A/N: I promise not to open every chapter with big emotional rambles about how lovely the reviews are, but I'm genuinely struck speechless by it with this story, and one of those reviews was left by a guest so I can't reply privately - so again, thank you guys so, so much. As somebody who very much hopes to make a living from writing one day, the encouragement genuinely does mean the world!

Draco had plenty of opportunities to contemplate the fact that he was doing something rather foolish. Well, that was probably putting it gently - 'rather foolish' was a term better suited to skipping a lesson after the professor for said lesson had just seen you at breakfast, entirely well enough to attend it. This was sheer stupidity, perhaps with a hint of masochism. Or sadism, he supposed, when he considered what a misstep could do to Marilyn. Selfishness was another apt descriptor, then. Which probably had a lot to do with the fact that none of those words were enough to stop him as he went about his business for the day. Selfishness was a preferable motivation for him to mull over than dwelling on the fact that maybe it had more to do with the surge of happiness he got every time he knew he had an evening with her ahead. That was its own special type of selfishness, anyway.

His mother, thank Merlin, seemed to have washed her hands of all matters concerning his private life. It wouldn't last long, and he knew she'd renew her interest by the time summer rolled round, but it was a nice reprieve in the meantime and it allowed him the space he needed for his plans. The first stop was obtaining some Muggle money. A fairly simple endeavour for anybody whose surname wasn't Malfoy, but unfortunately his was, and the goblin who made the exchange made no attempt to hide the suspicion on his face as he did so. Draco endured it with thinned lips and crossed arms. What was the alternative? Causing a scene? Demanding to see a manager in a tone his father would have been proud of? Forgoing the whole business and continuing to allow Marilyn to pay for everything during his forays into the Muggle world? That had grown embarrassing enough.

Mumbled excuses about not carrying cash - which wasn't a lie, to be fair - would only get him so far. Not that she'd ever put up a fuss about it beyond a quirked eyebrow. She was far too good for that. It was part of what made her company so refreshing; he often got the impression that she spent time with him almost in spite of his wealth rather than because of it. Still, he had to make a conscious effort to keep his steps slow and measured rather than all out fleeing from Gringott's once the galleons had been converted into a small stack of strange paper notes. He got plenty of them, too, just to postpone another visit like this as much as humanly possible.

The next step in his little plan (he liked to pretend he did have one, just so that he didn't have to face the absurdity of the situation he'd found himself in) was to move himself into one of the family holiday homes - the London townhouse, to be exact. That way he could come and go without the eyes of his mother following him. He even refused to bring any house-elves with him, knowing their first and foremost duty would be to report back his comings and goings. The ever-annoyed, ever-cynical voice in the back of his head was already mocking him for it. All of this so that you can be ridiculous with a woman - and a Muggle woman at that. Merlin, what is your life coming to?

He could only hope that voice belonged to fear and anxiety more than it did common sense...although perhaps the two went hand-in-hand in his current situation. But he wasn't doing it all just for Marilyn, it was the principle of the matter too. He was a grown man. He had every right to come and go as he pleased without having to justify where he'd been to his parents. All right, his father seemed content to let him be for the time being. But that was just it - it was only for the time being. Draco silently estimated that he only had a few years, probably until he hit thirty at the latest, before his father joined his mother in being on his case to further the Malfoy line. Provide an heir, along with a spare, ideally. If his mother pushed hard enough, it would be less time. His father's hand waving about men and their need to have a little fun before they settled down would only placate her so long. It was a view that she barely tolerated as it was now, and would do even less so the more he crept towards his late twenties.

If he could get just a little bit of freedom by doing something as relatively simple and painless as taking a suitcase and settling down in their London home, he would do it. He knew he'd be left to his own devices, too, as it had always been his mother's habit to summer in London and winter in Scotland if she insisted on leaving the Manor at all - because the seasons were verbs in her world, apparently. No, doing this was a step in the right direction. For his sanity - his mind, rather than...well, other body parts. He needed time to think, now more than ever.

The matter of these tarot readings of her still hadn't left his mind. It was something he still wanted to explore. Something he had to explore, if his gut instincts were serving him well. He just had to go about it carefully. If she suspected that he was hanging around her for free tarot card readings, she'd hardly take kindly to it. She was already growing suspicious enough about him and the sort of life he might lead. And quite rightly so, really. No, the matter of her knack for divination would have to wait - it had also been buried, rather, by everything else. Such as the strangely addictive quality of her smile, which had him constantly wanting to see more of it. Merlin, when had he ever given a shit about wanting to make somebody smile? This went beyond hoping for a laugh as he made a dry remark or two to whoever her was with. He didn't want her to find him funny, he just wanted her to be happy. If she was so when in his presence, all the better. It was infuriating, if he was being honest.

Usually his happiness depended firmly on things that he could control. Maybe not during the war, but certainly before it, and mostly since its end. Marilyn Baxter, however, was quite beyond his control. That was what made the woman so damn captivating. That, and that smile of hers. The way every movement she made, from nodding her head to pouring a glass of wine, seemed so perfectly graceful - but not in a performative manner, like the women his mother had taken to throwing at him. He got the impression that she behaved the same way alone as she did under the gaze of others. And then there were her eyes. And her-...fuck. Draco groaned aloud and kicked the suitcase where he'd set it by his feet.

Marilyn had to fight incredibly hard to keep her face unresponsive when she arrived at the studio and saw who awaited her there. She wasn't due to return to work any time soon, which was a good thing because she wouldn't be capable of working any time soon, either. So when the owner of the studio had called her and explained that some woman had turned up, her heart set on a handful of private one-on-one classes with her, she'd viewed it as a well-deserved stroke of good fortune. Something to prevent her from digging into her savings for basics like groceries and rent. That maybe, just maybe, the universe had recognised all of her misfortunes and was giving her a helping hand to make amends. Well, she supposed she should have known better than to think that way by now.

It was clear the woman was unprepared for ballet classes - she wore regular workout clothes, just a pair of yoga pants and a tank-top along with a pair of black practise slippers that were so new and un-broken in than they might as well have still had the tag on. Her hair was wrangled into a high ponytail, and she looked incredibly uncomfortable...no matter how she tried to hide it. None of this particularly bothered Marilyn, though. Not everybody was going to have all of the right gear, and if she was starting at her age it wasn't like she'd have any delusions of going pro, so it didn't really matter too much. No, what bothered Marilyn was who the woman was. The one she'd seen outside the cinema that night with Draco.

Not a fan, then, just a busy-body. But Marilyn wouldn't let on that she knew. Not yet, anyway. The woman turned and eyed her apprehensively, clearly waiting for some kind of a reaction. But a good poker-face was the one thing her fucky knee couldn't rob her of in terms of her stage-applicable skills, and Marilyn kept a pleasant smile plastered across her features.

"Hello, it's nice to meet you," she extended a hand "I understand you requested me personally?"

"Oh, yes," the girl nodded quickly, shaking her hand "I, er, I've seen you perform a few times."

"Oh? When?" She shrugged her coat off and hung it up on one of the hooks.

"Sleeping Beauty, a couple of years ago...The Nutcracker before that...Anastasia, too, that one was my favourite."

Was she telling the truth, or had she simply done her research? There were sure to be web pages with that sort of thing displayed.

"My, a real fan. I'm glad you enjoyed them," she said simply "I must have made quite an impression for you to seek me out like this. Usually all people notice are the Principals. What's your name?"

The girl hesitated "Hannah. Hannah Graham."

"You know there are adult classes at the local leisure centre? Probably half the price, at that."

"Oh, I know, but I'm only here for a few weeks and it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up."

For somebody ill-adjusted enough to seek her out because she saw her on the street with a guy she'd disliked in school, she seemed very nervous. Usually the people who did this sort of thing were unabashed in their strange tendencies - it was all perfectly justifiable, if only in their own heads. Still, Marilyn remained on her guard. Curiosity was one thing, but seeking her out like this went a bit beyond having a scroll through her MySpace page.

Well, if it was a lesson the girl wanted, a lesson was what Marilyn would give her. With any luck, there wouldn't be a second one. She couldn't expect much from a first ever lesson (and it became abundantly clear that this was the first) other than basic barre exercises, but she ramped even those up considerably - going at double the speed she would usually expect from a very first lesson, especially at a beginner's level. Hannah was in good shape, but there was a reason that even seasoned pros still had to do their barre classes. By the time they hit the twenty minute mark the woman's brow was glistening with sweat, and her cheeks were bright pink. But, and Marilyn noted this begrudgingly, she didn't falter and nor did she quit. Yes, she struggled, and yes, she wasn't perfecting the moves, but she didn't complain or demand a slower pace. She simply pushed herself. With such dedication and determination, it was quite a shame that Marilyn had so firmly resolved to dislike her.

At the half-way point in the class, Marilyn relented and gave her a five minute break. It was sorely tempting not to do so, but she feared that Hannah would faint before she requested a breather, and she didn't want to deal with that. If it were Sarah in her shoes, she'd have likely pushed even harder, but she didn't have it in her. So she gave her five, and she even retrieved a bottle of water for her from the mini-fridge stowed away under the desk at reception. Hannah accepted it gratefully, too winded to give proper thanks.

Marilyn moved somewhat stiffly to one of the plastic chairs by the door, content to let the five minutes pass in a bit of an awkward silence while she inspected her nails before they got through the final half of the class, but once Hannah caught her breath she was speaking - and not to unsubtly pry, either.

"You recognised me the moment you walked through the door, didn't you?" She asked.

Looking up at her, Hannah tilted her head to one side, sorely tempted to play dumb. But honesty deserved honesty, she supposed.

"You have very distinctive hair," she said finally.

The girl made a sweeping motion towards the wild mass of curls as if to say "what can you do?" before sighing, everything about her posture turning sheepish, her shoulders dropping and her palms pointing up towards the ceiling entreatingly.

"My name is Hermione, not Hannah. Hermione Granger," as she said it, she watched Marilyn's face carefully for any hint of recognition.

"I see," Marilyn said.

What else could she say? Compliment the unique name? Enquire as to its origin? There was obviously some kind of motive behind this visit, and she was presumably going to share that motive with her now, seeing as she'd elected to come clean of her own accord.

"Look, I only came here because you're Malfo- Draco Malfoy's…friend?" Hermione paused when Marilyn neither confirmed nor corrected the word "...Girlfriend? Sweetheart? Partner?"

Marilyn kept her features carefully blank, giving no reaction to any of the words, despite how one or two of them had her internally scoffing. What was next - lady friend? All right, maybe she could have saved herself (and everybody else, for that matter) a whole lot of bother by forcing out a quick 'we're just friends, there's nothing between us' and ending this farce of a lesson then and there. But she didn't, for two reasons. The first was the simplest - it was none of this girl's damn business, one way or the other. The second reason was just a tad messier - she wasn't sure what she and Draco were. Friends, yes, but saying that would be pretending there was nothing more there, and she'd long grown out of the teenager-esque method of pretending there was no spark there when there absolutely was.

Okay, she was hardly getting ready to set off to bridal shops and try on wedding dresses, but there was something there. A spark - a solitary firework rather than an entire bonfire night display, but something nonetheless. A firework that seemed to fizzle around the one small patch just off the corner of her mouth that he'd planted the chastest of kisses on not too long ago. Of one thing, she was sure: she was interested to see where it might lead. It was just a shame there was no real word to categorise that awkward, coy little dance that constituted the phase in a relationship that could only be summarised as "we might date, we might not". Not because it would help her explain things neatly to this Hermione, because Hermione was not entitled to an explanation...however differently she seemed to feel about the matter, but because it would allow her to categorise the matter a little more neatly in her own mind.

When it became clear that Marilyn had no intention of filling in the blank, Hermione sighed and hung her head. The moment stretched on as the girl visibly thought through what she wanted to say, before she met Marilyn's gaze in earnest, concern shining brightly in her brown eyes.

"Look, I'm only here because I knew him in school-"

"Yes, he told me all about your school days," Marilyn interrupted.

"He did?"

It gave her a stab of petty joy to see the shock that bordered on outright alarm as it flitted across the woman's features.

"He did," she said "But however much of a prat he might have been to you back in school, you have to see that doing all of this - seeking me out at my job - smacks of somebody who isn't exactly well-adjusted."

She gestured between the two of them to emphasise her point. What was next? Was she going to pull a knife and hold her hostage, demanding she listen to a story all about the time Draco put a 'kick me' sign on her back? Just as she thought she was getting somewhere, getting through to her, Hermione deflated, sighing and shaking her head while her brow furrowed in frustration.

"I don't think he's told you the full story," she said slowly.

"Oh Jesus," Marilyn sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose "We all had people who were shitty to us in school. We don't do this. Shit, I can't even remember the surnames of most of mine now. It was what? Ten years ago? Move. On."

"Marilyn - Miss Baxter, what has he told you exactly? About our school? About what happened there?"

"What is there to tell? He was a shitty teenager - an unforgivable arse, in his words, actually. Most teenagers are shitty," Marilyn sighed impatiently, throwing her hands in the air "I don't know what you want to hear."

Standing, Marilyn had every intention of shrugging on her coat and leaving as quickly as her dodgy knee would let her - paycheck be damned. Not only because she'd had more than enough of how ridiculous this situation was becoming, but also because she was actually starting to make Marilyn feel uncomfortable. Not threatened, not personally. Dodgy knee or no, the girl was spindly and hardly cut an imposing figure. Marilyn was fairly certain she could take her in a fight - she was northern, for Christ's sake. But the gravity with which she spoke of this whole thing was actually starting to get to her, burrowing a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. And over what? Some petty school days bullshit.

"Please, you have to listen to me," the girl pleaded, shooting up "I'm not here to drag you into petty dramas or to try to poison you against Draco for my own amusement, I swear to you I'm not."

Marilyn paused, fixing Hermione with a look caught somewhere between impatience and exasperation. She was tired. She just wanted to get out of here, maybe spend an hour in a coffee shop with a good book. Something to make her feel human again. Something other than this. Hermione must've sensed that she had an opportunity here - but only the one - for she never tore her eyes away from her as she spoke, words carefully measured while her hands came up in mock surrender.

"Maybe he's changed since I knew him. I hope he has - I think he has. Certainly more than the others who knew him do, anyway, but that's not what's important here," she entreated "What is important is that if there a chance that he hasn't, even the slightest chance at all, you...well, you're not safe. That's why I'm here. To warn you. That's all."

The silence that followed was suffocating, but maybe that just down to everything Marilyn was trying to process in that moment. She wanted to laugh it off. Oh, how she wished she could laugh it off. Denounce Hermione as a crackpot and flounce from the studio, never to accept another private lesson again. Maybe even snicker over the girl and her mad accusations over a drink later on with the man in question. But she couldn't. Why? Because of the earnestness written all over Hermione's face. Because of Draco's own professions of what an utter prat he'd been back in the day. How many times had he emphasised the point himself? Insisted that she wasn't getting just how bad he was? She'd laughed it off then, but nobody could blame her for that. They were discussing teenagers here, how bad could things really have been?

Then, there was something not-so-concrete that had her wanting to listen to more of what Hermione had to say, whatever it might've been. It was like witnessing a horrid, gory tragedy - you don't want to see it, but you can't help but look. That was her dilemma then. She didn't want to hear it, but she couldn't help but listen. Maybe it was the relief, the sweet relief of having that nagging feeling in the back of her mind that something wasn't quite right finally backed up by evidence. Real evidence. Evidence which went beyond Sarah's cynicism or a few fleeting moments that could easily be explained away.

Here she was, being offered reassurance. Answers. And, if Hermione was telling the truth, the opportunity to keep herself safe.

"All right. What do I have to know?" She asked with the utmost begrudgement.

Whatever response Hermione had been expecting, this clearly wasn't it. For a moment she stopped, visibly bewildered at being given a chance, and then she hesitated.

"It's...It's a long story, and there's a lot that I can't go into," she said.

Well. That was convenient. What was wrong with this girl? She begged her to hear her out, and when she agreed to she suddenly wasn't at liberty to say? What kind of bullshit power-play was this? Scoffing, Marilyn shook her head, beginning to shrug on her coat.

"I can't," Hermione protested, frustration plain "The details are tricky, and you wouldn't believe them even if I could give you them. But Draco's family...they're rich, and they're dangerous, and they have deeply, deeply held prejudices. If they found out that the two of you have been spending time together, I really can't stress enough the danger you'd be in. Real danger, Marilyn. Not petty drama. Even if Draco isn't like that anymore, I can tell you for a fact that his parents are. They always will be."

"And so what are you suggesting I do?"

"I came here to give you this," she extended a hand, a scrap of paper folded neatly between her index and middle fingers "It's my phone number. If anything happens, anything at all - no matter how strange, or minor, or unbelievable, you can phone me and I can help."

Marilyn stared at the paper as though it was likely to bite, and then she took it. She didn't have to use it. Taking it would get this girl off of her case, too...and it was better to have it and not need it than vice versa.

"I'm going to be in York for another few weeks, I'd like to meet up just once before I go - even if it's just for coffee. Just to make sure that you're…" she trailed off uncertainly before amending her words "That everything's fine."

Fixing her with an unrelenting scrutinous look, Marilyn slowly worked through the matter in her mind. That last addition had well and truly sent a chill through her veins. This woman was genuinely concerned for her. Very concerned, if the anxious determination that permeated her entire being was anything to go by. She was approaching her with the kind of questions and reassurances that the police might go to a battered housewife with. It was worrying, to say the absolute least.

It would be easier if it didn't clash entirely with how she felt in Draco's presence. Yes, she had concerns - even concerns was too harsh a word. Curiosities, perhaps. Confusions. A litany of other words beginning with 'C'. Whatever questions she had, though, they weren't enough to be full-blown red flags. In fact, the only red flags she'd faced as far as Draco was concerned seemed to crop up the moment Hermione did, too. She'd known shitty guys. Guys who had her denying her gut instincts, laughing at herself as 'paranoid' or 'too easily hurt', until those instances piled up too high to be coincidence or mere misunderstanding. Until the sinking feeling in her gut when she saw their name on her caller ID wasn't worth the compliments they showered her in, or however pleasing their faces might've been. That was always her litmus test for people - seeing their names on a screen, or faces in a crowd, and thinking "oh shit, what now?". Draco was not like those guys, peculiarities aside. She never dreaded his present. Quite the contrary, in fact.

Draco was...funny, and decent (however much he tried to hide it), and clever, and attentive, and...okay, he was also a pompous and arrogant little shit, but somehow he made even those qualities seem like a good thing. Hell, he had her more flustered over a kiss on the cheek than other guys did over proper kisses.

But would she ever forgive herself if she was wrong? At its least helpful, this coffee would be an awkward two minute affair where she could smugly tell Hermione that everything was going swimmingly. At its most helpful, it could save her a whole big painful ordeal if this warning turned out to be portentous.

"All right. Coffee. One coffee. I'll call you in a couple of weeks and we'll work something out," she sighed.

There was nothing even forcing her to honour her word, should nothing strange, minor, or unbelievable occur.

The relief on Hermione's face worried her even more still.