A/N: Thank you guys so much for all of the love and support you've been giving this story - I was very nervous about writing it when I first got the idea, so I've been blown away by all of the kindness!
"You're sure it's her?" Harry cast a doubtful look at the photo on the computer screen.
It showed a blonde woman, her chin raised triumphantly, arms raised above her head as she stood en-pointe centre stage.
"I'm positive," Hermione nodded.
Ron looked less certain.
"Look past the make-up, and the costume," Hermione encouraged, and then received looks of bafflement for her trouble.
"Here, hang on…" she sighed.
Another word or two in the Google search bar had new photographs coming up - but more casual ones, from rehearsals and by the stage doors, revealing the same woman devoid of make-up and extravagant costumes.
"Yeah," Ron sighed, scratching the back of his neck "That was her."
She wasn't the sort Harry would expect to see in the company of Draco Malfoy. Yes, she was pretty, Harry noted objectively, but not in the cold, aloof way that Narcissa Malfoy was. Even in her fully made-up and in character photos, where imperiousness might've been fitting, there was still a sort of mischievous warmth shining in her eyes - like she shared an inside joke with the audience.
A few more clicks had Hermione on this Marilyn Baxter's Wikipedia page, scrolling to the bottom of the "career" section, which ended rather abruptly after a long list detailing several roles. Harry and Ron exchanged a look, and Harry knew his best friend had been hit with the same wave of nostalgia as he was, sitting patiently waiting for Hermione to sift through the relevant information and give them the important parts.
"An ACL injury. St. Mungo's could fix that in one visit," she said grimly "That's it, then. There's no way she's not a Muggle."
"What would Malfoy want with a Muggle?" Harry sighed, shaking his head.
He had no idea what to make of it. Had this been Bellatrix or the likes, or if this had even happened ten years earlier, he'd have been ready to launch an investigation into attempted murder. Nowadays, though, it just made no sense at all. Nobody thought the Malfoys were innocent regarding what went on in the war. That much wasn't up for debate. Neither, however, was the fact that their support for Voldemort had waned and become far less ardent in the years following his actual return.
While he wasn't about to invite the Malfoy heir for a drink round the local pub, he would not forget that when it came to the final battle, and even the months preceding it come to think of it, the Malfoys seemed far more concerned with ensuring their own survival rather than Vodemort's victory. Alright, they hadn't exactly changed sides. Not overtly. But Draco could have told everybody it was him the moment he was dragged into Malfoy manor all those years ago, and Narcissa could have told Voldemort that he was alive when she'd been sent to check his body after that. If they'd subverted Voldemort's rise when he was so close to grasping victory, there was absolutely no reason for them to suddenly fight for all of the things he had years after he'd been defeated. They'd done enough, Harry was mildly perturbed to realise, to earn the benefit of the doubt. As far as he was concerned, anyway.
"Nothing good," Ron replied "You should've seen his face when he saw us looking at the two of them. Didn't think the git could get any paler."
"But what do we do? Write him a letter interrogating him on his interest in Muggle ballerinas? He's not committing any crimes. Not that we know of - or that we can prove."
"We don't go to him," Hermione said simply "We go to her. Look."
Moving the cursor, she highlighted the final line in the 'career' section before continuing "She teaches at a dance studio here in the city."
Draco didn't ask about the men's sweatpants and t-shirt she had gathering dust at the back of her wardrobe (she'd only kept them with the intention of cutting them up for resistance bands, anyway), and she returned the favour by not asking about the incredibly faded tattoo on his left forearm. Not after she noticed the great lengths he went to in order to hide it, keeping his arm pressed flat against his abdomen as if it were in a sling. It was so faded that it looked like he'd tried to have it removed - more of a scar than a tattoo now. But it must've been a tattoo, because of the intricacy of the design - a skull and a snake. Not exactly the sort of thing she'd have expected from him, but even posh kids were at risk of stumbling into a rebellious phase, she supposed. And it did amuse her to imagine him in black eyeliner, Doc Martens, and a leather jacket.
She considered herself lucky that her career choice made big statement tattoos like that rather unwise. Although that wasn't an obstacle anymore, and she'd briefly considered getting one just because she now could, what with her knee and all, it just felt too final. She'd accepted the loss of the career and the lifestyle that went with it with as much grace as she was capable. A tattoo that could not be covered adequately by make-up or a leotard, though, felt too much like a goodbye. Perhaps there would be a day when she'd be ready to say that goodbye, but that day had not yet come.
It did help that she had no ideas as far as what she might get went, anyway.
Draco was...nervous. He tried to hide it, but there was something just slightly twitchy about him that permeated his entire demeanour. Usually he gave the distinct impression of owning whatever room he was in, even if that room was in her own home. Now he just seemed unsure. It was something that didn't suit him - not the version of him that she knew, anyway. She was certain it wasn't just down to the change in wardrobe, either, no matter how funny it was to see him in such casual clothing. Even his pyjamas were probably the finest silk, she suspected.
As she loaded his clothing into the dryer, and silently prayed that it wasn't some kind of crazy rich-person fabric that would be damaged beyond repair by her peasant-level appliance, she was aware of how he kept watching her warily, as if looking for some sign that she still held a grudge. And she knew she was acting differently. She couldn't help it. Last night, as well as the conversation they'd just had, had changed something between them. It was hard to say what, but it just had. She couldn't even say whether it was a good or a bad change. It was just...different; and it had her questioning how to act around him. What she wanted to do was act normally, but that was the thing about acting naturally - once you had to try to do it, you were already failing.
"So these nemeses of yours," she said eventually once they were back in her room "Why them?"
It was either ask what was on her mind, or allow her curiosity to be the elephant in the room. In the end, she was sure that the former couldn't possibly make things more awkward than the latter, so the moment they were sitting on her bed, she posed the question. It was better than awkward silence, anyway. She'd always preferred dancing around a stage to dancing around an issue.
"What do you mean?"
"Why them specifically?" She clarified "Was it just teenage nastiness or was there actually a reason for it - however unjustified or no? Or was it just because they were friends with somebody you hated? And why did you hate this friend of theirs?"
Judging by how embarrassed he seemed by the entire thing, it was obvious it was decidedly unjustifiable to his adult self, but teenage reasoning was something else. Most teenagers had a practically sociopathic lack of empathy. Hell, she'd had her fair share of catty moments that she now looked back on and cringed. But those wouldn't be enough to have her running across the street. It worried her to think of how bad the things Draco did must have been to instil such a reaction in him. He was hardly unreasonable, nor hysterical. From everything she'd seen of him so far, he wasn't the kind to overreact at all...which could only mean that his response last night had not been an overreaction. That was a worrying thought.
His lips pressed together in a thin line, suggesting it wasn't a conversation he particularly wanted to have. To be blunt, though, she didn't care. There were plenty of matters she'd allowed him to evade or be painstakingly vague about without complaint. Partially because she thought much of it was not her business, and partially because it hadn't seemed consequential enough to her to warrant making a stink about it. But how, with the brace strapped firmly around her knee, it had affected her. And now she wanted answers - some of them, at least. When it became clear that she wouldn't sigh and shrug off the matter, he gave a sigh of his own and bowed his head as though acquiescing to the line of questioning.
"I wouldn't have been pleasant to them had they not been friends with him, but I probably wouldn't have paid them as much mind. I was - I thought myself above them. Of greater fortune, inarguably, but of breeding and worth too. I felt rather outraged when it became clear that they didn't share in my opinion."
"But why would their opinions matter if they were so far beneath you?" She asked drily.
"Therein lies the paradox," he gave a wry smile.
Despite herself, Marilyn smiled. Served her right for trying to assign logic to teenage outrage, she supposed. Or maybe it was because it was warming to hear him happily own up to his faults, former or otherwise, without rushing to justify them. People like that exhausted her - the ones who never tired of rushing to add 'but I only did it because they—', the ones who were never at fault for anything, ever. It was refreshing, in all honesty, to have somebody stand before her and admit that they were an ass.
"Suffice to say, I didn't make life easy for them."
"With what goal?"
"It amused me," he shrugged.
Marilyn couldn't help it then - she laughed. She admired the brutal honesty, she had to admit. But what had she expected? For him to launch into some long-winded psychological analysis of himself and his behaviours? To turn to her and say 'I expect my mother didn't hug me enough as a child and this was how my anger manifested' while she smoked a pipe and made notes in a file on his mental wellbeing? No, he was far too much of a stiff upper-lip type for that. A good thing, too, for she had no idea how she'd react if he went down the more emotional route, despite the fact that she'd pretty much invited him to.
The laugh seemed to do the trick in dispelling any awkwardness, though, for he offered a tired smile of his own, shaking his head slightly. Was it strange, she wondered, that he looked more human in 'normal' clothes? Not that he ever looked alien, but when he was dressed to the nines with that imperious look on his face, his hair so neat and unmoving that he might as well be a Ken doll, he always had the look of a character. Or somebody in a magazine. Real in a way, yes, but not quite tangible. The difference, she supposed, was like the one in her when she was on stage versus when she was off of it.
Now, with his hair damp and in disarray, and in a t-shirt and sweatpants, legs sprawled before him as he relaxed on her bed, he looked so much more touchable...for lack of a less perverted word. Almost like he'd stayed the night and had just woken up. Of course, he'd already done that once before. However accidentally. She still had the note he'd left her afterwards, tucked away at the very bottom of one of her bedside cabinet drawers, lest he discover it and question why she'd kept it. That was a question she didn't have an answer for.
Her quiet laugh tapered off into a smile of her own, and soon they just sat there for a few seconds that stretched into a moment, smiling at eachother. Like absolute idiots, maybe, but it certainly didn't feel stupid. That was what made it worrying. As if coming to the same realisation at the same time, Draco bowed his head, the smile slowly slipping from his face. When he looked up again, it was at her knee, a frown furrowing his brow.
"I didn't mean to do that," he nodded towards the brace "It was foolish of me. Is it terribly injured?"
"Nothing I'm not used to," she wriggled her toes in her fluffy yellow socks "I had to call in sick for today, but speaking realistically it'll probably be next week before I can go back. My boss understands, though. The draw of my name on their website is worth the sick pay. She'd be more worried about me going off to form a studio of my own if she started being an ass about it."
"Oh."
"...But you're welcome to drop by for wine and films in the meantime. So long as you bring the wine."
There was that smile again.
"I can do that."
"Maybe we could even go out somewhere and eat. You know, like normal people and not alcoholics who do little other than drink in the dark."
Did it sound like she was suggesting a date? Hopefully not. Not that she would be opposed to such a thing, but within her question lay a test. Ordinarily she wasn't in the business of 'testing' people in such petty ways - it only ever set one up for disappointment, but she wanted to see if there hadn't been some truth to the idea that he didn't want to be seen with her in public. Despite his protestations otherwise, there was still a small, infuriatingly insecure, part of her that couldn't help but wonder. If the suspicion was true, and after the scare they'd had last time, he'd fine some excuse not to do so. Or at least look a little horrified at the prospect.
Instead he only blinked and then shrugged in lazy agreement. Well. That was that then.
After that, they tentatively settled into what had become routine - she handed Draco one of her pillows, took the other for herself, and they put them behind their backs against the wall behind them before they settled in for that night's movie of choice. Try as she might to work out Draco's film taste, he was a tough one to figure out. Rom-coms and slapstick comedies were firmly ruled out without even testing them first, which suited her just fine anyway. Comedies weren't her thing unless she was having a great girly sleepover type night with her housemates, and she struggled to think of anything that could be more awkward than sitting through Sense and Sensibility with Draco. Other than that though, he seemed to be open to more or less anything.
That was the weird thing, though. He didn't form opinions on them the way others did. There was no "ugh, I hate when they put in dramatic countdown sequences" or "that battle scene lasted way too long" the way others offered such opinions. Sure, he was often engrossed in them (to a point where she found herself looking to see his reactions to the films more often than she'd ever admit), but he seemed to observe them more than he watched them. Like some sort of strange David Attenborough of cinema. Then there were the questions. So many more questions than she ever could have dreamt of. Never during the film, always after it, like he didn't want to miss something during the time it would take her to answer. How did they achieve this effect? How many people would it take to create such a trick? How many cameras did it take? How long did it take to film the movie?
It might've annoyed somebody else - she dreaded the day Sarah paid witness to it, should that ever happen at all - but she found it strangely adorable. Mostly because it was a stark contrast to his usual aloofness, to be so unabashedly curious and interested in something that most would view as so trivial. But all of this curiosity did give her a very strange sneaking suspicion, that he hadn't seen many films at all. If any. The cinema matter had shocked her, but this was just plain strange. Even the royal family owned televisions, so it was the sort of thing that any difference in class or wealth couldn't easily explain. Was his upbringing really so strict and rigid that he wasn't even exposed to media in general? Such a prospect was almost unthinkable, in her mind. So she decided to test out her theory by picking a wholesome family classic that every well-adjusted human being had seen at least once - The Silence of the Lambs.
"What's this one about?" Draco asked, eyes on the screen.
"It's the Hannibal Lecter film."
"Who?"
"You know, Hannibal Lecter? 'Are the lambs still screaming, Clarice?'" She gave her best Anthony Hopkins impression, and received a look of absolute puzzlement for her trouble.
Well, it was a good thing she hadn't gone for the 'I ate his liver with fava beans and a nice chianti' line.
"Is he a real person?" He asked, glancing back towards the screen.
"...No. No, he's not," she said.
That answered that question, then. She wasn't even sure why she was surprised - if he hadn't seen any of the Lord of the Rings movies, why would he have seen the Silence of the Lambs? But to have not even heard of it? Her earlier mental jokes about him being from some Amish-like sect might not have been so off the mark. But she kept her mouth shut on the matter. She'd have hardly appreciated it if he brought her to some sort of fancy to-do and constantly mocked her for not knowing how things were done, and there was nothing more tiring than people who asked 'how have you never heard of X, Y or Z?!' as if there was a real answer to the question. But still, she had her answer, and she was free to dwell on her however much she pleased. Given that working was out of the question for the absolutely immediate future, it would probably be more than she'd like to admit.
As they grew more comfortable, Marilyn leaned over him to grab the grey fluffy blanket folded at the foot of the bed, pulling it over the two of them. Draco helped her adjust it, and when they settled back down again she found her thigh pressed against his. Neither of them moved to put any distance between them, and neither of them commented on it.
When the film finished and the credits rolled, Draco made no big move to spring off of the bed and declare that he'd need to get going. In fact, he seemed reluctant to move at all. Rather than move apart over the course of the two hours, they seemed to have somehow nudged closer to one another until they leaned comfortably on each other, with the added bonus of sharing body warmth. Still, neither of them acknowledged it - steadfastly pretending, in fact, not to notice it at all. But Marilyn knew they both did.
"You have some very strange films," he commented, shaking his head.
"Who is 'you'? Ballerinas? Commoners?" She challenged teasingly.
"You, singularly. Your collection," he clarified.
"Did you just call me singular?" She feigned being flattered, pressing a hand to her chest.
He rolled his eyes, but she caught the way his lips twitched as he fought off a smile.
"It's based on a book - a series of books, actually. I've never read them. I know bits and pieces are inspired by real life, though."
"What parts?"
"Buffalo Bill mainly, I think. The trick he used to get his victims, pretending to be injured and all that, Ted Bundy used to do the same thing. Then the thing about him making a suit from human skin? Ed Gein used to do similar stuff. I'm sure he even had a suit like that, I think I read about it somewhere."
"What morbid reading," he regarded her curiously.
It seemed she'd surprised him.
"Necessary reading, for a woman. To an extent anyway," she shrugged."
"In case somebody tries to turn you into a hat?"
"Oh, I'm much more of a scarf I think," she replied drily "But no, really. If you know what tricks the monsters use, you can see them for what they are much more easily. Or that's the theory, at least. For better or for worse, I'll now never help somebody just because they appear injured. Not if I'm alone, anyway."
Draco didn't reply to that, his face giving away just how much he was thinking on her words.
"I don't mean to sound like a heartless bitch," she said "I mean, I'd probably call the police or direct them to somebody else who could help, but the general goal would be to stop somebody from manipulating me into a vulnerable situation by preying on my sympathies."
"Like the man outside the studio?"
"Like the man outside the studio," she nodded slowly "He tried it, to an extent. 'I just want to talk to you, why won't you chat with me, why are you being so rude'...Better to accidentally be a bitch to somebody who means no harm than be pressured into being polite to somebody who does, y'know?"
She'd lost count of how many women she'd known over the years who had wound up in sticky situations because they'd just been too polite to put their foot down and tell somebody to fuck off.
"Do I sound completely paranoid?" She broke the silence when Draco didn't respond.
"No, not at all," he said quickly, shaking his head "You should be diligent - know when people are trying to prey on you, and how to stop them from doing so. However…"
"Go on."
"Knowing all of the tricks doesn't always help," he said slowly "Sometimes they're just stronger than you. Faster than you. There may be a time when you simply don't see it coming, or are powerless to stop it once it does."
"A warming thought indeed," she deadpanned.
Draco sighed and shook his head, speaking seriously "I don't mean to disturb you. But to think you can prevent all harm from coming to you because of what you've read in your books…It would be naive."
On another day, if she was feeling more hostile or in need of a fight, she might've taken issue with his words - labelled them as patronising or condescending. Maybe she even could have found the energy to do so now, if not for the very real concern on his face. He watched her carefully as he said it, as looking for confirmation that she was both hearing and actually listening to the words he was saying. They were spoken out of concern, not condescension. And so she took them as they were intended.
"I know," she said sincerely, resting a hand on his arm "I'm not under any illusion that it cancels out all the danger. That's how you started walking me home, remember?"
There were two things she noticed as the words left her mouth - that she hadn't said 'that's why you still walk me home', and that he hadn't corrected her, either. She'd long since grown to suspect that her ordeal with the creeper had, somewhere along the line, become an excuse for them to spend time together...however valid that excuse might have been. It was even a suspicion that she might have avoided facing if not for the teasing of her housemates. But that suspicion had just been confirmed - on her end, and on his.
What cancelled out any giddy, girlish warmth she might've felt at such a revelation was just how grimly Draco was talking. His words of warning seemed to speak more of personal experience than of some insufferable macho need to educated the empty-headed ballerina on the big bad world outside her front door.
"Sometimes the monsters don't look like monsters, sometimes they do. Sometimes they use tricks you've heard of, sometimes they use ones you don't anticipate….Sometimes you can fend them off, sometimes you can't. But the only way you can take advantage of the times you have a chance, is to recognise them when they come. I'm not naive enough to think I'm ruling out all danger, just that I'm giving myself a fighting chance."
He nodded slowly, but didn't seem too convinced. It had her wondering just how much danger he thought was out there. Sure, she hadn't exactly had the best run, but it wasn't like she was some great public figure who needed an entourage of security to go to the corner shop.
"Come on," she sighed, easing herself from the bed, already mourning the loss of their combined body heat "Your clothes will be long dry."
Sarah was at the dining room table as they passed through on the way to the kitchen, still plucking away at her university work.
"Ah, there you two are. I thought you were in there robbing him of his virtue."
"Nope, just watching a film," Marilyn replied, half-hobbling to the dryer "No virtue stolen tonight."
"Good, Princess Chardonnay of Denmark will be happy to hear her future husband is still intact."
Marilyn sighed, ready to tell Sarah to lay off, but Draco responded first - barely affording the brunette a glance as he followed her into the kitchen.
"Princess Allegra Gabriella of Florence, actually," he replied drily "She's much prettier - never cared much for the Danish."
Marilyn bit back a smile, and Sarah did not respond other than a mutter or two beneath her breath that she strongly suspected they were both better off being unable to hear. The two of them would see eye to eye one day. Hopefully. Turning her back, she waited patiently as Draco changed in the corner of the kitchen, and then she led him to the front door, where he picked up his coat and slipped on his shoes.
"I had a good evening," he said, pausing slightly before adding "Singularity and all."
"So did I. I'm glad we got everything ironed out."
She could feel the fondness melting into her smile as it pulled at her lips. It was funny how this time last night she'd been doubting she would ever see him again, and how here they were, fine as ever. Not that something wasn't different, though...just not a bad sort of difference. Normally there was little fanfare over his departures - usually a stiff, brooding sort of nod, and then he was gone. But this time he was pausing, hesitating just slightly as his long pale fingers reached for the door latch.
It happened quickly then, so quickly she barely registered what was happening until he was gone and the front door closed behind him, but before he left, Draco paused, glanced down the hall as if to make sure they were truly alone, and then pressed a kiss to her cheek - mere millimetres away from the corner of her lips, if she was being honest. He had to have been at the end of the street by the time the blush was even done colouring her cheeks.
Well. Take that, Princess Allegra Gabriella.