"So, do you think he's booked a room with one bed or two?" Taylor asked, wriggling her eyebrows from where she sat at Marilyn's desk.
"He's booked a suite, with two bedrooms," Marilyn answered.
"Good lad," Sarah said, in a rare show of approval.
Both of the other heads in the room turned to her in disbelief, prompting her to elaborate with a roll of her eyes.
"A sleazebag would get a room with one bed and...assume. A typical guy would get a suite with one bedroom, and make a big chivalrous show of taking the couch. A guy somewhere between would try to play the guilt card for taking the couch - spend the next day going on and on about how sore his back is, the likes. Draco has surpassed my expectations," she shrugged.
Marilyn and Taylor exchanged a look, but said nothing.
"Which doesn't say a lot, considering my expectations were pretty low to begin with," Sarah added, lips pursed.
Marilyn stifled a smile, but still said nothing. How long would it take for Sarah to stop hating him? Or at least stop pretending her hate wasn't waning, even if only a little? Secretly, she suspected that she hadn't thrown her hands up and made peace just on the off-chance that he did belatedly betray himself as a wrong'un, so that it would then appear that she'd been unfooled all along. She wouldn't rub it in, of course - snark or not, she was a damn good friend - but it still secured her own peace of mind.
"Yeah, well he's going to want his own bedroom if I can't find my bloody hairbrush," Marilyn said "I'll look like some kind of bog witch come the first morning."
"Especially if you have a wild first night," Taylor snorted.
"Do you ever think of anything else?" Marilyn asked.
She couldn't hide the fondness in her voice as she asked it, though.
"Garlic bread is a close second," was her housemate's response "What have you packed?"
"I figure I can rewear the same jeans to save space - I have a couple of dresses for nighttime, and then t-shirts or some nice tops that can go with the jeans depending on what's happening."
"And in the way of pyjamas?"
That was the question, wasn't it? Okay, she wasn't going to play it entirely clueless and go with some worn out dance competition tee and a pair of pyjama pants that she probably should've thrown out five years ago. But how much in the other direction did she want to go? Hell, normally she wore nothing at all to bed - but somehow she suspected that would be a tad too much in the opposite direction. Especially if she didn't find her hairbrush in the end. He'd think she'd gone feral.
Sarah's line of thinking wasn't entirely incorrect. From a typical guy, this invitation would've had incredibly thinly veiled true intentions...but if there was anything she'd learned by now, it was that Draco was far from typical. Everything about his demeanour when he'd joined her on the kitchen floor (which had been a surprise in itself) was that of a man in sore need of a break. If anything, it was flattering to not be counted among the things he needed a break from. If she had been, she wouldn't have taken it personally. She knew full well what it was like to simply need to get away - certainly well enough to recognise it when she saw that need in Draco. It did leave her wondering, though, what exactly he was so sorely in need of running from. And whether spending all of this time with her was just another method of running. Playing house in a lifestyle so far removed from his own that it offered an escape from whatever troubled him.
On a whim she'd looked up that strange tattoo of his online one night, hoping it might provide a clue, if not an answer. But nothing. Well, nothing but other designs that would be more at home on a biker than on Draco, and strange conspiracy theory websites about odd looking clouds. All she got from it was a strong feeling of being utterly ridiculous for looking it up in the first place.
There was just this look he got on his face at times - when he thought she wasn't looking, when their talks would lapse into a natural silence, sometimes even when they were just out, walking around. Perhaps it was just that his classically handsome looks lended themselves well towards brooding, making a thoughtful moment look a lot more serious than it was, but her gut told her otherwise. Whatever weighed on Draco, weighed heavily. She didn't have any intention of flattering herself by thinking it was all because of the little episode that had landed her in the hospital. While she didn't doubt he cared, she also knew that it had prompted his little outburst merely because it was something convenient for him to manifest whatever he was already feeling into. So what had caused it? Or was causing it, more aptly. It seemed very much an ongoing thing, but he didn't come across like the type to get himself into knots about basic, everyday life problems, so that left her wondering what it did take to get him all twisted and tangled - and not in a sexy way.
Although...there was that, too. While she really didn't think that sex was the ulterior motive for this little trip (or that there was an ulterior motive at all, for that matter), that didn't mean that it wouldn't happen as a sort of byproduct of it. They'd have a hotel suite all to themselves for three nights, after all. Whatever would or would not happen, she was determined to leave in the hands of fate, but she couldn't deny that the idea of something happening didn't send her stomach aflutter. The brooding ones weren't the only looks she'd noticed.
While she wasn't about to kid herself that the looks he gave her - the ones she caught the very tail end of every now and then - were the stuff of romance novels, that he was taking a leaf out of Austen's books, and all of the 'if I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more' that went with them...she also wasn't about to kid herself that they didn't exist at all. It might've been easier if they hadn't, for then she wouldn't have to spend so much time trying to work out what it was she saw in those looks.
The most obvious component was warmth. Yes, a warmth that stood out starkly in eyes that tended so naturally towards coldness, and a face that defaulted to a cold, untouchable mask. One that she knew better than to believe, thankfully. There was more, though. Were it just warmth, plain and simple fondness, she would've brushed it off as a product of this strange camaraderie they'd formed - the solace they offered one another in the midst of whatever problems their respective lives threw at them. He was hardly going to sit and glare at her, was he? A little warmth was natural. A given, almost. God knew she felt it for him, too. They wouldn't still spend time together otherwise.
So what else was there? What was it that had his brow furrowing and eyes just slightly narrowed, even as he smiled at her when he thought she was unaware. Confusion? No, that wasn't quite it. It wasn't bafflement, it was more…bewonderment? It was a ridiculous word. Absurd, really. One she'd rather die than use aloud, should she find herself trying to describe this whole thing to somebody. Something that belonged in the Victorian era, or perhaps the aforementioned Austen novels, more than the modern world. Hell, maybe that was why if fit so well, there was plenty of that in his lifestyle (from the little she knew about it). But it was the closest thing she could think of. Too sappy, too ridiculous. Too accurate. It took her aback every time, too, leaving her cheeks ablaze while she quickly looked away like some kind of clueless schoolgirl. Like she somehow managed to surprise him in the best possible way, all while sitting on her ass, watching movies and picking at junk food. Damn him.
Maybe one day she'd learn the reasoning behind it. Maybe 'one day' would wind up being during this little excursion to London. Maybe she'd see what other looks she might inspire while she was at it.
Turning to her drawers, she rifled through them until she found what she wanted. One nightdress of fairly plain black cotton, but with a pretty lace trim and straps to match, that ended half way up her thigh. Beside it, a pair of rather short shorts and a matching spaghetti strap top of midnight blue silk. Both were pretty, but only incidentally so. Should she wish to, she could very easily pretend that nothing was meant by the selection at all...and if she really wanted to go in the opposite direction, depending on what happened, she could always sleep in a t-shirt and her underwear.
"I taught you well," Taylor nodded in approval once she'd pawed at the pieces sufficiently.
"You literally did not offer one piece of advice," Marilyn pointed out.
"I didn't need to. That's how well I've taught you."
Smiling fondly, she shook her head and began to carefully fold them.
"Any idea on what he's got planned? Other than a weekend of hardcore BDSM, to hear Taylor tell it?" Sarah asked.
"No idea," Marilyn replied "I think it's all very spur of the moment, play it by ear, that sort of thing. I tried to insist on booking the train tickets to at least hold up my end and not look like some ridiculous little leech, but he wouldn't hear it - so I'm going to insist on paying for dinner or a show or something, even if I have to wrangle his bloody wallet off of him to stop him from arguing."
"Hey, I say go all pirate code on this one," Sarah said.
"If you fall behind, you're left behind?"
"Take what you can, give nothing back," her housemate corrected before adding reluctantly "While you can."
Marilyn rolled her eyes, but refused to get into that can of worms. It would do no good, and she knew Sarah wasn't serious anyway. It was a piece of advice that she would certainly never follow, not only because she had no wish to take advantage of Draco, but because it was the exact sort of thing that the worst of his sort would expect of somebody like her.
"And that has nothing to do with your dislike for the man in question?" Marilyn quirked a brow "Rather unfair dislike, I might add, while we're on the topic."
"Yeah, well, looking solely at the external evidence I can see why you'd say it," she shrugged unapologetically "But tell that to my gut."
Well. There was no arguing with gut instinct, was there? Certainly not with facts or logic, anyway. Neither of those could do much against 'I don't know man, I just have a bad feeling'...much to her quiet frustration.
"That being said...I think you're doing the right thing," Sarah admitted.
"Oh?" Both Marilyn and Taylor turned to regard her with utterly undisguised shock.
"You deserve a break. You don't take them often enough. It's a chance to get away, have some fun, without thinking too much."
Marilyn nodded. Then Sarah continued.
"But don't think too little, either."
"Yes, mum."
Whatever Marilyn's own private thoughts on the matter were, she wasn't about to get into it with Sarah over the matter. If she'd gone on this sort of tangent when Draco was present, or risen a level above her usual snark when interacting directly with him, it would've been another matter. But making her friends swear off of warning her about guys didn't seem like a wise idea, even if she didn't get the same bad gut feeling Sarah seemed to. So she'd hear it, and then she'd act based on her own instincts. Hearing didn't have to equate to listening, after all, and only time would tell whether her instincts were more accurate than Sarah's - as she felt they were.
It was a risk, even if she was sure that it was only a minor one. So the question was whether Draco was worth it or not. As excitement over their impending getaway bubbled up in Marilyn's chest, she decided that yes, yes he was.
In the Malfoy townhouse in London, Draco was undergoing a rather similar process - although in a more streamlined, solitary manner. It felt ridiculous to be packing a bag just to stay in a hotel not even a full half hour away, and even more ridiculous still to be apparating to York in the morning just to catch a Muggle train back down to London again, but bringing Marilyn here would be far too much of a risk - not even just because his parents or one of the elves could show up at any point, but because there were so many magical artefacts around the house that it would be far easier to overlook one than it would be to clear them all out. As far as the train was concerned, well, it might be a nostalgic reminder of his early years at Hogwarts. The simpler years. Far simpler than the ones he was living through now, and even moreso than the ones that he was doing his best to leave far behind him.
His bags were more or less entirely packed with a wave of his wand, his mind free to wander to other matters. Such as the hairbrush, loaded with strands of bright golden blonde hair, now in Granger's possession. The part of him that tended towards annoyance was already internally grumbling, hoping that this plan of Granger's would be worth it.
But then, as he grew conscious of the thought even as it crossed his mind, he couldn't help but admit that it wasn't exactly a great hardship to him. Yes, alright, he was worried. There were too many variables at play here for him to be anything resembling comfortable. Far too many. But he was shouldering the least of the risk. Less even than Marilyn, in some respects. And he could think of much worse ways to spend a weekend. The events and the risks surrounding them both had clouded up his mind so much that it hadn't yet even really occurred to him to look forward to the weekend. Now, though, with it upon him and his part of the real work done, he allowed anticipation to slowly grow.
He hadn't been lying when he'd told her that he needed to get away - and that he'd like to do so with her. Were it not for the threat, he'd have been thrilled to have a chance to spend time with her in a new environment, away from the watchful and ever-shrewd gaze of her housemates. The redhead, Taylor, was fine enough, but Sarah…while the antagonistic part of him liked their little verbal sparring matches, her eyes had the distinct quality of feeling like they saw far too much whenever they landed on him. Like she could throw one glance his way and immediately know everything he hid. He even sometimes found himself in need of reminding that the things he did hide, and the depth of his secrets, were hardly something she could imagine in her wildest dreams. At most, and in reality, her suspicions would be something along the lines of his having a girlfriend. Such a problem would be a breeze in comparison to what truly weighed on his shoulders.
And, he reasoned with himself, while Marilyn's Muggle friends could never possibly guess what his life was truly like, nor could anybody from his world who may see him with Marilyn over the weekend. Statistically speaking (Merlin, he was starting to sound like Granger), it was highly unlikely that any magical folk would, anyway - but even if they did, they would never guess off the top of their own minds that she was a Muggle. No, if anything they'd assume exactly what Granger had suggested he say - that she was from a different Wizarding school entirely, and anything but a Muggle. And if they asked, he would back up that theory. Granger had gotten one thing entirely right, anyway, and that was that none of his lot would be in any of the places he might ever frequent with Marilyn by his side. It would be fine.
It might even be rather enjoyable.
And then a voice spoke up from the doorway and cut any cheer he'd mustered to shreds.
"Going somewhere?"
It took every shred of his self control not to jump, cringe, or show his panic in any form as he turned to face his father.
Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway to Draco's bedroom, only the slightest traces of soot around the hems of his robes. He must've used the floo networks, and Draco had been too preoccupied to hear.
"Father," he inclined his head in greeting instead before shrugging lazily "I thought I'd do a spot of travelling. This seemed easier than being obligated to return here every night."
The occasional tap of his father's cane on the wooden flooring heralded his approach, and once he stood by Draco's side he used the silver fangs of the serpent-headed handle to open the leather duffle bag, peering inside. The clothing inside was all black, making it more difficult to discern what was in the Muggle style and what was not than it might've been otherwise...but Draco still had to fight the urge to hold his breath. But Lucius wasn't looking for anything amiss, and he didn't find it.
Giving a slight 'hmm' he turned his attention away from the bag, and it zipped itself up with a wave of Draco's wand.
"You've been travelling rather a lot lately," Lucius said, sitting down on the sofa beside the large marble fireplace that the bedroom boasted.
Draco shrugged again. Despite his show of bored unbotheredness, though, he was confused. As long as he toed the line and behaved in a manner befitting of his blood, his father was often largely content to stay out of his business. Especially after the war. Recent years had weathered and dulled the edge of Lucius' haughtiness, but only slightly. Their enemies would argue that he'd been brought down a peg or two, but Draco saw it as tiredness. Weariness. He had no doubt, though, that the weariness would be replaced by fury if he knew what was really going on. And while he was no longer a child, and therefore no longer quite as scared as his father as he once was, it was still something he had no desire to see.
"Your mother," he sighed "Believes that there may be a woman involved. She asked me to speak to you."
Ah. That explained his presence, then. But that small answer had been immediately followed by a larger problem, and any earlier happiness he'd managed to build at the idea of spending more time alone with Marilyn was quickly diminishing. Wrinkling his nose, Draco snorted.
"Why does mother think that?"
"Your newfound penchant for disappearing from her gatherings," Lucius watched his face carefully as he spoke, looking for any hint of deception "You've done it twice now. The first time, she thought perhaps you'd stolen away with one of the young women there. The second time, though, she paid close attention to who was present before and after your disappearance, and all were accounted for."
Draco's lips thinned.
"Which can only mean that whoever it is, isn't one of the candidates provided. Not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."
Not acceptable, in other words. Draco took a deep breath in to steel himself for whatever was to unfold, and played it off as an exasperated sigh. Lucius' steely gaze flashed, the slightest hint of his old quick temper stirring. Draco had to think, and he had to think on his feet.
Denying it outright would seem like too much of a lie - and smelling a lie would inspire his parents to seek out their own answers. That couldn't be allowed to happen.
"It's nothing serious," he said boredly, moving to sit on the second sofa opposite his father, sprawling his legs out before him "Just a little fun. A diversion."
"Who?" Lucius pressed.
"She went to Beauxbatons, we met during the Triwizard Tournament and recently reconnected. A ballerina," he waved a hand.
"Blood?"
"Pure."
It was the only answer he dared give.
"And you're aware it can't lead anywhere? You step out with ballerinas, you don't build futures with them," his father's grip loosened on his cane before tightening again as he readjusted his grip.
"It won't go anywhere," Draco shook his head, glancing away as if he found the idea utterly ridiculous "She wouldn't be the right fit."
"And you're being safe?"
Draco's gaze snapped back to his father, and there was no need for him to disguise nor feign his horror now.
"Merlin's beard," he groaned.
"You can have this conversation with me, or you can have this conversation with your mother, but you will have it, Draco," his father snapped, undeterred "I shan't stress to you the importance of discretion and realistic prospects, since it appears I do not need to, but the last thing our family needs at this juncture is the wrong woman toting a bastard, pushing for it to be the Malfoy heir, do you understand me?"
"Yes father," Draco forced out, detesting being forced into the role of unruly teenager while well into his twenties.
Holding his gaze for a long moment as if seeking confirmation in his eyes as well as his words, his father said nothing. Draco returned the stare, steely as he dared.
"Good," Lucius nodded finally, the edge fading just slightly as he regarded him with a surprisingly frank amount of tiredness "The next few years will be make or break for our family. We cannot afford missteps."
He wanted to give a ragged, humourless laugh and point out the obvious - that such a time had been and gone, and the results were not favourable. That the side they'd chosen in the war had allowed the rest of their world to form their opinions already, and there would be no changing it. That it wasn't even worth it, because he'd so recently learned how very wrong they'd been in their views anyway. That he'd spoken to Muggles, and could no more discern them from Magical folk than he could tell the Weasley twins apart during his time at Hogwarts. That they'd lost everything upholding beliefs that were no more true than the sky being green and the seas orange, and that none of it fucking mattered anymore.
Instead, Draco nodded, and he looked forward to getting away more than ever.
A/N: It only took over 20 chapters, but Lucius has made an appearance.
