn't seem to be much use in mocking them. The thing she'd built her entire life around had been yanked out of her grasp before she'd even truly succeeded at it, and most days she wasn't really sure what she'd been left to work with as far as going forward was concerned.

Her arrogant shtick (which usually could be matched only by that of Draco's…in hindsight it was no wonder they'd gravitated towards one another) only worked when she had something to show for it. What did she have now? Sod all.

But the only thing more pathetic than that fact was acknowledging it.

Sighing, she chucked the box into her work bag like it was of little consequence to her before turning to the three piles of letters on the desk before her "Right - all the stuff on the left is what I've taken care of, the middle is stuff that needs your signature, and the right is stuff that's down to you to handle entirely. Sound good?"

"You've yet to fail us," George shrugged happily, waving his wand so that each pile either went to the filing cabinets at the far side of the room, or his desk, depending on what she'd said "You're definitely coming to the wedding, then?"

"Sure, but I might need your help getting there."

She'd yet to visit the Burrow - not for lack of invitation, but because George let slip to her that over the last few years, they'd been apprised of her 'former' "Death Eater fetish" (to use his words), and the last thing she wanted was to sit at a dinner table, with Draco as the elephant in the room, while she already spent most of her time these days thinking either about him, or her lost career, while trying her utmost to think of neither.

At least she knew now that the feeling was mutual on one of those scores.

A wedding, though, sounded far more bearable. At a wedding, she'd be the last person anybody gave a crap about…and George was many things, but cruel was not among them. He wouldn't invite her if he thought it might go badly. And he was right - she did need a break from moping.

The moment the door to her little box of a studio apartment was shut behind her, Marilyn was all but tearing into her bag to pull out the box again. Part of her didn't even dare believe it was there - certain that she'd open it up to find that it was actually one of a pair of earrings, and there'd be a note in there that she'd previously missed. From- from Adriano, like he hadn't already sent her a card and a gift, or from Beauxbatons, or even a pity gift from Sabrina. Anybody but Draco.

But she opened the box, and the charm was still there - the fixture at the top identical to those of the other charms on the bracelet that still lived permanently on her wrist. That was when tears fogged her vision. Sighing heavily, she abandoned her bag, and her shoes, and her coat, and staggered numbly to her bed, sitting down on it with her legs crossed, staring at the charm. It was a comfort and a sadness both to her, this reassurance that she was still on his mind. Draco Malfoy was hardly the sort to send out gestures all willy-nilly, but here he was, remembering her birthday and the precise shade of her eyes both. In the middle of a war.

It…had been a long six months. Her flat wasn't bad, akin to the sort of digs a student could expect in the Muggle world. And her job was far from bad, for she was a hard worker and the twins were exceedingly fair bosses, but it was all bleakened by the fact that it all felt wrong. It wasn't where she was supposed to be. Months of going through the motions with her head down, not thinking about the long-term for the sake of her own sanity. Months that felt even longer for the communication black-out that had taken root between them, sorely missing . And she understood it. Hell, she'd contributed to it. This wasn't a game anymore - it wasn't a bit of teenage rebellion, or even youthful stupidity. If no longer writing to one another could keep them alive, it was the price that had to be paid, and she did so while ignoring the voice in her head that insisted his silence meant guilt - the one that mimicked Harry, Ron, Hermione, George, Fred, and just about every other fucker in the Wizarding World who believed that Draco poisoned every room he was in just by breathing in it.

She knew him better than that. Which was exactly how she could miss him so sorely. She wished he'd been around to make her problems feel drastically lessened thanks to one dry comment and a compliment delivered as though it were fact. A well, the WIB is a second rate company so it would be fitting that they rid themselves of their first-rate dancers - they'll regret it in the end, Baxter. Then, when the world was robbed of Dumbledore and she finally connected the puzzle-pieces, she wished she could write to him. Go to him. Offer him the comfort and the affection and the understanding that none of the folk on his side could clearly be arsed to offer, because it broke her heart now that she knew what had truly weighed on him when they'd last seen one another. She'd known it was bad, but she never could have known it was that bad.

George had been the one to tell her - turning up to the shop ashen-faced the morning after it had happened, explaining numbly that the shop would not open that day, and that Dumbledore was dead. He heard the story from Ron, who had heard it from Harry. That the task had been set on Draco's shoulders, but that he "couldn't manage it" and so Snape had done it instead. Marilyn had been certain that her legs would give way beneath her when she heard it all - George's clarification that Draco's failure to do the foul deed was a matter of willingness rather than technical ability perhaps the only thing that had her waiting 'til she was back in her flat to start hyperventilating. That day was the closest she'd come to cracking and sending him a letter after all.

Draco's supposed failure - his victory, in her eyes - was a small mercy amidst everything. A very small one. But Dumbledore's death meant nothing good for her kind, and her endeavour to keep her head down and take everything on an hour-by-hour basis gained new motivation as the world continued falling apart, and she had to reckon with the fact that her survival in the coming years (or maybe even months) lay on whether a lad barely a full day older than her could kill the darkest Wizard of all time.

If anybody could do it, it was Harry…but that was a really fucking tall order, and his success could very well mean Draco's demise.

Everything was just wrong. It took concerted effort every day for her not to sit and think about where they might be if He Who Must Not Be Named had never existed. She and Draco could have gotten together and broken up fifty times by now, driving everybody around them mad with their petty teenage bullshit. His parents would disapprove of her because she was working class rather than because of her blood status, and those around her would think she shouldn't bother with him because he was a right prickly little arse when he wanted to be, and not because he'd been born into a sodding cult.

But, as she took up the charm out of the box and held it against her lips, closing her eyes and sighing quietly, she couldn't regret any of it. She couldn't wish they'd never had that Muggle Studies class together.

God, she was glad the wedding was going to have an open bar.

Chapter Text

George - damn him - was right. It turned out that the world had not stopped spinning the moment she stopped doing so from atop a stage. Marilyn's ego wasn't entirely sure how she should feel about that, but the rest of her had to admit that it was nice. To swap ratty old t-shirts, jogging bottoms, and trainers (the back rooms and office of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes hardly called for more) for a glittery gold dress and heels, to apply makeup that wasn't just mascara and chapstick, and do something with her hair that involved more than a hair tie and a mutter of 'good enough'.

By the time she was ready and actually halfway decent looking, she was feeling markedly better already - which was a glowing, phenomenal omen for the night ahead. The finishing touch was the silver charm bracelet that she seldom took off these days. It looked a bit daft - silver, while the rest of her outfit down to her sparkly heels and her eyeshadow, was all gold - but she just couldn't quite bring herself to leave it on her bedside table for the night. Turning the newest addition to it over between two fingers, she sighed quietly to herself and tried not to lose the good mood she'd managed to build up over the course of her getting ready.

Wearing the bracelet wouldn't keep Draco safe. She knew that. Magic may have been real, but miracles were not. And the headlines as of late were worrying. Even for those determined to hand-wave away the papers as being all doom and gloom for the sake of profit, the reality of things was becoming hard to ignore. She was reminded of it herself every time she walked through Diagon Alley to get to work, now all but abandoned. A ghost town.

She was saved from those unhappy thoughts dragging down all of the work she'd done so far to lift her own mood when a knock sounded at her door. Habit more than true fear had her answering with her wand behind her back - although the fear would have been more than present had she not already been expecting George. He was dressed to the nines in a dark suit with a bright purple waistcoat and tie…and a bandage, wrapped tightly around his head, then sloping down to cover his left ear.

Whatever cheeky greeting she'd been prepared to give promptly died on her lips.

"Are you okay?" she gaped at him.

"Saint-like," he beamed.

Marilyn could only continue to gape.

"Fred can explain that one to you properly later, and then you'll realise how funny it was," he sniffed, gesturing as though to ask if he could enter.

It was all she could do to step aside so he could do just that, closing the door afterwards and then turning to him.

"Oh my god - George. What happened? Are you alright?"

"It's fine, Marilyn, really. It was only my second-favourite ear, so really it could have been a lot worse."

"Was? You lost- you lost the ear? Completely? How?!"

Stepping forward, she almost lifted a hand to inspect the gauze where it was packed in against where his ear used to be, but then quickly stopped herself - what was she? A doctor? The only thing such an inspection could ever produce would be a nod and a 'yep, that's definitely a bandage, all right'. She suspected George was perfectly able to come to that sort of conclusion all on his own.

"Would you believe me if I said it was in a terrible dragon attack?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, then. I haven't got any other cover stories lined up. Er…terrible breakfast-making accident?"

"George."

"No, really, you should see mum with that spatula - lethal, she is. Be glad I warned you in time, you'll know to duck for cover when we get to mine."

"You can't tell me how it happened," she said finally.

George danced around subjects as his favourite form of exercise, sod Quidditch, but he now took that to a ridiculous extent - which could only mean he didn't want to answer the question she was asking. Or couldn't.

"I have told you - a terrible freak dragon attack," he replied.

But there was an apologetic sort of note in his words that confirmed her suspicions - about his secrecy, and the fact that it was more of a necessity than a choice.

"Right," she breathed a strained laugh to show there were no hard feelings "And, er…what colour was this dragon, then?"

It was the right move, because George grinned and produced a package clad in red wrapping paper and tied with a gold ribbon. Thanks to her horror at his injury, she hadn't even noticed his holding it behind his back.

"The same colour as your gift. Happy birthday, Baxter," he handed it to her "From me and Fred - but I'm milking this ear thing for all it's worth, so I don't think he'll be too annoyed at my taking all of the credit."

Her flat was a studio apartment - with no sofa to speak of, only a bed or the chair by the desk. Waving her hand in offering to the chair for him to take before perching opposite him on the hastily made bed, the present in her lap. As he sat, he cast a dubious look at the ridiculous amount of makeup strewn across the desk, but refrained from commenting as Marilyn turned her attention to the gift. The parcel was squishy, hinting that whatever was inside was fabric, but Marilyn still had to take great care to hide any trepidation she felt as she undid the bow and tore away the paper. It would be very on brand for the twins to prank her before they produced their actual gift. In fact, she wouldn't put it past them to have an Extendable Ear from the shop tucked away somewhere in here, riddled with fake blood.

Instead, she found only guilt over her suspicions when she pulled the paper away to find nothing but bundles of very fine purple velvet. The wrapping fell to the floor as she pulled it free, and then stood to unfurl it - a cloak, knee-length and lined with dark silk, trimmed with gold embroidery.

"George," she breathed in disbelief "This is way, way too much."

"Not at all. You're actually the only person we can't cheap out on, given that you've seen our books."

"My wages reflect that just fine," she pointed out "And this is…this is gorgeous."

"Georgeous?"

She was far too much in shock to even protest that particularly terrible joke.

"It's from two people, too," he pointed out "So it's not so grand if you look at it like that."

"Oh, well in that case you absolutely cheaped out," she snorted, still in awe of it.

"It's also a gift to myself, really. Now if I ever see you in that blue thing again I'll consider it a personal affront."

George, it had turned out, wasn't much of a fan of the ol' denim jacket. He'd made that known the very first time he'd seen her in it - and every time since. She'd only ever had two other cloaks - her Beauxbatons one, and another which had been a gift from WIB upon her joining them. Neither were ones she particularly wanted to wear now, because all they did was serve to remind her of painful things. The Beauxbatons one, her fourth year, and the other her career. Her former career.

And anyway, neither of them went with the comfy Muggle gear she so often wore to work these days, but she wouldn't let that stop her with this cloak. Hell, she'd wear this cloak to bed if she could. In any case, now that she could do magic wherever she liked, she'd need to start dressing well for work - because she could actually be of use on the shop floor now, where even something as simple as the till required magic to work.

"I thought the colour was a bit bold which made it a risky gift," he admitted "But apparently it's a statement piece - and you're known for liking your grand statements."

"Hopefully this one gets me into less trouble," she teased, pulling the cloak on with a flourish that the Phantom of the Opera would be jealous of "Look, it matches my dress too."

"You're wearing it tonight?"

"I'll be buried in it if I have any say - it's beautiful, George," she fiddled with the golden triangular clasps at the neck "Thank you. Seriously."

To illustrate just how grateful she was, she stepped forward as he rose to his feet and pressed a kiss to his cheek before hugging him tightly.

"If I knew what I'd be getting out of it, I'd have tried my luck and sprung for the matching hat, too," he laughed, hugging her back.

Stepping away, she looked around her and then took up the flowers that sat atop the desk, still neatly gift-wrapped at the stems.

"I'm not sure those are Fleur's sort of thing," George commented mildly.

"These are for your mum. Trying not to go empty-handed…and trying to make a second first-impression that isn't the ballerina with a death wish, judging by what the papers say."

"That wasn't her first impression."

"Oh?"

"No - she knew about your former fetish for blond extremists long before all that ballet business hit the papers."

"So, still a ballerina with a death wish, then," she said sourly "I just need my bag now."

"That one?" he arched an eyebrow at the black backpack that sat by the door.

"No - that one's…er…the emergency escape plan."

She phrased it pointedly, but there was little need. Only Death Eaters and idiots didn't have a bag with that same purpose, ready to go should one need to cut and run at the drop of a hat. Christ, when she went to bed she moved hers so that all she needed to do was reach over the side and grab it before she Apparated, should she be woken by her door being broken down. She'd gotten into the habit of taking it to work with her, given how part of the Weasley Wizard Wheezes mission statement was firmly raising the middle finger to He Who Must Not Be Named.

Given that this wedding, though, would be attended by those who had to be at the heart of the resistance movement (and George's new injury confirmed that suspicion beyond any vague doubt that might have remained), she was sure she could leave it home for tonight. And so, she took up a smaller handbag that matched her dress, slipped her wand and a lip gloss into it, and offered George her arm so that they could Apparate away.

Chapter Text

"She's not at all what I expected, you know. Not a bit. Did George tell you she brought me flowers when she arrived? Then just got right stuck in helping with the preparations thanks to how early she was. Didn't bat an eye. Not what I expected at all."

It seemed, in lieu of approving of her new daughter-in-law, Mrs Weasley was distracting herself by discussing other blondes present. Not that Fleur had noticed at all - no, she only had eyes for her new husband. Even Marilyn wasn't so much of a gloomy sod these days to be unable to crack a smile at the sight of the happy couple, blissfully and hopelessly in love. That was the smile she kept fixed on her face, watching them dance and pretending she couldn't hear the Weasley matriarch's commentary on her existence a few tables away.

"Better watch yourself," George commented wryly at her side "Mum'll be planning another wedding soon if you don't do something to disappoint her sharpish."

"Well we've settled on being underwhelming, Ron is still dancing around a certain genius - how you've tolerated that without them just going for it for all this time I'll never know, by the way-"

The two of them were on the dance floor - with Hermione trying to teach him how to dance, and Ron not looking half as unhappy with the turn of events as he'd probably pretend he was. No amount of blushing and eye rolling (only when Hermione looked him in the eye) could counteract the smile on his face as he followed along with her strict instructions.

"Compared to watching you and Malfoy it's much more wholesome and less prone to induce a sinister brand of nausea. So you can thank yourself for exposing us to a world of greater evils and offering that sort of perspective."

"You're welcome, then," she said, before gallantly pressing on "Fred is my boss - which might add a layer of excitement if we actually had any interest of that sort in each other but alas not, and I'm not Ginny's type as far as I'm aware."

"Not if what I saw in the kitchen this morning is anything to go by, no."

When she raised her eyebrows questioningly at him, he waved a hand to brush off her curiosity, so instead she asked.

"So that leaves…?"

George's brow furrowed in thought.

"I wouldn't inflict Percy on you for the world. Although inflicting you on him would be funny. Charlie, then. How do you like Romania?"

"I'm not a dragon."

"Mm. You have your moments."

"What a shocking thing to say about your future sister-in-law."

"I'll make it up to you with a dance."

"I think that would just make things worse. Adding injury to insult, really."

"Not at all. Now, those very sparkly shoes have steel toes, right?"

Marilyn laughed, always warmed by George's ability and willingness both to join in with her nonsense.

"First things first, though," he said, drumming his fingertips against the table and looking to where Fleur was making the rounds "I have a bet with Fred on whether I'll be able to get a dance out of the new Mrs Weasley - and this whole ear thing has given me a great edge."

Leaving George to his noble calling, Marilyn stood and crawled her way through the people in the crowd that she recognised from her Beauxbatons days. The good news was that if they were happy enough to attend a Weasley wedding, then they were on the right side of her battle to take on bigots via the art of dance. Then again, some part of her was far more comfortable with sneers than it was with sympathetic smiles and vague allusions to all that had happened. Maybe that was why she liked Draco so much.

After a few minutes of responding politely to what questions they asked, and failing to shift the topic of conversation onto more prudent matters like Fleur's dress, Marilyn excused herself and slipped outside of the tent. The last thing she wanted was to be accused of trying to steal the bride's thunder. As if that would even be possible when the bride was part Veela.

The air outside of the tents was even warmer than that within - likely not under the influence of any magical cooling spells to stop the atmosphere from getting too humid in the summer night. But there was a pleasant breeze, everything felt stiller and calmer out here, and the stars were out in full force thanks to how far they were from any Muggle settlements.

So long as she did her best not to break her ankles in the uneven, long grass thanks to her stupid heels, she would be quite happy out here for a bit.

"Happy birthday, Marilyn."

Turning her head, she blinked in surprise to find Harry Potter had come to stand beside her, awkwardly cradling a drink in his hand.

"Thanks," she smiled "Likewise, by the way, although I know I missed it. It was a few days back, right? How'd it go? Eventful?"

The slight grimacing effect that his smile took on spoke for him, and she couldn't help but wonder if it didn't have some link to George's injury. But she didn't ask. This wasn't the place for it - and, regardless of whether it made her a coward, she wasn't sure she actually wanted to know.

"We kept up with what you were doing at Hogwarts, you know," he answered a question she had not asked instead "We were all sorry when we saw what happened."

She'd put money on the Slytherin table being particularly cheery, though, when the schools returned for the first term after her 'resignation'.

"I was sorry, too," she replied "Not for what happened to me - for…Dumbledore. I mean. When I saw. With everything that's gone on over the last few years, Hogwarts was never too far from my mind, and anybody could see how proud he was of you. It's rough."

"Fred and George told you how it happened, didn't they?"

"Yeah," she sighed.

"Do you…" he hesitated "Do you think about Malfoy at all these days?"

Then it was Marilyn's turn to hesitate, shifting from one foot to the other and hoping he'd take it as a sign of her shoes paining her than discomfort. Then again, given the subject matter and his limited information on it alone, she'd be well within her rights to feel a touch awkward.

"It's been a long time," she answered at first - non-committal.

Harry watched her for a few moments, and then she continued.

"But yeah," she admitted finally "More often lately - after I heard what happened."

Not a lie. Just not the full truth. As she spoke, she resisted the urge to let her fingers return to the bracelet at her wrist.

"We all thought you were the world's biggest idiot for all of that with him back then," Harry snorted quietly.

There was no malice in his words, but even if there was it would've been difficult for Marilyn to find a leg on which to stand in order to lead any sort of counter-argument against his point.

"A fair assessment, all things considered," she replied "I thought it myself a time or two."

Her unease grew as they continued to speak with no sign of a change in topic on the horizon. Not just because of the topic itself, but because he didn't know exactly how much Harry knew - for she was keenly aware that there were multiple versions of events floating around, few of them true.

The first was the most widely known by those who'd witnessed their fourth year at Hogwarts. She'd lied to Draco about her blood status (either maliciously or by omission, depending on who was asked), he humiliated her in front of the school in retaliation, and that was that. Well. Unless you knew the second version of events - letting slip that that wasn't entirely that at all. They'd kissed, made up, and then kissed some more right up until Cedric Diggory's memorial, where she'd been horrified by how utterly unfazed Draco had been by the whole thing.

Off of the top of her head, the only people who knew that for certain were Hermione and George. But that alone meant that Fred definitely knew, and it was highly likely that Harry and Ron did, too. Yes, Hermione had vowed secrecy, but letting it slip after the fourth year was done and she appeared to be out of their lives for good would hardly have been a great crime. Truth be told, she had no idea who here knew what on that score - the first version of events, the second, or something very muddled between the two. But she didn't want to ask for clarification, and nor did she want to be caught in a lie.

The only other version was the truth, and only she, Draco, and Adriano knew that. Out of that number, she was the only one of the three who knew how badly she missed Draco - a fact she would not share with Adriano, and could not share with Draco. The heart shaped charm, barely any bigger than her pinky nail, dangling from her wrist assured her that he either knew, or the feeling was mutual, at least.

"Is that why you brought him up?" she asked when Harry said nothing more "To remind me of what an idiot I was?"

"No," he snorted "Sorry. It's just…the twins told you about what happened in the Astronomy Tower?"

"They did, yeah."

"He couldn't do it in the end."

Thank Merlin. Marilyn nodded, lips pressed together tightly, and Harry pressed in response.

"That doesn't surprise you?"

"I knew him a long time ago, Harry," she said doubtfully, and then she sighed "But no. It doesn't."

"It surprised me," Harry admitted, his voice low as he glanced around as though to make sure they weren't being listened in on "Maybe less than it would've if he hadn't been in a right state all year, sure, but…if you'd've asked me two or three years ago whether he'd be willing to do it, I'd have said yes in a heartbeat."

"Of course you would have," Marilyn replied drily "He worked very hard to make sure everybody would think so, didn't he? It's not like he was ever stupid, so he wouldn't have much trouble making us all believe whatever he wanted."

"You didn't believe it."

"Didn't I?"

"You'd never have hung around him for long if you did. I know we've not exactly spoken much one-on-one, but I know you're not Pansy Parkinson."

Marilyn laughed, toying with her wine glass "Well, hearing that's the only birthday present I'll ever need."

"You're avoiding the question."

"I haven't heard a question. Not yet."

"Did you see something that we didn't? Back then?"

"It's easy to see something others don't in a person when you haven't been targeted by all of their bullshit for three solid years," she pointed out "That being said…of course I did."

It was difficult to remind herself to speak of him in the past tense - although not so difficult as it might have been if she'd seen or spoken to him recently. Nor so easy as it might have been two drinks ago. It was even more difficult still, though, to think of what she might say in Draco's defence that he wouldn't view as some sort of betrayal, nor give away their secrets, nor handwave away the mistreatment Harry and his loved ones had endured from him for years.

"He was clever," she sighed finally "And funny. Good company, when he wasn't trying not to be - and with a propensity to be kind…even if only to those he deemed worthy of it. If he'd been born to different parents, he'd easily be just as much of a force for good in this world as Hermione is. Don't look at me like that - it's true."

"You didn't see the things he tried to do last year."

"Plenty of us will do shite things with a gun to our head," she pointed out.

"I wouldn't."

He didn't need to say it as confidently as he did for her to believe him.

"Yeah. Probably not," she shrugged a little before offering him a tired smile "But there was a reason he loved to call you Saint Potter."

Harry smiled begrudgingly at that, but he wasn't done debating her.

"Crap parents is no excuse," he snorted "Lots of us have had rough upbringings. We don't treat people like he did."

"Have you forgotten I never went home for any of the holidays either in fourth year?" she pointed out wryly "I know that. But I think it's tougher if you love the folk bringing you up, while they happen to have shite beliefs. You can't just cut and run the same way that you can if there's nothing at all good there. It's how all these mad cults keep their members, isn't it? Leave us and you'll have nobody. You Know Who just happens to sweeten the deal by adding leave us and we'll torture and murder all of your loved ones into the mix."

"All the more reason not to follow him."

"I have more sympathy for the poor fucks born into it than those who willingly signed up," she said "And none at all for the arseholes who drag their kids into their mess."

Harry didn't respond for a few long moments, and when she next looked at him she worried that she'd said too much, for there was a distinct sort of thoughtfulness in those green eyes of his. Maybe her fright showed on her face, because he finally replied.

"Next time I see old Lucius, should I tell him to watch his back then?"

Marilyn breathed a laugh "Yeah. I've got a Weasley's Wizard Wheezes employee discount and I'm not afraid to use- ah!"

Starting, she lifted her wrist like a shot, staring at it and half-expecting to see a bug that had just bitten her. She wasn't even able to put a finger on what exactly the pain had been. Stinging? Burning? It was sore, but over so quickly she couldn't quite make up her mind about whether she'd imagined it. That wasn't helped by the fact that there was nothing there - nothing other than the bracelet.

"What's wrong?" Harry frowned.

"Nothing," she shook her head "The clasp must've caught the skin or something."

Which it had never done before. At least it served as a conversation ender, though - not that she had anything against Harry. Her issue lay with the subject matter. She wasn't wearing the right shoes for such perilous footing.

"Impassioned sociological rants aside…I better head back in. George wants the notoriety of being seen dancing with me," she said "It's good to see you, Harry. Stay safe, yeah?"

She cringed at the stupidity of the words more or less as soon as she said them. Stay safe to the one person who Voldemort wanted to see dead most of all, out of anybody still living. The only thing, she suspected, that stopped her from sounding like a truly blithering moron was that she'd had her own brushes with assassination attempts over the last year. It had to count for something. And if Harry found her words stupid, he was too decent to laugh in her face.

"You too," he nodded with a sincere smile.

Over the course of the night, she danced with George as promised, then with Fred, then a few others she'd either barely chatted to over the course of the night, or did not know at all. She even danced with Ron, once, just to make the twins leave him alone about his waltz with Hermione. They were both too tipsy, and the atmosphere too merry, for it to even be very awkward at all. And it felt good to dance again, just for the sake of dancing.

By the time she fell back into her chair beside George, her cheeks were ablaze, her feet were in agony, and the grin on her face could not be moved for anything in the world.

"There she is," he said.

It was clear by the smugness radiating off of him that he meant his words in a more profound way than just wondering where in the tent she'd wandered off to.

"You were right," she said - mostly so he couldn't draw it into an excruciating thing.

Apparently he was shocked at how easy she'd made it for him, because he blinked in surprise. Of course, then he frowned and leaned forward, a hand cupping the patch where his ear had once been.

"What was that? I didn't hear you - say it again?"

"You were right," she enunciated the words slowly and clearly, fond grin still on her face as she leaned back in her chair.

"No, the chatter in here really is a nightmare, you're going to have to tell me one more time," he shook his head.

"You were right, George," she announced, voice barely a step below the volume those who had given speeches earlier had used "You were right. You're the wisest soul to ever walk the earth, and I should let you solve all of my problems going forward - particularly the ones rooted in rampant self pity. You were right. You were right, you were right, you were right."

"Oh this really is a glorious night," he snickered, sighing happily.

"And George?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you. Really."

His smile lost a shade of its teasing and he pressed a hand atop hers, squeezing it.

"Any time, Baxter. I'm just glad that-"

Whatever he was going to say was cut short when a streak of silver bolted into the tent, and then around all of the heads of those gathered. A patronus - one in the shape of a cat, no less. Marilyn glanced at George, bewildered. Was this some sort of entertainment? But he looked just as lost for words. Until the cat began to speak in a low, deep voice.

"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."

There was a beat of confused silence, everybody looking around at one another, then back at the cat, processing what it had said - and what those words truly meant. Silence. Then pandemonium. All at once, people began screaming and diving about the tent, grabbing onto wands and loved ones and vanishing entirely, while those who had no intention of leaving held their ground. It was sorely needed, too, as that was when the Death Eaters began to appear. The wards previously set in place had been breached.

Marilyn shot to her feet, her insides freezing over, wand in hand while her other took up her cloak, unsure whether to run or stay and fight. Across the tent, she saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione grab onto one another and vanish. George dove in the direction of his little sister, who got it into her head that she could duel two Death Eaters at once. Marilyn faltered. There was no way she could just cut and run and leave them to deal with this. But if they lost…if the Death Eaters won and realised who they had in their grasp.

But she couldn't leave them like this. She just couldn't.

Swallowing against the dread that was seizing at her throat, she fired off a jinx at one of the masked figures, sending him flying back into the table of gifts. There was no time to stop and see whether he'd get back up, nor even find another target, for a hand was clamping itself over her mouth and she was being dragged backwards, out of the tent and into the relative emptiness of the garden.

She barely managed to shoot a hex in the direction of the one who gripped her - a man, if the solid chest she was being yanked back against was anything to go by - but he yanked her hand away and the spell fizzled off into the night sky instead like the world's most underwhelming firework. Blindly trying to whip at him with the cloak still bundled in her hand didn't help much either, her own shrieks beneath the hand at her mouth drowning out whatever vitriol he was spewing into her ear beneath the hooded black robes.

On the verge of passing out, she had to stop shrieking just to get a chance at funnelling air in through her nostrils, and he shook her - hard. It was then that she realised it wasn't gruff accusations of mudblood that he was grunting, muffled by the get-up. It was…her…her name?

"Baxter! Baxter! Listen to me - for fuck's sake, listen!"

She stilled. Only just. The battle continued to rage in the tent behind them - but she recognised that voice. He must have suspected so, for he continued.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Dr-" the beginning of the name was muffled by his hand.

"Don't say it," he said sharply - nor did he loosen his grip on her, despite how she'd ceased fighting.

Only when she shook her head furiously, trying to signal that if he didn't let go of her mouth soon she'd definitely pass out, did he slip his hand down. There was nobody around to witness them, not with the fighting still going on inside the tent, but if anybody did catch a glimpse, they'd hopefully mistake the hand loosely at her throat as being a chokehold. Marilyn sucked in great lungfuls of air, trying desperately to think.

"Do you see that tree?" Draco hissed into her ear.

Her eyes were rapidly adjusting to the dark - but he clearly thought she was still too panicked to make sense of what he was saying, for he asked the question again barely a moment later and she quickly nodded when she could make out the shape of the solitary tree - twenty or thirty feet away, minimum.

"Your broom is in the grass behind it. In a moment, hit me and then run - run, Marilyn, because if they catch you, you will die and there'll be nothing I can do. He wants you dead. They don't know you're here yet, this is your only chance. Grab the broom, and Apparate away. Paris? Remember Paris? Where we last saw one another? I'll meet you there. If something looks off, run anywhere else and I'll find you."

Had she been the slightest bit inclined to doubt his words, the way the hand gripping her wrist shook would have dispelled that.

"Do you understand?" he demanded.

In response, she kicked off her heels. She'd break an ankle trying to run across the grass in them before she got more than five steps away.

"Good," he breathed "Good - nobody's looking. I've got your back. Go. Now. Before the chaos dies down. We haven't much time."

Marilyn released a shuddering breath, forced out a wavering thank you that she wasn't sure he'd even be able to hear, and then drove her fist blindly behind her. Her knuckles were met with unforgiving cold metal rather than flesh, but he went down like he'd been shot all the same - shoving her forward as he did so, as if to give her a head start, or a bit of extra momentum. The move threatened to send her off-balance at first, pitching forward as she took her first few stumbling steps, but a fresh wave of screams from behind her was all the extra motivation she needed, and then she was sprinting through the grass, head ducked low, cloak fluttering in her hand at her side.

If anybody pursued she didn't know it. They didn't catch her, that was for sure, and there was no chance she'd be able to hear them over her own ragged breathing and the thundering of the blood in her skull.

Once she reached the tree she all but dove to the ground behind it - gaining a wealth of scratches to her arms as well as the ones already no doubt littering the soles of her feet. God, she'd never been so pleased that the broom he'd given her all those years ago - the one he still referred to as her broom - was white. It was easy to spot, and the second her fingers had curled around the handle, she was gone.

Chapter Text

Marilyn thanked Draco for risking his life to save hers by more or less immediately defying his advice. She stood barefoot in a Parisian alleyway for all of ten seconds before coherent thought managed to sink in through the panic - aided by the unforgiving cobblestones beneath her bare feet. It would be difficult to get far on the run, whether literally or figuratively, without shoes. She needed her bag. The emergency one reserved for a situation just like this. Her bag was in her flat. The Death Eaters didn't know she'd been at the wedding - not yet - and she doubted she would be priority in terms of who to grab immediately after their takeover.

Oh Merlin, oh god, they'd taken over - they'd really managed it, they'd- no. No. She couldn't afford to panic. Not yet.

Her backpack was in her flat, and the longer she left it, the more likely it was that her flat would be raided by them. She had a very small window of time in which it would be safe, or something vaguely resembling safe, to run and grab it. That window grew more and more narrow the more she stood here and dithered.

All in all, it took less than one full minute for her to Apparate to her flat, pick up her backpack, and Disapparate again immediately - but it was one of the longest, most tense minutes of her life. She barely even breathed during it, certain every single second that a blur of black robes and silver masks was about to descend upon her. It was a wonder that her grip didn't snap her wand.

Twenty minutes later, she was in the very same hotel room that she'd last shared with Draco, sitting on the floor because it felt somehow more secure than the bed, a pair of white trainers ruining her otherwise very elegant look. Although the shakes stubbornly wracking her body didn't help much on that score, either, and she was pretty certain her eyeliner had begun a magical mystery tour all around the general vicinity of her eyes. She'd given the woman at the front desk the name of Monroe when she booked the room - earning a rueful look that suggested she didn't much believe that it was her real name. But given that the most she could really suspect was a questionably young explicit love affair, Marilyn didn't give much of a shit.

Would Draco think to seek her out under that name? Would he be able to seek her out at all? If somebody had seen them, if they'd been caught, if one of his lot even so much as suspected he may not even still be alive. Curling her arms around herself, more for the reassuring solidity of her own skin beneath her hands than for the warmth the move offered, she refused to pursue that line of thinking any further.

The room was silent and stifling. Hardly very big to begin with, mostly just with the bare minimum amount of room required to walk around the bed, the door to the small en-suite, and for the small wooden desk in the corner which housed a questionable looking kettle and a couple of chipped mugs.

Leaning back against the bed, she tilted her head back and debated how long she should stay. There was no clock in the room, and it was difficult to decide whether that was a blessing or a curse. It was impossible to gauge the time as it passed in her current state, and one minute felt much the same as ten. But if she didn't know for sure how long had gone by, she didn't need to do anything about that fact, either.

She didn't dare even turn the lights on or shut the curtains, sitting on the floor and staring up at the patch of sky just visible above the roof of the building on the other side of the street. How long should she wait? An hour? Four? Twelve? What length of time marked the turning point of Draco coming to her, to his being detained or…well.

Too long went on like that. Thoughts of his being caught, of his being tortured, of his giving up her location, or of He Who Must Not Be Named tearing it from his mind by force reeled unendingly through her mind, broken up only by flashing images of what she'd seen at the wedding, and what still might be going on there. Somewhere in the midst of it all she broke and crawled towards the window, yanking the curtains shut from where she sat on the floor, half crazed with fear that at any moment a Death Eater might woosh past on a broomstick and see her.

When a series of loud knocks that were more bangs sounded at the door, she was on her feet with her wand raised despite the fact that she could feel neither her legs nor her arms.

"It's me," a voice hissed behind the door.

Relief and a fresh wave of fear warred anew within her. Fingers still curled tightly around her wand, she went to the door and opened it just enough for him to slip through. When Draco kicked it shut behind him and yanked his hood down, she didn't quite point her want at him, but it was certainly waved in his general direction.

"What significance does this room have?" she demanded.

"It's the most alarmingly blue room in all of France," he all but sneered - but then when her eyes flashed, he sighed and clarified "It's where we first had sex, Baxter. Is it my turn now? Why did you stop speaking to me at the end of our fourth year?"

"You laughed at Cedric Diggory's memorial."

Draco scoffed "I whispered a bit, and I might have smirked - that's hardly oof-"

Yeah, it was him alright. Marilyn all but accosted him, barrelling into him and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, her face buried in the dark cloak he wore.

"What if you were caught? What if someone saw? You shouldn't have…"

She trailed off. As selfless as she fancied herself, she couldn't really bring herself to actually say that he shouldn't have saved her life.

"If that sentence is going where I think it might, you've become as dim as the company you keep these days," he snorted.

Despite those choice words, though, his arms wrapped around her in return and she could feel the shakiness of his breathing in his chest beneath her cheek.

"Nobody saw me," he said - and then undermined the confidence of that answer by continuing "I don't think they did. They mustn't have. They couldn't have."

"But if they find out that I was there…if they start to suspect."

She spoke into his chest, unwilling to let go long enough to speak properly.

"They can't," he replied firmly "I wasn't supposed to be there at all, I snuck out once I caught word. It was a stroke of luck that I even heard anything at all…I knew you'd be there the moment I heard Weasley wedding. It can't be pinned on me. One mask fades into another…it was all chaos…and to be honest most of them are as moronic as a sack of house-elves. Even if they find out you were there, they'd just think that you got away on your own."

Marilyn suspected his comment on the stupidity of his colleagues was more an attempt to ease his and her mind both than an actual fact. People who were moronic as a sack of house-elves did not overthrow the Ministry of Magic. Did they?

"Thank you," she said, finally stepping away from him and raking a hand through her hair "I know deciding to come can't have been an easy call to make."

"...It didn't require as much debate as you might think."

Before they could risk growing too heartfelt, though, his gaze flickered downward to the trainers on her feet - and then the backpack on the bed - and he stilled.

"Where did you get those? You didn't have them at the party."

"It's a bolt kit. All the rage with filthy mudbloods like me these days - in case we need to cut and run. I kidded myself that it was just a paranoid precaution while I was putting it together, but…well."

"Where did you get them, though?" he pressed sharply.

"I had to run to my flat for them," she said, and then pressed quickly on when he stepped back, his jaw clenched and head shaking "I was in and out in less than five seconds, Draco. Literally five seconds. If you- if they are taking over, and if he wants me dead, then it's a matter of 'when' rather than 'if' as far as them ransacking my flat is concerned. I had to go immediately or not at all, while I knew for a fact that they were preoccupied with bigger fish."

"You went home," he breathed a tired, humourless laugh "To pick up shoes. Marilyn, I am doing what I can to keep you alive - at great personal risk. I would appreciate it if you wouldn't do your best to undo my work!"

"I had no choice, Draco, I'm going on the run. Doing that barefoot isn't the best idea - I'm not a sodding Hobbit!"

"It was an unnecessary risk!"

"It wasn't unnecessary, I need this bag if I'm going to stay alive until…"

Until what? Until this was all over? That seemed a laughable thing to look forward to already considering it had only just begun in earnest an hour ago. Considering they'd taken the Ministry, and the hopes of every decent person in their community now rested on the shoulders of three teenagers her own damn age, it seemed a laughable thing to look forward to at all.

But she'd survived tonight. With Draco's help, yes, but she'd done it. She was still breathing. And she'd survived the bullshit hurled her way when she was on stage, too. As far as facing peril was concerned, her track record wasn't phenomenal - but as far as surviving it went, she was an absolute pro. That had to be worth something.

Draco deflated at the same time she did, and when she moved to perch at the foot of the bed he followed a moment later. He looked only marginally better than he had the last time she'd seen him, and even that was leagues away from his looking good - or even passably decent. The circles still lurked beneath his eyes, perhaps half a shade lighter than they had been last time, and the pallor of his face remained a touch too grey to be passed off as just being that usual Malfoy pasty lunar glow. But he wasn't on the verge of tears, and nor did he seem one mishap away from a fit of rage or nervous breakdown. Given the times, and given what they'd just done, that was a pretty major win.

"I don't want to fight," she murmured "Not with you. I've missed you - so much, and every day I've sat and wondered where you were, how you were doing, if you were okay, if you were safe, if you…if you thought about me at all."

Under normal circumstances, she might've been embarrassed to voice something that she'd usually think sounded so terribly wet and pathetic. But as it was, she could have died tonight - and he had saved her life. That had a way of putting things into perspective.

"The tricky part was not thinking of you," he admitted with a grimace.

If she'd been enough of an idiot to not realise the gravity of their current situation, his words - and the fact that they lacked any kind of teasing, sarcasm, or snark - would have driven it home.

"I couldn't write," he added "Not after what happened to you. It would've been too dangerous."

"I know," she said "That's why I didn't, either."

"I thought so," he muttered with a nod, and then added "I hoped so."

"What else could it have been?"

"Paranoia is rife these days. With everybody. On both sides - and it's hardly unmerited. You might've convinced yourself I had something to do with it. Or that I knew about it. Especially with my silence afterwards."

Marilyn shook her head, replying quietly "You wouldn't do that."

She said it unthinkingly - it wasn't some great emotional confession, announced with an entire world's worth of gravity. It was just a fact. Not just because even the greatest guilty conscience to ever exist would never have somebody who tried to kill her a few months ago now risking everything to save her life, after the better part of a year of no contact.

The casual nature of her rebuttal did nothing to dampen the impact it seemed to have on Draco, though. His shoulders sagged and he breathed a sigh of relief of the like only previously uttered by dying men who had just found water in the middle of a desert. His hand found hers in the tiny gap between them on the bed, their fingers entwined. He was freezing, but the solidity of his skin against hers grounded her, bringing her back to her body and out of the buzzing fog that had surrounded her ever since pandemonium had put a swift end to Bill and Fleur's wedding.

She turned her head with the intention of speaking - but then he met her halfway with a kiss, and she couldn't remember what it was she was going to say in the first place.

It would have been a lie if she pretended that she hadn't wondered whether Draco's continued care for her safety still extended into desire. Weren't folk their age supposed to be famously fickle and at the mercy of all of those hormones? It wasn't so much that she doubted him personally, nor what was between them, but it just seemed daft to have two thirds of a year pass with no word and keep assuming that nothing had changed. Life was rough for him at the moment, could he be faulted if he ended up finding solace in the arms of some prim and proper Pureblood girl? Or if he had to put on a show of doing so to keep suspicion away from him? Maybe he had.

But he was here with her. Now. Which made the rest feel very irrelevant - especially when she climbed into his lap, and he slid the straps of her dress off of her shoulders.

"What are you going to do?" he asked quietly.

It was some time before they were able to speak - and even longer still after that before they did. The silence had become almost meditative. Like if they just stayed here, in the dark, and didn't breathe a word, time would magically pause and they wouldn't have to deal with anything at all.

Draco was the one to break it in the end, as they laid curled up facing one another, their legs tangled.

"Is this your way of telling me you don't have a fancy holiday home you could set me up in so I can see this thing out in cushy luxury?"

"I considered it," he murmured "There are too many risks. Elves popping in and out all the time to fetch things or keep the place in shape…my family could decide at a moment's notice to go to any given one for a night or a weekend, and I wouldn't have any good reason to convince them otherwise."

"I was only joking," she pointed out softly.

It was the only thing she could think to say - because he'd considered it. Her eyes had long since adjusted to the dark, which was how she saw the rueful look he shot her, albeit one tinged with fondness.

"I got that part," he snorted "What's it to be, then? Scouting out abandoned homes to claim as your own? Hotel hopping?"

"Nothing quite so glamorous. I'm going to have to rough it."

The prospect didn't fill her with glee. Not because the thought of getting a bit of dirt under her nails horrified her, but because it was something she'd never done before. Magic certainly made it a bit more doable - she wouldn't be huddled furiously rubbing sticks together so she could get a fire going - but it wasn't a fix-all miracle. It just meant that it would be pretty fucking difficult rather than a surefire way to die of exposure. Of course, "pretty fucking difficult" was always rosy compared to "death by torture".

"There's been a lot of discussion on the topic - in safe circles," she said quietly "It's easiest for people with…well, people. Relatives and friends who can hide them, so on. I don't have a family. I don't have...anybody. Not who could help, anyway. I've already put my ballet contacts through too much danger as it is, and the Weasleys…"

"The Weasleys are about to become the most heavily surveilled family in the Wizarding World. Given their well-known sympathies."

"I was going to say they've done enough for me, too. Even if asking anything more was a practical possibility, I couldn't do it. I can't stick to urban areas. Too many eyes. Staking out abandoned places - old overgrown cabins or whatever - is what a lot of people suggested, but it's too obvious. The second anybody looking came across it, they'd know they hit the jackpot. It's too easy to pinpoint. It's easier to guess where a Muggle-born might be if there's a hundred mile stretch of woods with an abandoned farmhouse in it, than if it's just a stretch of absolute wilderness. My bag has a tent. Some supplies. I can…I can make do. I can handle it."

She would have to. This was about survival. There would be no shrugging and deciding it wasn't for her.

"I can't decide whether it's times like these that make it better or worse to not have a family," she snorted, doing what she could to shallow out the furrow in Draco's brow "On one hand, I don't have to worry about them. On the other…I don't have them to worry about me."

Sure, she had people. Fred and George had been her knights in shining eccentric suits, but the priority of the Weasleys would always - quite rightly - be the Weasleys, first and foremost. That was the way it was with families. It just added an extra sting to the fact that she'd never had that, ever the outsider in that regard. The fact that she felt that way wasn't anybody's fault (bar her own), and nor was it the product of any wrongdoing by anybody at all. It was just how it was.

But the other fact remained that when she was with Draco, that feeling went away. Of course, the irony of that fact was not lost on her. Anybody who knew either one of them would probably say that she should never feel more isolated and othered than when she was in the company of Draco Malfoy. But others didn't get it. He did - implicitly, with no need of anything so mortifying as voicing it all.

"I think, Baxter, at this point I worry about you enough for every other living soul out there. Twice over."

Marilyn watched him quietly - and she could feel the damn sadness emanating out of her eyes. It took a hell of a lot for Draco to admit something like that. So she figured it was her own turn for an admission.

"You know I love you, don't you?"

Saying things that dragged a physical response out of him was turning out to be her habit tonight - because he looked absolutely stricken by her words. Staring at her in disbelief, his mouth opened in response and then promptly shut again.

"I didn't say it to hear it back," she reassured him (or tried, at least) quietly "I just wanted to say it."

He continued to stare. But she supposed staring was better than leaping up, dressing, and promptly vanishing the second the last button was fastened.

"That sounds a lot like a goodbye, Marilyn," he said flatly.

The part of her, even if it was just a small part, that was tempted to regret saying anything at all wondered if she should believe that what he'd just said betrayed his only problem with her admission.

"Isn't it?" she countered "I'm not exactly going to be available for coffee or dinner over the next few months. Maybe years. Depending on how things go, we might never even see each other ag-"

"Stop," he snapped.

Up until that point, they'd barely spoken above a murmur. Even when they'd bickered upon his arrival, it had been in hisses and stage-whispers. His decision to break that unspoken rule gave away just how bothered he was by the prospect.

"Draco," she said evenly "I'm being realistic. We're on different sides of this war. Victory for one means bad, bad things for the other. We can't ignore that. We have to be realistic."

"If we were in the habit of being realistic, we never would have made up after that first fiasco at Hogwarts," he said "I'll be realistic all day long, but I won't entertain that."

"So by your logic, when will we next see each other, then?"

She regretted asking it the moment she did. Mostly because she expected him to splutter, then get pissed off when she realised she'd clamped him, which would then ruin their moment of peace before the world began to seep into the peace they'd carved out for themselves in this room. Instead, he looked thoughtful. The frown remained on his face, and his eyes lowered like he was reading a passage from an invisible book. Then, finally, he looked at her again - with a new kind of determination shining in his eyes.

"I can check in with you," he said "Not often. But occasionally. At irregular intervals."

"What? Of course you can't - it's too dangerous."

"Tonight was dangerous. We managed. My life is dangerous now, no matter what I do. It makes little difference. At least this way, the danger might mean something."

"Someone will notice."

"Nobody will."

"Of course they will! What will you say to whoever runs Hogwarts when you go back? Yeah, I just have to dip out. Don't wait up?"

"I'm not going back to Hogwarts," he scoffed "What's the point of NEWTs in a time like this? How do you think it is that I'm here now? My parents have their own worries, so long as I turn up for meals and when…when he decides to hold court, nobody cares where I am."

The words sent a wave of renewed heaviness over her that probably weren't intended, and she brought his knuckles to her lips as her thoughts ran rampant.

It wasn't that she didn't want to see him. Of course it wasn't that. She knew well enough from the times she'd been stuck at "home" before her sixteenth that being devoid of any meaningful human contact could be as much of a killer as a lack of food or water. And this was Draco. If he dipped in and out, she couldn't convince herself that he'd been murdered by his psychopathic master. Maybe he could even fetch warnings - tell her what areas to avoid. Although she'd never demand that of him. But the danger. The danger, the danger, the fucking danger. If he got himself killed trying to make sure that she wasn't going nuts wandering the woods, she couldn't live with that.

"The logistics," she said doubtfully, a last ditch effort to convince him otherwise "Even if it was a good idea, it's not possible. I don't even know where I'll be one, two, three weeks from now. It's best, they said, for the ones who have no choice but to do this. If we don't know. If we have no idea where we're heading next, if we make all of the decisions on our feet, there's no way for those pursuing us to pre-empt our next move."

Draco said nothing, his lips set into a thin line, and Marilyn was equal parts relieved and disappointed that she'd 'won'. Until he sighed slowly, and then spoke.

"The bracelet."

"The bracelet? What about the bracelet?"

"The newest charm on it - the one I just sent you. It was how I found you tonight. How I could Apparate to you without ever having seen the Weasley hovel. So long as you wear it, I can find you."

And she had no idea what to say in response to that. It was almost endearingly protective from someone like Draco, who scarcely had a kind word to say about most people. It was also invasive, and if anybody else had done it to her, she'd have denounced it as creepy, too. Yet if he hadn't done it, she'd be locked up in a dungeon right now, awaiting torture. And that was the best case scenario.

"You could have told me," she settled for a bit of a grumble.

She was too tired for another fight. And their time was limited - whether he agreed with that fact or not.

"I could have. But you hadn't heard a thing from me in, what? Eight months? Getting a letter from my so-called side after all of that time with a 'hello, here's a tracker - don't worry, it's not sinister' would hardly have induced you to wear it."

It would have rang an alarm bell or two, he was right about that.

"And I'm telling you now," he added, seeming unsure of whether or not he wanted to sound cagey.

His tone was certainly prickly enough, but that was Draco's default mode. Whatever bite the words might've carried was dampened by the softness of his gestures - his fingers trailing endlessly up and down over the curve of her spine.

"So if I refuse to wear it?" she challenged.

"I can hardly stop you."

"Fine," she nodded.

"Fine? What does that mean? That you'll attach it to a stray dog at the first opportunity?"

Marilyn grinned - her first proper smile since the chaos at the wedding - and Draco muttered something beneath his breath about the foolishness of giving her ideas. For a moment, they almost felt like the old them.

Chapter Text

The reality of her situation truly sank down into Marilyn's bones when she found herself in the middle of a Welsh forest. With the tent set up, her meagre "bare necessities" carefully arranged inside, and her breakfast from her carefully rationed stock of porridge oats choked down, there was little other to do than adjust to the new way of things. And she began that adjustment by falling apart.

It wasn't until that moment that it - all of it, everything that had happened before, her new way of life - began to actually feel real. That this life on the run, where to fail would mean to die, was not just a hypothetical future outcome, but now something that she both needed to do, and to survive. Who wouldn't have a little cry when the reality of that finally hit them? She'd recovered quickly, she didn't have much choice about that. She could hardly pay attention to her surroundings if she was busy sobbing and wailing into her hands.

The first week was the worst. She wasn't used to, well, any of it. Every noise became a threat in her mind when she had no ideas which ones were ambience, which ones should be expected, and which ones heralded folk creeping about in the night, in the dark, who would like little more than to murder her here and now. Or to turn her over to their Dark Lord for a lovely prize. With that in mind, she put up all of her wards three times in a row, just in case she somehow blanked out and hadn't actually done them the first two times she thought she had. Then she ended up checking that they were still in place every time she so much as stirred to roll over when she slept. Not that she was sleeping particularly well.

But…she adjusted. As much as one could-slash-should adjust to the constant threat of mortal peril. After all, she knew growing too comfortable, growing complacent, would sign her death sentence as readily as any actual Death Eaters might. She maintained a healthy level of fear without letting it turn her into a useless neurotic mess - a skill no doubt bolstered by a lifetime of forcing herself out onto a stage - and she tried to tackle dilemmas with a combination of careful thought and gut instinct.

She adjusted to the pale, peaceful mornings where everything was so silent and serene that it was hard to believe she was truly on the run from any real danger. She adjusted to the drizzle, and the fact that no amount of magical trickery seemed enough to ward off the chill, nor the damp. She even managed to adjust to the nights when the weather grew grim, and she had no choice but to go out into the blustery wind and the torrential rain, knowing that such conditions robbed her of her ears and left her reliant on her eyes only.

And even in the peaceful moments there were dilemmas. How long should she remain in one spot? How much moving around was likely to send her hurtling into the path of the snatchers (as Potterwatch said they were calling themselves) who mightn't even be looking for her, and how much staying put would make her a sitting duck? There had to be a happy medium between the two, but where the hell was that, exactly? When could she risk travelling by broom, and when could she not? If visibility was too good, she'd be easily spotted. Too bad, and she'd crash the bloody thing and break her neck. Could she risk breaking into that Muggle cottage she'd happened across in order to grab one or two items she needed? If she did, and if the Muggles reported it to the police, was that the sort of thing the Death Eaters would take as a sign that a mudblood on the run was in the area?

What if this war stretched on for years? Did she have years of this in her? Maybe. If she had no choice. But it was a very tenuous maybe.

What if they didn't win the war?

That was the question she allowed herself to consider least. In comparison to that, the paranoia buzzing around her head surrounding the bracelet made for rosy thinking indeed.

It took one week for the solitude of her situation to grow stifling, and four for it to grow borderline unbearable. She'd never much been the type to constantly need somebody, anybody, around her to chatter pointless shite with - and usually the quiet after a day of gruelling rehearsals surrounded by every other dancer at WIB was truly a balm - but this was different. It was relentless, without end nor rest, and she couldn't so much as send a text or exchange passing pleasantries with anybody. Soon, the heart-shaped charm dangling at her wrist became a solace; a small chance that she would see another living soul at some point or another. One that wasn't trying to kill, imprison, or enslave her.

There were many times, even just in that first month, that she was envious of the people who weren't on the run alone. The ones who could take turns keeping watch, who could distract one another from the situation at hand, or ease the burdens of that situation. The ones who might notice things she missed. But she'd missed nothing yet, and she tried to take comfort in the fact that adding people to the mix also made the risk greater. With tensions higher than ever, she didn't doubt that people all over Britain who shared in her situation were currently falling into terrible arguments about where they should go next, how the food should be rationed, and whose turn it was to take watch. There was a cold, rueful sort of comfort in the fact that if anybody's mistakes were going to get her killed, they would be her own.

She just had to hope that keeping the tracking charm on the bracelet wouldn't be one of them. As much as it provided comfort during the days when she was dying for someone, anyone, to talk to, it also fuelled her fear when she was standing in the middle of her campsite, in the pissing rain, in the dark, squinting keenly between the trees for any hint of the snatchers. Not because she didn't trust Draco, but because she knew how badly it could fuck her over if anybody else found out about it. The Death Eaters had boundless ways of prying information out of their own. Veritaserum, Legilimency, good ol' torture. If they suspected him of anything, it would be a short trip from suspicion to her door. So long as she kept the bracelet on.

It spoke to just how much she'd begun to pine for human contact that she kept it on. Even if it was almost a relief that he didn't turn up - one, two, three, four weeks in. If he'd been showing up every other day, toting a bottle of wine and ready to give her all of the hot gossip, he'd have hardly understood the gravity of all of this. And if anybody understood the gravity of all of this, it was Draco.

Although by week five, when she was no longer even embarrassed by how much she now talked to herself, she almost wished he'd be a bit more irresponsible. But even just the vague prospect of a hypothetical visit gave her something to look forward to, and she was pretty sure that it was worth the paranoia. And then, in mid-September, when she was dragged from an attempt at some mindful stretching by the little metal heart searing into her skin, she knew the paranoia was worth it because her heart felt just about ready to claw its way up out of her throat so that it might soar through the sky.

A wave of her wand had her little mini campsite tidying itself up a bit - the bed inside the magical tent made itself, the metal dish she'd been using as a bowl rid itself of the remnants of her dinner, and the clothing that had been strewn about folded itself into a neat pile by her backpack. As an extra touch, she threw another log onto the campfire, and then paused, running a hand over her face, and then her hair.

There was nothing she could do for her appearance. Not really. Her hair saw more stray creepy crawlies than it did hairspray or conditioning treatments these days, and the best she could ever really do was a messy ponytail. Her trainers were more brown than white because she'd gotten sick of cleaning them with magic only for them to be filthy again five minutes later, and the last halfway nice thing she'd worn was the dress at Fleur Delacour's wedding. Even the cloak from Fred and George was relegated to her bag half of the time, just too damn noticeable for her to justify wearing when the whole point was to be undercover.

Ten minutes went by - just long enough for her to start wondering if she'd imagined the little warning sign - and then she heard the sound of footfalls crunching through the leaves nearby. Despite the fact that she knew her wards would keep her invisible, the urge to duck behind the nearest tree was still strong. Instead, though, she settled for gripping her wand and keeping perfectly still.

Draco's silhouette was perfectly recogniseable to her these days, even when cloaked in black - his height, the sharp angle of his shoulders, the purposeful strides, the long-fingered pale hands that poked out from the confines of the cloak, one of which grasped a brown leather satchel. All the same, and despite the relief slowly spreading through her insides like she'd just sipped at a hot cup of tea, she kept still, taking measure of the situation. It didn't hurt to be cautious.

Every few steps, he would pause and look around, and then continue walking. If he had any clue at all that she was there, he gave no indication of it despite the fact that he was well within sight of the glow of her fire and the tent that the trees did nothing to hide. Her wards worked, then.

Sighing his annoyance, he slowed to a halt, hesitated, and then hissed in a whisper.

"...Em? Are you there?"

Referring to her as 'M' was new. But it made sense - if he was happened across here, it would be even more difficult to explain if he was found to be wandering and shrieking the name of a known liability. She waited until he drew nearer (by which point he looked just about ready to give up) before she darted from the confines of the wards, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him backwards. Had anybody strayed through the barrier on their own, they'd have found nothing at all, but because she'd been the one to pull him through it, her camp was revealed to him almost instantly.

Draco recovered quickly, too, having scrambled to fight against her for only a split second before finding his footing (literally and figuratively) and shifting quickly to curiosity instead, regarding the campsite with something resembling curiosity.

"You couldn't tell it was here?" she guessed - and hoped.

"Not for the most part - I smelled…something."

Ah, the material of romantic reunions everywhere. Marilyn breathed a laugh, and the corners of Draco's lips twitched upwards as he seemed to realise the implication of what he'd said.

"Deodorant, probably," she said quietly "I know some spells that'll do the trick instead, but it just makes me feel fresher."

"Best to abandon it," he said "Greyback is on one of the snatching squads. He's got the nose of a dog to match the manners."

He made no move to begin inspecting his surroundings, not to even make some sort of snarky comment. The bag remained clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Something was wrong. After the tired smile slipped from his face, it was more evident to Marilyn. He was twitchy, and he wouldn't meet her eye.

"What is it?" she asked, dread lacing her voice "Draco, what's happened?"

Guiding her with his free hand at the small of her back, he urged her towards the folding chair by the fire. When Marilyn paused to duplicate it with a jabbing motion of her wand so he could sit too, he didn't even pause to bemoan the lack of comfort, nor the fact that it was canvas and metal rather than, oh, fine leather and goose feathers or whatever. In fact, he barely cast a distasteful look at the chair at all as he sat down and immediately turned to face her.

"You're worrying me," she said.

No reassurance that she shouldn't be worried came. Instead, his lips thinned and he directed his gaze to the fire.

"There's…something you need to know," he said.

"What?"

"I'm not sure how to tell you."

"Will saying it a certain way make it less bad?"

He sighed "No."

"Then just say it."

When he finally lifted his gaze to look at her, his eyes were as wary as she'd ever seen them. Then, slowly, he unfurled his fingers and reached out his hand across the small gap between the chairs. Marilyn accepted it, eyes fixed on his face. He couldn't quite seem to decide whether to look at her, or look at the fire, his eyes darting back and forth a few times before he finally inhaled deeply and fixed them on her.

"They…they found your mother, Marilyn. They interrogated her for information on you. And then they…well. They're not in the habit of taking Muggles prisoner. She's gone."

Chapter Text

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"...Oh."

Marilyn was more than familiar with what shock felt like - and the way that it snuck in as numbness that would eventually give way to a hell of a lot. This didn't feel like that. This just felt…empty. In fact, she found herself searching for something to feel more than she actually felt anything. And while she couldn't say she was thrilled, she also couldn't say she felt much more than she did when she heard Potterwatch list the newest list of fatalities suffered by strangers in the war. Her greatest source of disturbance was more at her lack of grief than any actual grief itself.

"When I say gone, I did mean that she-"

"Dead," Marilyn interrupted flatly "Yeah. I know."

"I…was expecting more of a reaction," he said slowly.

"Yeah. Well. I was expecting more of a mother."

She regretted it as soon as she said it. Not because she didn't mean it, but because she wished that she didn't mean it. That she wasn't the girl who found out her mum was dead and felt…well, if not nothing then very little. And then she just felt sick - thoroughly, physically unwell. Draco's hand slid from hers.

"She was your mother, Marilyn. I know that things were difficult between the two of you," Marilyn scoffed at that part, "But you can't…you can't just feel nothing at her dying."

"Roll up your sleeve and show me your tattoo while you lecture me on morals, Draco."

Another thing she regretted saying as soon as she said it - and the sort of thing that would've sparked an absolutely blazing row between the two of them a few years ago. Instead, he only bared his teeth in a bitter grimace of a smile, and breathed an equally humourless laugh.

"There's more," he said - after a silence that might have either been very long or pretty short.

Marilyn wasn't sure.

"More?"

Her mother hadn't known anything about where she'd gone, had she? No. There was no way. She'd never even heard of WIB, she could barely ever recall the name of Beauxbatons, so it was impossible that she might've known what Marilyn had gone on to do following both. If Fred and George had no idea where she was, her mother sure as hell didn't.

"Your ballet mistress. From fourth year - the one with the…bun."

"Madame Garnier? What about her?"

"They got her, too."

"Got her?"

Marilyn stared at him, stricken. She knew damn well what it meant. He'd just used the same phrasing to talk about her mother - but she hoped, she prayed, that it meant something different this time around. Draco's doleful look quashed that hope.

"She's…she's in France, though. Things aren't so bad there…he hasn't got a hold…"

"Not in the way the Ministry is his now," Draco sighed "They only went to question her. When they did, they found her harbouring British citizens - who are technically under Ministry jurisdiction. They released an edict over summer, you'll remember, that all British Witches and Wizards must attend Hogwarts this year. They didn't take it particularly well."

"That doesn't make sense, though. Harbouring British students? I was her only British dancer when I was at Beauxbatons…"

"I expect you inspired a few to follow in your footsteps."

That was like a punch to the throat. Once, just once, she'd have liked Draco to read up on the concept of tact. He was continuing before she could consider whether she wanted to admit that out loud.

"Some of them were Muggle-born, and evidently they chose to go to her for…for sanctuary instead of reporting to Hogwarts, or the Ministry. She refused to give them up without a fight. None survived, and she took out two of his in the process."

"Would they have started sniffing around what she was up to if she'd never taught me?"

It was then that he found that tact she'd just been hoping for. He remained silent, directing his stony gaze at her little campfire. No. Of course they wouldn't have.

Marilyn stood, and then found herself at a loss as to what to do next. She couldn't quite feel her legs beneath her, and her insides felt hollow, like they were gnawing at themselves. Crying wasn't an option. Not because she'd begrudge the tears shed over her old ballet mistress, but because she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop if she started. If she started freaking out, she'd spiral. Spiralling meant death.

Sucking in a deep breath of the cold night air, she faltered when that breath caught in her throat, and a high-pitched pathetic whimper snuck out of her throat. She closed her eyes - in part to hide the tears building in them, but also out of some vain hope that if she kept them shut, everything would cease to exist, and she wouldn't have to deal with it all.

Behind her, she heard Draco rise to his feet. She hadn't even been aware of how tense her shoulders were until one of his hands landed heavily between her shoulder blades. When she didn't shake him off, he smoothed the hand over to one shoulder, pulling her back into his chest. His other hand resting at her hip, he lowered his head to set his chin atop her other shoulder, and simply stayed there.

His presence at her back helped. He felt decidedly more solid and real than she herself did at that moment, grounding her as she leaned back against him and tried to regain control of her breathing. A few times it seemed that she'd calmed herself only for a shudder to roll through her spine and all of her hard work to be undone, then other times she was certain she'd lost control entirely and was about to thoroughly break down, only to reel it back in at the last possible moment. Through it all, Draco stood with her. How often had he been through a similar process, she wondered? Alone in his room, surrounded by Death Eaters who'd take any show of emotion as weakness?

It was only after a long stretch of silence had gone by without any shudders or sobs that she spoke.

"I'm sorry for what I said. About the morals. I didn't…I think I've lost any knack for polite conversation out here."

"Some would argue that puts us on even footing," he said drily.

Marilyn gave a wet laugh that sounded more like a sob, resting her hand atop the one on her hip, "I thought your lot trained you for that."

"Conversations in those circles are rarely polite. Not these days, for all they fancy themselves a cut above the common rabble."

He dipped his head lower still, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, and then he stepped away, returning to the chair he'd previously been sitting in. Marilyn followed suit, pulling her own impossible closer still to his. She could still barely feel her legs. A beat of silence followed, and then he continued where he'd left off - like he was worried that if he paused for too long, he wouldn't say what was on his mind.

"They used to talk about the first war a lot, you know. The older generation - my father, his friends. My mother and hers, too. At gatherings, parties, lunches, all of it. Constantly. I grew up hearing about it unendingly. They knew when to shut up, of course, around those who didn't have the correct views, or when to carefully allude to certain threats and hopes they had for better days, but behind closed doors…well, it was a very popular topic of conversation. The glory days. They don't feel very glorious."

It was clear that he wasn't done, the cogs behind his eyes whirring furiously.

"I've wondered, you know. Whether things are so different this time, or if they'd just been lying about the glory to…to help them lick their wounds after defeat. Or…"

This time it looked like he might not mean to respond, so Marilyn prompted him. "Or…?"

"Or if we've changed."

"We? His followers?"

"No," he shook his head with a snort. "Not all of us. Most love it. Bar…well, that doesn't matter. I was speaking of my family. We're not revelling in it the same way I always imagined we might before…"

"Before it became a reality?"

"Or before I met you."

"They happened around the same time, if I recall."

"Not quite," he disagreed quietly "Had you come during fifth year, I never would have spoken to you again after I found out the truth. And my retribution would've been harsher, if I thought I was making a statement for his benefit as well as the school's."

"I dread to think."

"So do I. But the fact remains, somewhere along the way my family has changed. I know what my father did in the last war - not the details, but I've seen enough, and heard enough whispers, to be able to piece it all together."

Barty Crouch Jr's words to Draco that day in their fourth year had never fully left Marilyn's mind. Not only because they were strong words indeed, but because given the state of her relationship with Draco at the time, she was worried what they spoke of would come back to bite her square in the arse. I know stories about your father that would curl your greasy hair, boy - roared in the voice of Mad Eye Moody.

She couldn't pretend she'd never looked back in relief that she and Draco hadn't had his class together. Merlin only knew what would've happened if he saw something he deemed questionable and reported back on it. Yet another close call.

"He had no qualms with it last time round, that much is painfully clear. Not with the cruelty, with the bloodshed, with any of it. And while I doubt he told my mother all of the grizzly details when he got home at night, she's not an idiot. She had to have known. And given that they both pined for this war to happen before it actually did, she must've been fine with it too. Although that time none of it was taking place in our dining room, I suppose."

If he noticed Marilyn's look of dismay - the one she shot at him before she could control herself - he gave no indication of it.

"Your father's arrest probably forced some perspective in there. Probably showed them how easily he could turn on his loyal followers."

It took a fair bit of effort for her to keep any judgement out of her voice at that - because of course old Lucius would only lose stomach for the bloodlust when he realised it might smack him right in the face one day. But Draco was not Lucius, and what would being a prick about it fix? Especially when he was sitting before her looking like an errant breeze might crack him open.

"I don't have the stomach for it," he said quietly "For any of it. It's not like in the novels. There's nothing glorious or rightful about it, it's just…it's horrible. All of it. Constantly. Whether it's a change of heart on their part or not, I don't think I'd ever have been able to enjoy it. I suppose I sound laughable. Oh no, I got what I spent most of my life wishing for, how terrible."

Marilyn sighed quietly. She hoped he was trying to laugh away everything he'd just said out of a general discomfort with admitting rather than because he was scared she'd do so if he didn't get there first.

"You don't sound laughable at all," she replied quietly "Not to me. I don't blame you for anything that's happened to you, you know. I'm just sorry that it has. You're better than all of it."

She imagined that if she'd actually loved her mother, and her mother had been a good one - save for the minor detail of raising her into a cult - she'd be in a very similar boat to the one he was in now.

"Am I?" he scoffed. "How long did I spend denouncing Hogwarts as a great, crumbling dump? Then, when I watched my aunt shatter the Great Hall's windows…"

It was then that it seemed he really had reached his limit as far as the sharing was concerned, bowing his head and clenching his jaw. He didn't have to finish the sentence for her to understand what he was saying, though. Marilyn took his hand in hers.

"Draco…if this is too dangerous for you…"

"What, I should ask him for a leave of absence?" he scoffed.

"Not that. I know there's no choice in that. But there is one in this," at that, she squeezed his hand to emphasise her point. "If this is too dangerous for you, if you think you might get caught – if there's even a slither of a shadow of a chance that you will, if it's pushing the burden placed upon you to impossible heights…you should stop. I wouldn't take it personally if you did. I'd want you to stop. I can't..."

I can't have your name added to the list of people who've died for me.

Maybe it made her selfish that it was difficult to say. The solitude, the paranoia, the unending danger, were all already chipping away at her, and if it turned out that this would be her last bit of company until the war was over, or…or until something else happened, then it would be a difficult pill to swallow. But she'd swallow it ten times over if it would save his life, or make all of this a bit easier for him. He Who Must Not Be Named was hardly shacking up in her tent, after all.

"No."

"Draco-"

"No, Marilyn," he repeated – far more strongly than the first time. "That's the end of it. No. I don't have any evidence of us that could possibly be incriminating, nobody suspects a thing, nobody will suspect a thing. I'm not ending this."

She said nothing. Mostly because she wanted to argue (despite how much she didn't want to at the same time), and she knew it would just devolve into an argument. And whatever else she did or did not want, she didn't want to spend this time arguing with him. When he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper, eyes downcast, hand gripping hers, she was glad she hadn't pressed the matter.

"This is the only thing I can do that doesn't feel wrong."

The weight of the confession was not lost on her – and all she could do to reciprocate it was lean closer, and press her head against his.

Chapter Text

Pansy Parkinson's seventh year at Hogwarts was not shaping out how she'd expected - nor how she'd have liked it to. At all.

A lot of her disappointment stemmed from how fantastic it was supposed to be. Dumbledore, the old blithering idiot, was dead. Snape was in charge of Hogwarts - and, more than that, their kind were in charge of everything. Not only did they rule Hogwarts, the ruled the Wizarding World, and the Wizarding World was the only one that mattered. So why wasn't Draco here to revel in it?

He'd mentioned here and there last year that he wouldn't be returning, but she hadn't completely believed him. The year had all of the makings of being perfect, what with the hierarchy in its proper order, the Dark Lord on the rise, and now Mr Malfoy out of Azkaban, too - so it wasn't like he had to stick around for Mrs Malfoy. Even if Draco himself had been resolved not to return for the final year, she never expected his parents to allow it. Certainly not his father, at least. Maybe Azkaban had softened Lucius up a bit.

That didn't have to be an entirely bad thing. She was from the same circles as Draco, she knew what parental pressure did to the children of families such as theirs, and she knew how Draco strove to meet those expectations. She'd always admired how gracefully he'd managed to do so – never whining about it or anything boring like that. But it would probably be a relief to him to have a few months without his father scrutinising his every move.

She just wished he was here. Seeing the likes of Longbottom and Finnigan get theirs, after years of being the most moronic idiots known to Wizarding-kind. No doubt he'd find it as hysterical as she did, watching what the Carrows inflicted on the fools who had once been ignorant enough to think themselves their equals. Or even their betters. No, they were being firmly put in their place now. And Draco was missing it.

"I don't understand," Pansy griped. "He barely even answers my letters. For every three or four I send, I get one back, and they're so cold. Trying to get a conversation from him is like trying to pass one of Snape's exams. He answers all of the direct questions I ask, and that's it. Doesn't ask me anything, doesn't try to further the conversation, nothing."

Millicent Bulstrode sat beside her at the shore of the lake. Autumn had well and truly taken over from summer, and this would likely be one of the last half-decent afternoons they got out here – evidenced by how many students had filtered out here to enjoy it. Pansy had long since discovered that Millicent listened to her venting far more actively than Crabbe, Goyle, or Zabini had ever been inclined to, and Pansy had taken full advantage of that fact. Sometimes it just took a fellow girl's ear. One who, most importantly, had no chance with Draco and wouldn't try to take advantage of the rough patch Pansy had hit with him – who wouldn't see it as an opportunity, as plenty of other girls in their circles would the moment they caught the scent of blood in the water.

"You n' Draco have always been hot and cold, though, haven't you? I wouldn't worry about it too much," she shrugged a little.

"You're not listening – this is just cold, cold, cold, cold, cold," Pansy replied – and hated the despair that threatened to creep into her voice, because it was pathetic. "I don't even know what I did wrong, or when it all flipped, and if I knew that I could at least fix it or stop doing whatever it is that pissed him off, but the one time I asked, he treated me like I was mental!"

"People just grow apart sometimes, don't they?"

"Not Draco and I. That's not an option. It was all supposed to be perfect. Do you know that when I last visited the manor with my mother – months ago, mind you – he couldn't even make the effort to be home at the time?"

Mrs Malfoy had made some excuse about his having a tailoring appointment, but surely something like that could be rescheduled. Pansy's mother had even suggested, after the fact, that he'd purposely avoided her – but Pansy would not be repeating that. Not to Millicent, not to anybody. It was too embarrassing. And it wasn't bloody well true. Circumstances had just...just conspired against them. For now. But that could be fixed.

"Well, anyway, as my mother and his caught up, I had the opportunity to slip off to his room. To wait for him, you understand."

There was no need for Millicent to know that she'd used the excuse of using the restroom to do so.

"And while I was there, I found something strange on his desk."

There was also no need for Millicent to know that it hadn't been on his desk at all. Well, not in plain sight just sitting there, but rather wedged firmly into the screw-top lid of his inkwell. It was a hiding spot she knew to check, because he often hid test answers there for the meaningless classes like Muggle Studies, when Burbage had been daft enough to announce that failure meant coming back at lunchtime to resit.

Pansy had managed to pry it out, and she'd even remembered the spell he'd used back then to get any ink remnants off of the parchment so she could read what it said. Only two words – a name, in neat looping handwriting that was not Draco's. Meryl Monroe.

"What sort of name is Meryl Monroe, anyway?" she scoffed after offering her amended version of events to the girl at her side "It's the sort of name a grandmother has. Like Beryl, or Ethel. Meryl Monroe. She's certainly not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, I can tell you that right now."

"Maybe he-"

"Meryl Monroe. Meryl. Monroe. Sodding Meryl Monroe, give me a break, it's ridiculous, I don't know what he'd possibly want with some daft cow called Meryl Monr-"

"Oh my god," a Ravenclaw a few feet down the shore groaned, turning her glare to Pansy "It's Marilyn Monroe. The name is Marilyn Monroe. She was some famous Muggle actress who went nuts and died young or something. Now whatever your vendetta against her is, please shut up about it, stop shouting loud enough for the whole castle to hear, and let me enjoy the last ten minutes of my free period. Merlin's beard."

Millicent turned to Pansy, eyes wide as she waited for her to unleash pure fury upon the Ravenclaw for her disrespect. Pansy could not – for she could not form words, and her attention was eaten up by how quickly she felt all of the blood rushing away from her face.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

Marilyn sat in only jeans and a bra, a blanket clutched to her front and her hair pulled forwards so that Draco could dab a soothing agent on the welath of the cuts and bruises at her back. After her close call with the snatchers, there seemed to be little of her that wasn't scratched, cut, bruised, or scraped. Including her morale.

He'd come as soon as he caught word with her close call, and whatever admonishments she'd offered regarding the wisdom in that had fallen on deaf ears. Primarily because she looked like she'd just been fucked in a hedge backwards - his butchery of the idiom, not hers. The notion that he should help clean her up had also been his. If her fourth year self could've paid witness to that, she never would have believed it, but he'd been so shaken upon first seeing her that she didn't have the heart to tease. Especially considering she was hardly unbothered herself.

"It was stupid to come north," he said finally, smoothing the salve on a particularly sore bruise at her shoulder blade.

"It also would've been stupid to go south. Or east. Or west."

Or up, down, sideways, backwards, forwards, over, under. Anywhere that didn't involve spontaneously transforming into a pureblood. Given that they'd yet to invent a spell for that, she was starting to see she was fucked in every direction. Including in hedges backwards, according to Draco's colourful turn of phrase.

Her broom was proof of that. It sat some ways away on the ground, a great jagged, scorched black crack running through the previously immaculate white wood. It had proven to be beyond repair – by her own wand, by Draco's, it mattered not. Whenever she glanced at it, she was reminded of how it had saved her life. And now it no longer could. So what about next time? Because there would be a next time.

"I'll get you another," he said, catching her line of sight over her shoulder.

"No, you won't."

"Yes I will, Marilyn."

"It's too dangerous."

"So is not getting you one. And being here. And breathing."

She scoffed at having her own words parroted back to her.

"We're being stupid," she said quietly.

"We've been being stupid for…oh, three or four years now."

On the snark scale, especially as far as Draco Malfoy was concerned, that was so light that it didn't even register on the scale. Not least because it was so very true. So she couldn't really explain why that was the trigger that sent her into a flood of tears. Even more surprising was Draco's reaction, although it shouldn't have been – no, her surprise when he pulled her back against his chest was more to do with how long she'd grown used to a lack of anything resembling comfort or affection than his character. Gone was the boy who once would've mocked her for displaying any emotion of any kind.

"If I could go back and sit somewhere else during that Muggle Studies class, I wouldn't change a thing," he sounded angry for that fact.

And who could blame him if he was? Their situation was a mess. It would be all too easy to focus only on the bad – on the danger, on the paranoia of being caught – and not on the good. But for all of the danger this arrangement put them in, she could not deny the good. Not only in having company here, sporadic as it was, or the broom, or the meagre comfort in knowing that maybe – just maybe – he'd hear something of a plan of attack on her before it happened, and be able to warn her in time, but because she loved him.

Sharp-tongued and prickly as he could be, she wasn't blinded to how it masked an intense wish to do good, even if circumstances often conspired to block that possibility. He was fiercely intelligent, and loyal to those who he deemed worthy of it, and he carried an intensity in all things he did that she found captivating because she so rarely saw it in others – because she was so often mocked for it, when it came to how she'd been with her dancing.

The fact of the matter was, it was mortally dangerous for the both of them, but more so for him – and he stood to gain less from it. Save, perhaps, for a sense of doing the right thing amidst an endless parade of horrors, and…her. But while a lack of self-belief was never something Marilyn could be accused of, at that moment – tired, scared, cold, and sore as she was – she just couldn't see how he could ever think she was worth it.

His chest was hot as a fire in contrast to the frigid air, even through the shirt that lay between it and her bare back, but that wasn't why she pressed back so tightly to him.

"I have never been so glad to be an idiot," he mumbled into her shoulder.

Marilyn only cried all the harder for the confession, clinging to his arms where they were wrapped around her middle until he pulled her so tightly against him that it was a wonder they didn't fuse together.

"We are getting through this, Marilyn, do you hear me? We are getting through this," he insisted, his voice rough. "There is no version of events where we do not. Not after…not after everything. We didn't keep coming back to each other – despite the distance, despite the…the differences – for nothing. We didn't survive all of this just to…we didn't come all this way only to not make it."

It took a few deep, painstaking breaths before she was able to respond – with words that weren't really hers, but ones she'd heard repeated around ballet rehearsal rooms ad nauseam.

"We didn't come this far to only come this far," she said.

"Exactly," he agreed firmly. Keeping her close and pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder, repeating again. "We're getting through this. I refuse to accept any other outcome. Ever."

Draco walked through corridors of Malfoy Manor towards his bedroom with tense shoulders and a clenched jaw. One might be tempted to think that, when under circumstances that were constantly unbearable, that very unbearableness in itself might eventually become tolerable. That it was possible to grow desensitised to it, and simply view it as the new normal. But while it certainly jarred him less now than it did in the beginning, while he came to expect the worst now, there was nothing sufferable about it.

He was hanging on by a thread, and watching everybody he lov- everybody who he cared for doing the same was not helping matters. His father looked as though he was still in Azkaban, his mother looked like a ghost, and Marilyn…Marilyn had the appearance of one who was next in line for the gallows. Were it not for her fear, and how uncharacteristically obvious it was on her face, he mightn't have been able to overcome his own. Had she reacted to all of this with smiles and laughs and jokes, he may have cowed to his own fear and stopped turning up. But there was something about hers that made him endeavour to master his – to be decisive, and to be hopeful where she could not be.

All he could do was hope that it would last. If it didn't, though, he would have to make use of it while it was still around. It would be no great thing to dig out one of his old brooms from the recesses of his wardrobes and make some excuse about going flying if he was seen taking it out. Returning without it would be the risky part, but he'd gotten this far.

We didn't come this far to only come this far, she'd said.

He had to believe that she was right.

As he neared his bedroom, however, only to be greeted with a door that was ajar, light streaming out into the hall from inside, and an almighty ruckus, all coherent thought melted away.

Heart hammering – another norm these days, if the Dark Lord didn't murder him, a heart attack would – he barrelled into the room half-expecting to see him himself rooting around through his things. But instead he saw Pansy, her hair in disarray and her face contorted into a sneer as she tore through his desk, emptying drawers by pulling them out and upturning them, rifling through the contents, and moving onto the next.

"Have you lost your mind?" he demanded at a shout.

None of the immediate horror or regret he'd expected to see on her face even flickered across it at all, as she straightened and turned to stare at him with a sort of imperiousness that she had no right to.

"No. No, but I think you have," she countered immediately.

"What the bloody hell are you-"

"Marilyn. Baxter," she stretched out each syllable until they were practically words in their own right.

Considering how often he'd feared someone throwing that name at him when he'd least expected it, he was already well-practised in keeping any sort of reaction from his face. Well, any reaction other than feigned confusion.

"You really have lost your mind, what do you think you're playing at?" he scoffed.

"Marilyn Baxter," she repeated furiously. "Don't pretend you don't know who I'm talking about!"

"Of course I know who you're talking about – the uppity little mudblood from fourth year, but I fail to see how a stupid tart who will soon be dead is the reason for your rooting around my bedroom."

Pansy watched him as he rolled his eyes at her, looking no more cowed at his words save for the tears that filled her eyes. She wiped at them furiously, shaking her head and breathing a laugh.

"I must admit, Draco, you're very good. Very convincing. I'm almost glad to see it – it stops me from being too annoyed at myself for believing it all this time. Speaking of, when has all this time been, exactly? Since fourth year? Some time afterwards?"

"You're rambling, Pansy, and none of it is making any sense."

"Of course it's not," she bared her teeth in a bitter imitation of a grin. "Maybe I should call her Meryl Monroe, and then you'll know what I'm talking about."

Something in Draco's chest seized up so tightly that he was certain his ribs would snap.

"I suppose she thought it was terribly clever," she sniffed, "she always was a smug little bitch. Meryl Monroe. Like the Muggle actress, Marilyn Monroe. As if nobody would understand that reference – that just because we know they're beneath us, we're clueless about them."

"How long exactly have you been snooping through my things?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet now.

His wand was still in his hand, as it had been ever since he heard the commotion from his bedroom. Perhaps he could…

Pansy laughed – a high-pitched, belligerent sort of laugh. "You've set a precedent here of not answering questions, Draco. Why should I answer that one?"

"So you snooped around my bedroom and found I've been writing to a girl from Beauxbatons, put two and two together and come up with twenty-two, is that it?" he scoffed.

"If that's true, one of our parents can talk to their contacts in France and verify that such a girl exists," Pansy said evenly.

"I take my orders from you, now, do I, Pansy?" Draco's mother's voice cut through the room and dread washed over him, cold and all-consuming.

Pansy he could handle – with force, if pushed. If his life depended upon it. But his mother? It offered little consolation that Pansy's face paled considerably. Draco did not remove his attention from her in order to turn and look at his mother, but he heard her footsteps approaching behind him…and didn't manage to untense his shoulders when she set one hand upon them.

"I came home to find her rooting about through my things, and rambling nonsense," he spat.

Merlin, how he hoped she'd mistake his fear for pure, seething rage.

"Mrs Malfoy…" Pansy breathed.

Apparently this had not been part of her plan.

"The Parkinsons came over to see about making arrangements for a few social occasions over the Christmas holidays. Pansy asked to use the restroom some time ago, and did not return. Surely you've been here enough times to know your way around," Narcissa asked, her voice soft and utterly dangerous.

"You don't know what he's been doing, Mrs Malfoy. If he won't tell you, then I will – because…because it's our duty, to save him from himself!" Pansy insisted.

"I heard your accusations," his mother said. "I heard how you had the gall to come into my home, and accuse my son of being a blood-traitor."

"I didn't…not that…"

"I'd assume that you have proof?"

A question that Draco dreaded the answer to, if ever there was one. And it seemed that she did – based on how decisively she turned to his desk and took up his inkpot. Unscrewing the lid, she defiantly then turned that lid upside down and…stared in dismay to see nothing but the smooth metal underside. He'd taken it out in a moment of paranoia not two full weeks beforehand. Such was his relief, that his legs almost threatened to give out beneath him.

"It was…it was right here…"

"In an inkwell?" his mother asked drily.

"It was-"

"And what was it?"

"A…a piece of writing with a woman's name on."

"A woman's name?"

"Her name! A code name. Meryl Monroe, for Marilyn Baxter-"

"Again, what proof have you? Other than tenuous, paranoid delusion?"

"I…I…"

"Yes. I thought so. I suggest you rejoin your mother, Miss Parkinson, and keep these ridiculous accusations to yourself before I decide it's appropriate to bring them to your father. As well as my husband."

The name of Lucius Malfoy still carried something in their circle, for Pansy's mouth snapped shut quickly. But Draco knew they could not count on it for long. Returning the inkwell to the desk, she left with pursed lips and a bowed head, closing the door behind her.

"She's having a psychotic break, I tell you," Draco snorted, clearing up her mess with a wave of his wand and moving to step towards it.

Until his mother's grip on his shoulder tightened; not enough to hurt, but enough to keep him in place. When she spoke again, all trace of the haughty confidence with which she'd dealt with Pansy was gone from her voice.

"You will remain here while I get rid of the Parkinsons. And then we need to have a very serious discussion."

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

The moment Marilyn's feet met solid ground again, her legs buckled. Although that could've easily been down to the state of her mind just as much as the state of her body. Draco's hold on her remained vice-like and he followed her to the ground, but from her limited awareness of him, she suspected he had about as much choice in that matter as she'd had. She squirmed in his hold, unsure of whether she was trying to shove him away or pull him closer, but the effect was the same either way – entirely fruitless. His grip wasn't budging. But she had bigger worries than that.

A lifetime of dancing had given her a high pain tolerance, but the agony radiating from her knee – agony renewed with every beat of her pulse, which she could feel throbbing throughout her whole leg – was unlike anything Marilyn had ever felt. It was swiftly swelling badly, too, already straining against the tight confines in her jeans until it felt like either the denim or the skin would soon split.

Breathing did fuck all to help, but it was just about all she had. And it wasn't like she could stop.

They were in yet another godforsaken wilderness. Britain was hardly vast, she would've thought she'd seen the whole bloody thing by now, but apparently not. Towering all about them were snow covered hills, littered here and there with little miniature forests like the one they sat in now. Had she been in better shape, it might've worried her – for running anywhere here would be a task and a half. But now there was little difference between Everest and a flat tarmac road as far as she was concerned.

Draco sat on the snowy ground behind her. All she could see of him were his long legs, clad in black suit trousers, sprawled diagonally to her left. One of his arms was wrapped around her waist, his other hand gripped her arm. It was suffocating and comforting in equal measure, and she dreaded the moment she calmed enough to think because she had no idea what she would say. Nor what he would. This moment of shock and hysteria was their only moment of calm, and the moment the world came crashing in, there'd be no beating it back again.

Considering how she could feel his ragged breathing at her back, he was in a similar state. She couldn't hear it, though, over the hammering of her own heart.

But she couldn't stay removed from reality forever. It dripped back in slowly. In the snow that melted beneath her and seeped steadily into her jeans, in the way her pain gained a fresh edge as the adrenaline faded and was replaced by exhaustion and tremors, and in how her mind inevitably began to tug her towards what came next. What could possibly come next? Like this? How could she even continue clinging to hope? Would it not have been better if – no. She flexed her knee and cried out at the pain, using it to hard-reset her brain and jolt her out of that spiral.

It wasn't a pleasant distraction, but it was a distraction all the same.

Draco, she knew, was going through a similar process behind her. To begin with, his grip had been bruising, but she doubted he was even aware of it – aware of her. Instead, he was holding onto her merely so he had something to hold onto. Gradually, though, it loosened. Just a little. Once it slackened as though he meant to let go, but then it renewed again, and she felt him set his forehead down upon the back of her shoulder.

By the time she managed to speak, her entire body was either numb or in absolute bloody agony.

"What…" her voice was thin and reedy, and she had to take a deep breath in before she spoke again – although there was no fixing how her voice trembled. "What was the plan?"

"What?"

He tensed behind her, although his question seemed more born of shock rather than confusion at the question itself. Marilyn didn't repeat herself. She wasn't being stubborn, she simply wasn't capable. Her knee kept throbbing. Despite the frigid winter air, a cold sweat had worked its way all across her brow, the wisps of hair that had escaped her ponytail in the skirmish sticking to her face.

"He…they…would have interrogated you. Torture. More for the fun than the information. Then they would have killed-"

His words were muffled by her back, and by her pain, but she still heard them – and didn't want to hear more of them. Not those ones.

"N-not his plan. Not thei- fuck!" she dug her hand into the snow, because that pain was better than the one radiating throughout her leg. "Yours. Today. What did y-you think would happen today?"

The pressure of his head against her shoulder disappeared as Draco lifted his head.

"…I thought you'd get away."

The noise that clawed its way out of her throat was a whimper, mixed with a sobbed laugh. He thought she'd outrun or outfight an entire squad of Death Eaters. A murder of Death Eaters. God, how she wished she was whatever inhuman being he seemed to have convinced himself she was. Or who he wanted her to believe he thought she was. Because even in her present state, she could hear how he didn't sound convinced of his own words.

"And if I didn't?"

"You didn't. You saw what happened after. You were there."

"Did you plan that bit?"

She didn't stutter then – but her voice did break. It took clenching her jaw so hard her teeth risked cracking so that she didn't start crying.

"I thought you'd…I hoped you'd…I didn't think of what would happen if…but then it…I couldn't, Marilyn. Not that. I couldn't watch as-"

At that, he cut himself off. It would've been a lie if she pretended she wasn't glad for that. But he made a strangled sort of noise, and when she tried to turn to look at him, he stopped her before the pain in her leg could achieve the same job. Marilyn realised then that he wouldn't be able to say any of this if they were looking at one another. She pressed a hand over his, where it was secured around her middle. His hands were as freezing as hers, but the other let go of her arm and placed itself atop hers.

A lump remained in her throat, and her vision was blurred, but her breathing slowed.

Apparently reassured, he continued.

"There was no easy choice. I'm not Potter. I don't…I don't do the right thing by default – I'm not a hero, Marilyn. And my family…" she listened as he took a few deep, shuddering breaths. "But if I hadn't…if I hadn't done this, and I had to sit in the manor tonight…even if not watching but knowing that you…I would have wished I'd done this. I would have regretted not doing this. And now that I have, I don't regret that I did, because I couldn't have lived with myself if- but my family…my mother…"

His body shuddered where his torso was pressed against her back.

"I'm sorry," she sniffled.

She didn't know what she was apologising for. For asking, maybe. For ever speaking to him in that Muggle Studies class all those years ago. For the Dark Lord's existence, for the war, for ever catching his eye in the first place, for her stupid little stunt on that stage that had carved a bullseye firmly into her back. Some of those things weren't even her own damn fault, but she was still sorry for it. She was sorry for everything. Because what was there to be thankful for?

Other than Draco. And what he'd done for her today.

"Thank you," she added, leaning back into his hold.

His grip tightened, and he pressed his head against hers. For a while it kept appearing as though he meant to speak – a false start here and there as he went to begin, and then stopped and went back to trying to master his breathing. It was a task that occupied them both, for the throbbing of knee had overtaken her from the hip down, and even up to her skull, inducing a dire headache. But she wouldn't allow it to distract her from this.

"I wouldn't have done it – I wouldn't have been able to do it – if I didn't love you. Tell me you know that, Marilyn."

"I do," she breathed. "I love you too."

"Still?"

Always. That was where this thing was going, wasn't it? Even if always ended up being agonisingly short, with how things were looking.

"Still," she repeated quietly.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

Marilyn had long since fallen asleep when Draco first heard footsteps on the deck outside. It was a testament to her sheer exhaustion that she did not stir at the sound – out there, she would rouse the moment a twig snapped or a tree groaned in the wind, but now there was nothing. For that, he was grateful…because he knew those footfalls. He'd spent his whole life listening to them glide across the finely polished floors of the manner, after all.

Still, he hunkered down behind one of the sofas and drew his wand, murmuring a quiet revealing charm. His mother cut a single, solitary ghostly grey figure through the walls of the cabin as she crept up the steps and milled about the deck. Draco wasn't too surprised to find her alone – she'd never have come if the purpose was to lead him into a trap. But the Dark Lord did have his ways, and he'd never let something so trifling as willingness stand between him and his goals.

"Draco?"

He murmured the counter-spell when her voice drifted through the door – so softly that he wasn't entirely sure he'd heard it at all.

Rising, but still not standing entirely straight, he dragged their gear over towards Marilyn's still-sleeping form, eyes flickering between them and the door a few times, making certain he could run (or dive, if need be) towards them and vanish them with all of their supplies if it came down to it.

He knew he should wake her up first, but he couldn't bring himself to – lest she try to insist they leave immediately…or stare at him with wide eyes brimming with betrayal and distrust.

Moving on the balls of his feet only, he made for the door, peeked through the mottled glass windowpane on it, and then opened it a crack, wand in hand. There his mother stood, and she looked like utter hell. The circles around her eyes were so dark it looked as if she'd smeared makeup there, her blonde hair was greasy and flat, and her face was so pale that it had turned grey. In all his life, he'd never thought of his mother as old – even when he'd been so young that everybody who wasn't a teenager appeared ancient. But now? Now she threatened to look so, and the look of betrayal, desperation, relief, and sheer love that she managed to convey all at once as she took him in did little to help.

Resisting the urge to rush to her, he held his wand before him.

"What…" he had to stop then, clear his throat, and begin anew so that his voice would not falter. "What pet did I desperately want when I was four years old?"

"A basilisk," she answered immediately.

When she didn't ask a question of her own, he faltered. "Don't you wish to check?"

There was that look again. The desperately sad one.

"I know my son," she answered simply and then, after a moment's pause, she added softly. "Enough to recognise him, at least."

Draco didn't flinch. Mostly because he didn't allow himself to flinch. But his mother spoke again, before he could worry about something deep and profound to respond with.

"We must continue this conversation inside. It's not wise to linger out here."

She didn't wait for an invitation – but why should she? It was her property more than it was his. When she stepped forth, Draco released the grip he'd had on the door. It was only then that he realised just how tight that grip had been, his fingers groaning in protest when he loosened them and stepped back, pocketing his wand.

When his mother stepped into the cabin, closing the door behind her, he turned to check on Marilyn and stopped short. Not only had she woken sometime during his mother's arrival, but she'd risen – with great difficulty, it appeared, given the sweat at her brow.

But while her wand was in her hand, it wasn't raised, hanging instead limply at her side while her left hand gripped the back of the nearest chair for balance. And she appeared completely unsurprised – regarding the two of them like his mother was merely an unannounced guest, here for tea. His mother did not share her unfazed demeanour, a fact in and of itself that was not like her. No, instead she borrowed some of his father's cold, arctic fury as she glared at Marilyn, her hand twitching at her side as though wondering if she could draw her want and fire a curse before either of them could stop her.

"If you hurt her, this was all for nothing," he pointed out, voice weary but devoid of desperation – or, worse, begging.

"This was already for nothing," she returned through gritted teeth.

Her eyes remained on Marilyn, and after returning the look for a few moments, Marilyn spoke softly.

"Mrs Malfoy," she greeted.

"Miss Baxter," his mother said. "I tried to kill you once, you know."

Draco tensed – head whipping around to stare at Marilyn, waiting for outrage or horror. Instead, she breathed a quiet laugh, wobbling on her good leg, and adjusting her stance.

"So did your husband. I think it's a Malfoy trait."

"It seems to have skipped a generation. Unfortunately."

In response to that, Marilyn smiled tiredly. "I'm sure he's still tempted, at times."

Both unwilling and unable to watch her continued struggle to stay upright, Draco went to her and helped her towards the great sofa. Whatever was about to follow, whatever conversation was about to be had, he knew she'd rather die than spend it on the floor, staring up at his mother like some sort of supplicant.

She hid her pain from her face as they moved, although he felt it plainly in how her shoulders and arms tensed to steel, but when it came to sitting down, it was another matter entirely. Unable to bend her knee easily or comfortably enough to sit on the sofa, it had to be stretched out before her as she sat sideways on it, instead, and that was a process that had her hissing through her teeth as Draco tried to move her leg as slowly and gently as possible.

His mother watched the entire process with mingled keen fascination, horror, and concern. The latter of which he knew was not for Marilyn's benefit.

"She is injured, then," she said.

"I imagine the others told you that, when they reported back."

"The others? Your father, you mean."

"…Him, too."

"They did, but we didn't know how serious it was. Nor how quickly she might recover."

He and Marilyn exchanged a look then, silently debating – silently arguing – over whether or not to tell her just how grim the prospect of recovery appeared. There was little need to elaborate who was on which side. In Marilyn's mind, albeit justifiably, his mother was the enemy. To tell her the whole truth of just how dire her knee injury was would be displaying weakness. And displaying weakness to an enemy was never a good idea.

Draco could understand her line of thinking. He'd have to be an idiot not to, given how his mother's first words to her were 'I tried to kill you once'. But whatever Marilyn's fate was, it was now linked to his. As far as the Dark Lord was concerned, they were on the same level. None understood that, at this moment, more than the Malfoys did. What would his mother do? Run back and tell them the information she'd gathered? No.

Even if she did it to try and save his skin, it would never work. The only way his skin could be saved would be if he brought Marilyn's head to the Dark Lord himself, and even then it would be a hell of a dicey risk to take. That hardly mattered, though, since he'd never do it.

And if his mother knew the truth, maybe she could help. A few long moments of staring went by, and finally Marilyn sighed, her shoulders slumping as she looked towards the fire in silent assent.

"Marilyn won't recover," he said quietly, his attention turning back to his mother. "Not without aid."

"And she cannot run?"

"I can barely walk," Marilyn admitted sourly.

"So you'll slow him down, then. If it comes to a chase."

"If it's any consolation, I've told him to leave me behind if it comes to that."

"Nothing is a consolation here," his mother hissed.

"It doesn't matter, because I wouldn't do it," he replied to Marilyn directly.

She shook her head, and she rolled her eyes, but otherwise didn't respond. Nor did his mother – but the exchange seemed to have intrigued her, her eyes lingering on Marilyn before she finally dragged them back to Draco.

"We need to get a healer for her. If we're to have any chance," he said.

"We?" his mother echoed sharply. "We? Do you hear yourself? After your actions? Your idiotic, foolish, selfish actions?"

"They weren't selfish," Marilyn snapped in return. "They were the absolute opposite of selfish! Selfish would have been doing nothing. Selfish would have been going wherever the hell you've been trying to guide him – because look at where that's landed everybody! And I don't expect you to give a shit about the likes of me, the lowly scum of the Wizarding World, but from what I've seen, your lot is hardly doing much better. So much for this glorious new world you've been building under your psychotic despot of a great leader, eh? From what I've seen and ehard, the ones on the right side of this war need to bow and scrape and cower just as much as we filthy mudbloods do. How'd you square yourself with that? Or are you all really stupid enough to think it'll end if he manages to kill Harry?"

Draco held out a hand, encouraging her to stop more than ordering it. The latter would never get him anywhere.

"I will not stand here and explain myself to the likes of you," his mother sneered.

"Good. I don't want to hear it," Marilyn replied.

"This is not helping," Draco cut in, raising his voice as loudly as he dared under their need to remain unfound.

"Things were not perfect," his mother addressed him squarely now. "Merlin knows that. But I put my head down, and I did what I could to keep us safe. For you, and for your father. And your father did the same for you, and for me. It never once occurred to me, Draco, that you could not, or would not, return the favour."

"I did. For my entire sixth year, with Dumbledore. I didn't succeed, but I tried. Then, too, in the months that followed. But not here. Not…not with her."

"You're a teenage boy, Draco," exasperation laced her words. "There would have been other girls."

"Not like her," he said. "Not after her."

His mother said nothing, and when he eyed Marilyn, he found her staring back – tears shining in her eyes.

"How…father…?" he turned back to his mother.

While her lips thinned, much of the fight and fury appeared to have drained from her. Rounding the armchair, she all but fell into it. Draco, now the only one standing, stepped towards the sofa Marilyn sat on, lowering himself down to perch by her legs, taking great care not to jostle them.

"He tortured him," his mother said, dispassionately, her voice detached and her eyes distant. "Were it not for how you attacked him, he might have killed him. Then, he tortured me."

"You? But you weren't there -"

"It was your father's punishment, more than mine. After that, Lucius was given a choice. Either he could have his turn casting the Cruciatus Curse on me, or he could join the one of the snatching squads out in the wilds, to track you down and bring you to…justice. The understanding being that if they did encounter you, and he failed to either kill or apprehend you, that would be the end for our entire family."

"He chose the latter, I'm guessing."

"You know the Dark Lord's tricks. He would have watched your father torture me, and then sent him out for a new career as a snatcher, regardless."

"I'm amazed he didn't make him do it anyway."

"I am a glorified hostage in my own home now. In all but name, really. I can't take a turn about the gardens without your aunt trailing behind me – I had to slip her a sedative to come here tonight, and it will only work once. More, and she'll grow suspicious."

"Your own sister would turn you in?" Marilyn breathed.

"Yes," he and his mother answered, blandly, in unison.

"I may be able to sneak out again – a month from now. Perhaps two."

Draco's lips thinned, and he shook his head. Out here, a day was a lifetime insofar as what might happen over the course of it was concerned. A month? That was an eternity. They couldn't plan that far ahead. Literally speaking, they simply could not.

"That many people are on the run now," he said, speaking that word – people – slowly and meaningfully, so there could be no doubt as to how specifically he had chosen it. "There must be some healers out here, doing what they can. Some do-gooder hoping to be a war hero once this is all over."

"Or a martyr," his mother said softly. "If such people do exist, I can't help you. The only instances of travelling healers that I know of are the ones who use it as a trap to lure in those who are on the run. They make a small fortune turning them into the authorities, when they're at their weakest – unable to fight or run."

"If your side knew of the ones that do actually help, they'd be dead already," Marilyn sighed.

"Precisely. If I knew of any, I'd certainly have little idea of where to find them," his mother returned.

It was the closest thing to a civil exchange that had passed between them, and Draco had to do his best not to stare in fascination at it. After what felt like a century, his two worlds had well and truly collided. With several casualties, it felt like.

Even as he looked at his mother, guilt ebbed at him – a physical, aching sensation that took root in his chest – as he realised the stiffness with which she'd moved since the beginning of their reunion had not been mere weariness, but actual pain. The Cruciatus Curse forced one to tense, writhe, and clench all manner of muscles in unusual ways, and the days and weeks that followed often left the victim sorer than any gruelling Quidditch practise he'd ever been subjected to. And that wasn't even the worst of it. Depending on how you crumpled to the ground when it hit, and what you landed on, bones could be broken, skulls smacked off of the floor as you twitched and fought against the pain. Teeth cracked, even, if you clenched your jaw too hard. He'd seen it all. He'd experienced some of it himself.

And now his parents had both gone through it. Not because of some foul mood of the Dark Lord's, not because of some accident that had forced them into failure, but because of a conscious decision he had made. Maybe the fact that he would have still done it all over again if time was rewound should have helped his conscience, but it only made matters worse. His sole consolation was the person sitting on the sofa with him, even more pale and exhausted than he was.

"If you need help, it's not I that you must turn to. What of Miss Baxter's allies?"

"They're all dead or overseas," Marilyn replied.

"Then why did the Dark Lord take such pains to parade the cloak you left behind during your last near-miss before all of the Weasleys? Why was it a matter of such great importance to have them believe you dead?"

"The Weasleys are as good as family to Potter," Draco shook his head – and judging by the look on Marilyn's face, he'd just saved her from saying the same thing. "They're being watched like hawks. Going to their little hovel would be as good as returning home as far as safety is concerned."

"I didn't say a word about going to their shack," his mother said, eyeing Marilyn all the while. "You worked in that ridiculous little joke of a shop for some time, did you not? I recall the articles about their harbouring you there."

"Joke shop," Marilyn corrected flatly.

"I'm well aware of what I said," his mother replied.

"Going to Diagon Alley would be just as stupid as going to Malfoy Manor – or the Burrow, or Hogwarts," Marilyn pointed out, visibly losing patience with this exchange.

Had so much not been at stake, Draco didn't doubt that they'd have devolved into shouting and name-calling a long, long time ago. But they couldn't afford that now. And while he agreed with Marilyn's point, he was more intrigued by how unperturbed his mother was by it.

"They offered a lot of provocation, from their little business, didn't they? The Weasleys are morons, but they're clever. In their way. They wouldn't try their luck to such an extent without having secret ways in and out of the building, should danger strike."

Something changed in Marilyn's face, then, and Draco seized on it.

"Is there? A way inside?"

"Even if there was, there's no way they'd ever be there these days. Not with things as they are," she shook her head.

"But there would be alarms in place," his mother insisted. "I am never here, and yet I knew when you arrived. There are no greater blood traitors than the Weasleys…"

Draco bit down on the inside of his cheek, and resisted the urge to point out that he probably gave them a run for their money now. None here would thank him for it. His mother continued.

"…If any in this world can help you, and by extension keep my son alive, it will be them. They will know of healers. They will know of safehouses. They will be able to find a way, far more than you can, limping around out here just waiting to be snatched."

Draco didn't have to pause to wonder just how difficult it must have been for her to do this. To say all of this. To urge them to go to the family who, not so long ago, had been the butt of most jokes their family made, second only to Potter, and just ahead of Granger.

"It could get them all killed," Marilyn pointed out fretfully. "If they're caught harbouring us."

"It could," his mother agreed. "But they already willingly shoulder much risk – and if you both remain out here, as you are, you will die. Personally, I'd rather take my chances with a risk of danger than a certainty of death."

Marilyn fell silent, and argued no further. But what arguing could there be with a statement like that? His mother was right. And Draco hardly liked it much more than Marilyn did.

Chapter Text

"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.