Sorry it took me a while to get this out. I hope it was worth the wait!

Don't you wanna get away from the same old part you gotta play
'Cause I got what you need
So come with me and take the ride
It'll take you to the other side
'Cause you can do like you do
Or you can do like me
Stay in the cage, or you'll finally take the key
Oh, damn! Suddenly you're free to fly
It'll take you to the other side

"The Other Side" from The Greatest Showman

Chapter Four: The Other Side

A month passed, but Draco still wasn't sure what came over him that fateful afternoon when he stealthily snuck his way inside the old museum to watch the oddities. They were described by many, including Blaise, as 'freaks'. But every time the word tried to worm its way to his lips, Draco found himself absentmindedly rubbing the Mark along his neck, wondering what the difference really was in any of them. Not that he would admit it outloud, but he felt more of an outcast amongst his Marked brethren than he ever felt in some musty tavern surrounded by strangers who never gave a mandrake's arse if he was pureblooded or not.

But fate always held out for cruel irony, and once again he found himself alone in a sea of strangers, walking his way up the flight of stairs that would lead him to the balcony landing overlooking tonight's duelling tournament. Blaise, of course, was at his side, accompanied by an attractive Armenian witch Draco didn't recognize. He, himself, arrived stag. What was the point in pretending there was someone there for him when there wasn't? The last thing he needed was a dodgy tabloid written about him.

As the three took their seats in a private box, Blaise snapped his fingers in front of Draco's face, following his gaze to the spectacle that had caught his friend's attention.

Of course they would be here, Draco thought begrudgingly. In the commoner stands, George Weasley stood with his ridiculous top hat, ushering in his band of -

"Freaks," mumbled Blaise, snorting as he brought forth a flask of something that burned Draco's nostrils from the smell alone. "How the Hell did they even afford tickets to something like this?"

The witch at his side made a snide comment, but Draco couldn't be bothered with acknowledging her presence, so he spoke to Blaise and Blaise alone. "According to the Daily, their show is actually quite successful, despite the nightly protests outside their establishment. A show is a show - if it's entertainment, the people will flock."

"Right," Blaise mumbled. "Back in my father's day, the freaks wouldn't even be allowed in an establishment such as this. Maybe we're being too lenient these days-"

But Draco wasn't listening - his eyes trailed over the various faces and forms until he found the witch with the frizzy hair. She sat at the end of the row, reading a thick book and occasionally lingering her eyes up to the stage, which was still barren. Draco smirked as he thought back to their second meeting by happenstance one month ago; she was so spunky. Most women were so prim and proper in his social circle - no one dared to defy traditional, cordial manners. But unlike those women, she'd managed to look him in the eyes without hesitation. Why would someone so interesting feel the need to join Weasley's group of misfits? She appeared educated, unapologetic, and formidable. Really, she was all things Draco admired: someone who wasn't afraid to speak their mind.

His attention was partially interrupted when Lee Jordan approached the stage to announce they would be beginning the main event in two minutes.

"Well," muttered Blaise, folding his arms over his chest like a pouting toddler, "at least you can say the freaks have nothing on you as far as showmanship. These events you sponsor pull in twice the crowd for triple the profit."

"And that's what counts," Draco replied, bitterly sarcastic, but Blaise didn't pick up on this fact and nodded in agreement.

"Right you are, Draco."

With a roll of his eyes, Draco set his sights back on the object of his infatuation, now holding her place in the book with her finger so she could talk to the redhead beside her. He was gangly and pale, but not the good kind of pale like Draco. Draco was as porcelain - that buffoon looked as if he might upchuck slugs at any moment. And yet, he could make her smile in ways that Draco could only imagine. The way she giggled into her curls with full bodied grins…

The lights began to dim, and Draco managed to pry his eyes away to focus on center stage. With grandeur, sparks flew at both ends, and in a large puff of smoke, the two duelists appeared. Flint wore his traditional colors, black and silver, while Potter adorned green and red, looking more like a Christmas present and less like someone who was about to sling spells.

"Potter looks proper nervous." Blaise smirked, wiggling in his chair gleefully.

Upon further inspection, Draco deduced that it wasn't nervousness shrouding Potter's features - it was something formidable and intangible; determination. The crease in his brow, the dark flicker in his eyes - it all spelled out a confidence Draco hadn't seen last month.

"Duelists, are you ready?" asked Lee between them. His voice echoed off the walls with confidence - a proper announcer if every was one.

Potter nodded once. Flint waved his hand in the air dismissively. With flare, Lee leapt off the stage, right in front of the first row, and said to the duelists, while never looking directly at them, "The rules are simple. First one down and unconscious - or worse - is declared the loser. Winner takes home a hefty sum of galleons and bragging rights. No unforgivables. No physical touch. This is not a fight to the death, however…" Lee paused for dramatic effect, "should you find yourself in an untimely demise, a second may take over to duel in your place. We have these ready in the back, ladies and gents, so not to worry!"

The crowd broke out into hushed whispers, but they always did. It was part of the allure.

"Oh, and best not to forget our main sponsor for this evening." Lee rubbed his hands together. "Let's give a warm round of applause to the Malfoy family for their generous contributions."

Thankfully, the spotlight did not drop on Draco's private box, so he was able to feed off of the applause without that strange, nagging guilt that came when one lost inconspicuousness. His friends - Hell, his family - would disown him if they knew how he felt about fame. To them, it was a drug, but Draco had run dry long ago. He feared if they knew about his soberness to it all, they would institutionalize him for such thoughts.

"Alright. I want a clean fight," said Lee, turning back toward the duelists. "But not a clean stage. Get messy or go home." He clapped his hands, and the lights doused, turning the entire theater black as midnight. Another clap, and the stage alone lit to life, seemingly out of nowhere (magic was involved of course). The men paced to the middle of the stage, raised their wands, pivoted, and made their way back to their respected ends.

DING went a bell, and Flint immediately spun around, reeling a stinging curse at Potter, who quickly deflected it without even turning around. The audience ooh'd and ahh'd.

"Bugger," Blaise grumbled, leaning forward in his chair. "He shot too soon out of the gate."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Draco chided, clapping his friend on the back and earning an indigent snort from his friend in response.

"I tell you one story, and it follows me around the rest of my life."

"To the grave."

The deflection spells were strong on stage, and it began to look as if nothing might come of the duel when suddenly, Flint shot a slicing spell at Potter and got him right in the side. Blood began to soak around his ribcage, and Potter's deflection spell dispelled as he clutched his ribs.

"Got you," said Flint, loud enough that the audience could hear. He raised his wand and sent a bombarding hex Potter's way - it struck him in the face, knocking him over.

"Let me go," someone in the audience below could be heard shouting, "Ron, I said let me go."

Draco glanced over the side of the balcony and spotted her in the residual light of the stage; it was definitely her. She wore a look of disgust as she trudged off toward the back exit.

Before he realized what he was doing, Draco stood as well.

"Mate?" asked Blaise, glancing at his friend.

"Nature calls," Draco smirked, excusing himself. It was either lying to his friend or explaining why he was letting his feet guide him down the staircase to follow a witch he barely knew.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he spotted her at the concession counter, tears streaming down her cheeks as she bought herself a butterbeer. Just as he was about to take that last step off the staircase, reality set in. Just what the Hell was he doing? His fingers gripped the banister. The last time they'd spoken, she hadn't been at all pleased to see him. Just what did he think would happen this time?

He eyed the butterbeer in her hand and thought about it. He was entitled to refreshments as well, wasn't he? And would he really stop himself from a drink if it were any other witch? Surely not. And with that, he pushed himself off of the last stair and approached the counter.

"Two butterbeers," he said, trying his best to completely ignore her as she passed him and took a seat at one of the two small tables nearest the door. When he paid and acquired his refreshments, he turned casually, feigning surprise as their eyes connected across the room.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were stalking me," he chided, a smirk crawling up his lips as he approached her.

She assessed him for a moment before replying, "Mister Malfoy, I would like to think that, if I were stalking you, I wouldn't wait a month between convenient run-ins."

A smart witch. Slipping into the chair across from her, he replied, "And yet, you remembered my name."

She was quiet at that, sipping her mug and glancing out the window beside them.

"Something on your mind?" he inquired genuinely.

"It seems it would be very hard to forget your name, as it is all over the playbill." Her voice was even, not giving a shred of her intentions. "So, you're an investor of these events?"

"Production manager is the official title," he nodded. "Off paper, a sponsor."

Her eyebrows pinched together as she looked at him fully for the first time this evening. "These duels...they're barbaric."

He thought she might feel this way, considering the dried tear stains on her cheeks. "You think so?" he asked quietly.

"I know so," she stated, boring her eyes into his. "Years ago, duels were a means of survival, Mister Malfoy. Now we watch them as a sport. Did you see that gross display of cruelty back there? That spell could have punctured one of Harry's lungs, or worse! If he'd been attacked like that on the street, Flint would have been thrown in Azkaban in a heartbeat."

"And without duels," he challenged, "wizards like Marcus Flint would take out their carnal desires on those with no means to defend themselves. We get a lot of talented duelists, but a majority of them are twisted and gnarled from the inside. If we didn't offer this outlet, how many innocent lives do you think they'd take on their own time?" His tone was crisp, full of conviction. It was something he was entirely passionate about, and he wasn't about to let someone, even her, tear down his manner of thinking. "It's not like there are a lot of opportunities for purebloods, half-bloods, and muggleborns to stand on equal footing."

That grabbed her attention. She sized him up and found him wanting. "And do you think muggleborns are afforded the same educational opportunities as purebloods, or even half-bloods for that reason?"

It was a question he wasn't prepared to answer. "Does it look like I made the educational system?" he snapped. "No one ever said life was fair. We live in a world that's cruel and unforgiving. Those are facts. And now you want to crucify people like me who try to help give equal opportunities?"

"So you're saying those who are less educated in spell casting should be allowed to participate in such events?" she shot back. "If Harry wasn't trained by the great Albus Dumbledore, would he really even stand a chance against a brute like Flint? It sounds like purebloods just itching to show off their advantages and rub our noses in it."

Draco paused. "...Our?" He'd never considered...he'd just assumed...

Her eyes widened, and then an amused smile stitched across her pretty lips. "Oh, well this explains so much." She pushed her butterbeer to the center of the table and reached for her hair, pulling it back. Her skin was smooth, supple, and without a trace of a Mark beneath those curly tresses. Seemingly satisfied at his bewildered expression, she stood and said, "You see, Mister Malfoy, you've obviously wasted your time this evening. After all, what would I have to offer to someone like you?" She snatched up her mug, downed the rest of her butterbeer, and slammed it on the table, smirking sourly at him. "At least with George, we're not all nearly killing each other to stand on equal footing."

And with that, she left him, sauntering off back to the auditorium.

As Draco climbed the stairs with two untouched butterbeers, his mind swam in a sea of numbness. All hope of enjoying conversation with a fascinating witch had been snuffed out the moment she'd presented her neck to him. For nearly a month, he'd entertained the idea of running into her again just to see the fiery look in her eyes. He'd never dreamt such a fascinating woman could be a mudblood.

Even as he thought the word, his stomach knotted. It was his father's word, roosted deep within his early childhood. A word he'd once believed in but had since tried to rub out on many occasions. He never could get the smudge of it completely off his soul.

It was as if everything he'd been taught about their kind had been flipped on its head. They were supposed to be classless, unintelligent...yokels. Not...her.

"Took a piss so you could get pissed?" Blaise chuckled as Draco returned to their balcony box. Draco handed Blaise and his date the butterbeers and took his seat once again, this time folding his arms over his lap and staring blankly at the arena below, refusing to even acknowledge Blaise's comment.

He made every attempt to ignore her, but his eyes would trail back to the brunette below as she allowed the redhead beside her to wrap a comforting arm around his shoulders. For once, something in Draco Malfoy's life seemed unattainable. And even though a chill spread throughout his body, so did a thrill. Because, even though it was short lived, that moment tonight, sitting across from her, had brought color to his dull, narrow-minded world.

"That was brilliant!" shouted Ron, grabbing George by the scruff of his robes and shaking him. "Wasn't it? I mean, did you see the way Flint flew across that stage? And Harry - Harry was so…"

"We get it, Ron," said Hermione at his side, helping George to peel his brother off of him. "Harry was an exceptional duelist."

"Yeah, and you were worried," chided Ron with a lopsided smile. "Nothing to worry about. Harry came out victorious, just like I knew he would!"

George laughed, rolling his eyes at the banter between the two, while his eyes became momentarily distracted by a flash of white-blond hair across the room. He glanced down at his playbill, noting the name 'Malfoy'. Well, it certainly sounded like the bloke Hermione mentioned a month back spying on them. He let his eyes trail around the front, to the wizards and witches packed like sardines, rubbing shoulders despite having a Mark or none at all.

Perhaps….perhaps he could use someone with knowledge of filling seats not only with the common folk, but the aristocrats as well.

Draco bundled himself in his scarf, relieved to be out of the mass of people still ordering concessions for the road and discussing the surprising win of Harry Potter. The wind picked up, biting at Draco's nose and reminding him that there was a bottle of scotch waiting to put him into a stupor. Just as he was about to Disapparate, a hand briefly touched his shoulder, gaining his attention.

He turned.

"Mister Malfoy, a word?"

George Weasley stood before him, mild amusement across his face. Of course, it would be him.

"Weasley," said Draco. "To what do I owe the...pleasure?" He squeezed the word out like it was the last drop of orange juice from the pulp.

"Ah, I seem to have made an impression, have I?" George smiled whimsically, offering out a hand. "Tell me, have you been? To the show?"

Draco snorted a laugh. "Merlin, no! - But I've seen the crowds." Despite what others might think of him, he took George's hand and shook it. After all, they were both still purebloods, yes? And purebloods needed to bestow manners to other purebloods, as custom called for. As he did, he spotted Hermione just inside the doors to the theater, hugging Potter. Quietly, Draco added, "Some would even dare to say your show brings about more entertainment than mine, and at less of a...cost."

It was difficult not to notice the gash above Potter's right as it dripped blood down his cheek.

"And yet, you have no difficulties selling tickets," George mused.

"People enjoy what they enjoy," Draco replied, bringing his thoughts back around to the man in front of him. "It isn't my place to judge them for it." He noticed the way George hadn't let go of his hand. "Might I have my hand back now?"

"Right." George released him, grinning. "You look parched, Malfoy. Something tells me you could use a drink."

They sat at a bar top in Diagon Alley, a shot of firewhiskey in their hands. Draco was on his third one, and he could already feel the effects of the alcohol taking wing, though not as quickly as he would have liked. He supposed this was better than drinking alone at home - at least here, he knew his tab would be taken care of, and he could pretend, if only for a moment, to let his guards down.

"Let me be straight with you," said George, turning his empty shot glass over and setting it on the table with a plink. "I didn't just invite you here for drinks."

Draco pretended to gasp. "You don't say? Tell me, was it to seduce me?"

"Is it working?"

"Can't say you're my type."

George nodded, laughing. "Same goes for you. Also, my wife doesn't like to share." After a sobering pause, he said, "I want to appeal not only to the common folk. I want the purebloods."

"Merlin only knows why," pondered Draco, turning his shot glass over and clinking it against George's. "They're all a bunch of narcissistic, judgemental asshats - myself included." He tapped the counter for another round.

"Yes, well...it's not as easy being a pureblood if you're going against the status quo," said George, pensive. As the bartender brought them another round, he cradled the shot glass fondly. "My brother is a squib. My family has no qualms about associating with muggleborns. And really, I say bugger it to anyone who thinks otherwise."

"So why the change of heart, hmm?" Draco gave an empty smirk. "Why care at all what the other purebloods think?"

"It's not a change of heart. If anyone is going to have a change, it's them."

"Oh yeah?" Draco snorted. "And how do you intend to do that?"

"You."

All of the blood in Draco's body turned cold, and he grew gravely serious. "I'm afraid you have the wrong sort of chap for this...endeavor."

George kicked back his shot. He winced as it burned down his throat, but as he spoke, his voice was clear as day. "So, I suppose the way you were looking at Miss Granger this evening was in disdain? Forgive me. I thought, perhaps, it was infatuation."

Quickly, the hairs on Draco's neck stood as he was backed into a corner. "You're mistaken. And you forget yourself...and your place."

"As, apparently, do you when a pretty face is involved."

They summed each other up, and Draco released a slow chuckle. "I know five different wizards who could make your death look like your wand backfired on you."

"But you won't. Because you know I'm right." George tapped the bartop and ordered yet another round. "Right here. Right now. This is my offer. I'm not going to chase you, or beg you."

"And yet you'd bribe me."

"I know you see the potential here." George put an arm around Draco, to which Draco shrugged off immediately and slid his chair away from the offending redhead. George tried again. "You act like you enjoy this drudgery life you live in, but we both know you're looking for a way to escape. Break out of the cage."

"I happen to like the cage," Draco snapped. "In fact, it's not a cage at all."

"I used to be like you."

Draco turned his head and sized up the redhead. "You've never been like me."

George rolled his eyes. "Let me guess...your world is a bland, colorless existence of protocol and ignorance. You act a certain way because it's expected of you, and to step out of line would be social suicide. One of which you've contemplated many a night while hugging a bottle of...firewhiskey? No, scotch."

Damn, Draco thought. That was proper accurate.

"I'm offering you a way out of that. To...live in color, so to speak."

"That's insane. Flat lunacy."

"If it's crazy," shrugged George, "live a little crazy."

It was Draco's turn to roll his eyes. "You think it would be easy to just...walk away from the conventional?"

"Nothing risky is easy, but nothing worthwhile comes without risk." As the bartender brought them a new round of shots, George immediately partook. He read Draco's face like a book as he said, "There's some Irish heritage in my lineage. Alcohol is like table water."

"Germanic," Draco said, tilting his shot glass toward the other man. "A toast to the ancestors we never knew, but who gave us the genes to stomach dark ales and strong liquor." They clinked glasses together, even though George's was empty.

As Draco threw his shot back, George asked, "So, my offer?"

"Fat chance."

"Oh, come on, Malfoy. Don't you wanna get away? You must be murderously bored playing the same old part every day."

"Yes, well this part gets me all the luxuries I need in life."

"A songbird in a cage."

"What is with you and these damn cage metaphors?"

"All I'm saying is," George said, more conviction in his tone, "that you can do like you do, or you can do like me. I'm offering you a key - all you have to do is take it, songbird. You'd be surprised how thrilling it is to fly without your wings clipped."

Draco paused, allowing George's words to sink in. He wasn't sure why he did it - maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the enticing idea of just letting go for half a second. But he shook his head, emptied the silly notions out of his brain, and grabbed up his scarf from the bar top.

"I hate to break it to you, but it just won't happen. So thanks - but no. I quite enjoy this cage. At least with it, I'm fed three square meals a day. What you're asking is for me to throw myself into poverty for - what? This silly notion of being free? Free from what? You're asking me to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire." He wrapped his scarf around his neck and stood, wobbling slightly. "Don't get me wrong. I...admire your passion. But between sweeping up phoenix droppings or living amongst the swells...I'll let you take a guess as to what I'll pick."

It was the right thing to say - it's what his father would have said. And yet, as he said the words, he felt his soul being smudged out a little more, replaced with mechanical gears and empty surface values.

George stood from the bar top as well, meandering over to a vacant piano in the corner. Draco didn't know why he stayed - perhaps it was the intrigue of hearing someone tickle the ivories. Or maybe it was because, despite all of his protest, he didn't want George to give up on him. Not just yet.

As George drummed along a melancholy tune amongst the keys with his fingertips, he asked, loud enough for Draco to hear, "This really the life you want, Malfoy? Scotch, duels, and misery?"

"If I threw in the towel with you, I'd be the laughingstock of wizarding London."

""But you could finally live a little. Maybe even, dare I say, laugh? Just let me give you the freedom to wake up and tear those walls down. Maybe impress a certain someone we both know?" He played a solemn chord and smiled knowingly. "But...I guess I leave that up to you."

It was the nail Draco needed in his proverbial coffin seal his fate. Even if it was possibly the stupidest idea he'd planned to make in his entire life. He paused, for dramatic effect, but his mind was set.

"Alright, Weasley. Let's talk shop." He crossed his arms. "How much of the percentage would I be taking?"

George's eyes lit up. "Figures you'd want a slice of the pie. I'd give you...oh...seven?"

"Seven percent?" Draco scoffed. "I wasn't born this morning. I'll take eighteen."

"Eighteen?!" George exclaimed, slamming his hands down on the keys and making an awful sound. "Why not just ask for knuts on the sickles?"

""Fifteen."

"I'd be willing to go for eight."

"Twelve."

"Maybe nine…"

They smirked at one another and said, at the same time, "Ten." And they shook on it.

"Mister Weasley, it looks like you have yourself a partner."

After a hiccup, George shook his head and corrected, "What I have is a glorified, overcompensated apprentice." He patted around his breast pocket. "Damn, I must have forgotten my wallet…"

With a roll of his eyes, Draco reached into his pocket, slammed some galleons on the table, and smirked bitterly.

"You're a good man, Malfoy." George said as he stood from the piano and patted him on the back. "See you...oh, let's say first thing on Thursday?"

Let me know what you thought!
~A.