A/N: This story might make more sense if you've read Little By Little - my story where Draco falls in love with a Muggle post-war. But I think it should still work if you don't want to dredge through all 300k words of that. There have been quite a few times in that story where the characters have wondered what might have been different had my OC, Marilyn, been born a witch instead. In this story, I want to explore that "what if" a little bit - but just a little bit. This is going to be short-term, because if I turn it into another 70+ chapter behemoth it'll just tread back over a lot of the same old ground from that fic. Buuut…I liked the idea, it wouldn't leave my head, I wanted to write it. Here it is.
On her first full day at Hogwarts, Marilyn - like most of her classmates from Beauxbatons - chose to explore. It was a great day for it; her favourite kind of day, in fact, chilly but bright and sunny. Bracing.
Maybe, she thought to herself, as she familiarised herself with the grounds, she should have come here instead. She knew the thought to be an exercise in pointlessness before it had even fully formed in her mind, but it was impossible to wander across the hilly emerald green grounds of the castle and not as least ponder a few 'what if's - imagining herself pottering about the castle garbed in long black robes embellished with red, green, yellow, or blue (she didn't know enough about their strange little houses to know which one she might be in just yet), and calling this castle home.
It was homey, too. It made her want to laugh - that not even four full years in the Wizarding world had her referring to a castle like this at homey, but it was. It was just as grand as Beauxbatons, sure - although her peers would be affronted if she dared to say anything of the like to them - but just in a different way. Warmer than the cold palatial grandeur of the academy she attended, during which she'd spent her first year almost afraid to let her shoes touch the floor lest she sully it with her sheer commonness. No, she would not be joining the number of her classmates who made a show of acting like the Hogwarts castle was little more than some backwater cottage. Maybe she could have even been happy here. It was certainly closer to home - not quite the worlds away from York that France was.
But it wouldn't have done her much good in the end. After all, Beauxbatons was The School for ballerinas to attend, so used to boasting alumni who went on to become prestigious dancers that they already had a plan in place for students who hoped to follow in those footsteps, rather than it falling upon those students to carve out their own path via a series of endless meetings and forms with teachers. Rather than begging professors for permission slips, or permission to floo to her classes, she had teachers apparating into the Beauxbatons palace for lessons, for god's sake. Oh, if she'd had no option she'd have moved heaven and earth to make it happen in Hogwarts, but it was rather nice being one of a number of ballerinas rather than the odd one out.
The price to pay for that, she supposed, was the way word had spread through the male population of the other two schools that Beauxbatons boasted a number of ballerinas. While they couldn't quite compare to those with veela blood, she supposed they came a close, more 'attainable' second to the hormonal teenage boys of Durmstrang and Hogwarts. At least during these first few days, before the novelty had a chance to wear off.
Coming to a stop by the glassy black waters of the lake, she was barely aware of the group of boys sitting on the shoreline until she caught wind of their whispering.
"She is! They do their practising in the empty classroom in the dungeons, I've seen her go in."
"Can't be, she's too little."
"She's younger than the rest, is all. I thought they only brought seventh years? And anyway, they need to be little - so they can be flung about and manhandled."
"I'd like to give that a try."
A few low snickers followed. Marilyn's jaw clenched, unsure of whether the flush that rose to her face was one of anger or mortification.
"You're embarrassing yourselves," a bored drawl joined the fray.
For a moment, just one single moment, she almost dared to hope - that maybe this friend of theirs would discourage them and they'd all just shut up. But then one of them replied.
"Oh, come on Malfoy, don't tell us you're not curious."
"No," he replied "I'm not."
"Well not all of us can bank on your high and mighty name to try to bag ourselves a Veela, can we?"
"No," she could almost hear the eye roll as Malfoy replied "You're right - you can't."
She might not have chosen to attend school in her home country, but that didn't mean she was ignorant to the name of Malfoy. It was impossible to read the Daily Prophet more than a handful of times and not know it, even to a muggleborn like herself. Maybe even especially to a muggleborn like herself, given the sympathies of the Malfoy clan.
Hugging her arms to herself, she counted to ten in her head as they continued to argue quietly among themselves. If she left too quickly, they'd think they'd run her off - it didn't matter if they were right, she wouldn't have it. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Finally, once she hit ten, she inhaled deeply and turned to leave, already wondering where she might wander to next (and hoping it would be devoid of idiots). Admittedly, it took a bit of effort for her to get her feet moving, but relief hit her the moment she did…and then one of them called after her.
Ignoring him, and how her hand itched to fly to her wand just in case, she instead sped up, hoping she might clear the hill in record time.
"Oi! Oi - you! Beauxbatons! Hello? C'mon love, I know you can hear me, don't be rude!"
A few snickers came from his friends at the boy's efforts, as well as a scoff that she suspected came from Malfoy. Marilyn ignored it all, jaw clenched. It would be fine, he'd give up, maybe with a shouted insult at her back before he returned to his friends, smug in whatever show of balls he'd been intent on making. She'd even believed it, too, until she heard the pounding of shoes against the grass, and then a hand grabbed at her elbow.
Whirling around, Marilyn yanked her elbow from his grasp, and then she did dig her free hand into the pocket of her powder blue robes, fingers grasping instinctively at her wand.
"What?" She snapped.
"Oh-ho-ho," he gave a yellow-toothed grin, shooting an amused look back at his friends "Prickly, are we? Prefer the Durmstrang boys?"
"I like the ones who can take a hint best of all," she replied archly.
"Don't be like that. We only want to talk. Further magical relations and all that, like Dumbledore said."
"Leave it, Flint," the Malfoy boy called from where he sat.
"Oh come on, Draco, don't be boring."
"I'm not going to spend my weekend in detention when McGonagall makes an example of us all just because you can't take a hint…or get a girl."
Flint's lips pursed at that, but it was clear where Draco stood in their hierarchy when he did not offer any response back to that. Marilyn exhaled sharply through her nose and turned back towards the castle, but the idiot caught her arm again.
"Stop bloody touching me," she snapped, tearing her arm from his grip once again.
There were a few hoots of laughter then, and it took her a moment to realise why - as she'd whirled, she'd instinctively drawn her wand. Well, shit. If this went really badly, and it was certainly looking that way, Madame Maxime was going to have her head. This boy - Flint - was tall. A good few years older than her, she thought. Perhaps even a seventh year. His buddies remained by the water's edge, but all had risen to their feet bar the Malfoy boy, who was shaking his head and muttering to himself. They all appeared around her age.
"You prefer my mates, is that it?"
"I'm wondering why you don't have any friends your own age."
He grinned wider, apparently only spurred on by her snark "And I'm wondering if it's true what they say - that ballerinas can put their ankles up by their ears."
The disgust was on her face, and her wand was beneath his chin, before she could even think better of either move. Surprise flitted across Flint's features, and for a brief moment there was nothing but the bitter Scottish wind pulling at their robes, Marilyn steeling herself against it. The silk robes of Beauxbatons were woefully ill-suited to this climate. Just walk away, she thought fiercely, scarcely allowing herself to blink as they stared down one another, just walk away and we'll forget this whole thing. But he recovered, forcing out a cocky laugh despite how she noticed his own hand creeping towards his pocket.
"Don't they teach you about not pointing a wand at somebody unless you're willing to hex them at your school?"
"They do," she replied coolly.
His hand still inched towards his pockets, and she just waited for a sudden movement, returning his gaze evenly despite how she kept track of his hands in her peripherals. No, this wasn't going to end well at all. And then a new voice joined the fray.
"Ah, Colette, there you are!"
She froze, not daring to look away. But they were talking to her - whoever this was, and whoever the hell Colette was - that much was obvious by the sound of footsteps through the grass before a hand fell to her shoulder.
"I told you I'd give you a tour of the grounds, you didn't need to resort to this sorry lot."
Flint's eyes finally left her so that he could glare at the newcomer, and Marilyn finally lowered her wand, glancing to her left and seeing little other than ginger hair and more black Hogwarts robes - although these were streaked with red rather than green.
"Sod off, Weasley."
"Happy to! We have a tour to continue - one that preferably won't end in violence. Come on, Colette, time to move away from the nasty Slytherins."
Intent on doing little other than getting the hell away from them, she allowed herself to be steered away, glancing over Flint's shoulder to the rest of the so-called 'nasty Slytherins' before she turned. She briefly met the gaze of the Malfoy boy as she did so - Draco - who looked at her, very faintly raised one pale eyebrow, and then looked away. And then her back was to them, continuing up the hill at the side of this Weasley who kept his hand very lightly on her shoulder.
"Thanks for that. Who's Colette?" She asked quietly.
"Wow. Well that wasn't the accent I was expecting. You're English? Thought you'd be French - that's why I chose a French name."
Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he must've decided that the coast was clear for he dropped his hand from her shoulder.
"It's Marilyn," she offered with a smile "Baxter."
"You look like more of a Colette."
"…Thanks, I think?"
"Oh, any time."
He had a way of putting her at ease, this Weasley, which was saying a lot given that her fight or flight instincts had not quite yet worn off from her previous encounter. Her wand was still surgically attached to her hand.
"Keep calling me that if you want," if the on-edge nature of her feelings were seeping into her words, the boy made an amicable show of not noticing "It's the least I can do."
"Very kind of you. I'm George - Weasley. What were you about to duel Flint over?"
"He was being an arse - asking why I'm younger than the others and…"
And whether I can put my ankles up by my ears. But she didn't exactly want to repeat that part - not least to a stranger, nor to a boy who had to be a year or two above her. It was too mortifying.
"Blimey, that's what got you so angry? I'm amazed I got away with asking about you being English."
Something about his tone told her that he knew there was more to the story…but he, thankfully, didn't seem intent on pressing for it.
"One should never ask a lady her age. It's not polite."
"Very fair. For all of their bluster about good breeding, that lot don't have a lot of manners. Best give them a wide berth, yeah? A good rule of thumb - green is ghoulish. Or grim."
"And what's red?" She nodded to the red emblazoned on his robes.
George gave her a wide grin "Red is rosy."
"And blue?" She challenged with a small smile of her own, gesturing to her own robes.
"Bloody dangerous, judging by whatever hex you were about to level Flint's way," he frowned down at her "You aren't a seventh year, though, right? Or if you are, you're horribly undernourished."
Marilyn made a face "I'm a fourth year."
"Oh? There's a story behind that, I wager."
"A very long and annoying one, yeah."
And a decision she was already coming to regret.
"Long and annoying is what I do best - wait," he snorted and then grimaced "That didn't sound quite right, did it?"
"It wasn't a glowing advertisement, no."
…But maybe she wasn't regretting it quite as much as she had been five minutes ago. It didn't take them long to reach the worn stony steps that led back into the castle from the grounds, which was when George drew to a stop.
"I need to go find my brother, so this is where I leave you," he gestured to the archway "You'll be fine from here, yeah? Just remember what I said."
"Green is grim, red is rad."
He blinked at her "I can't believe you'd have the audacity to not only steal my proverb, but improve it too."
Marilyn laughed, then offered a smug smile as she headed up the steps before offering a shrug and a "And Beauxbatons is best."
"Hogwarts is heavenly!" George offered his argument in parting.
Marilyn offered no rebuttal to that - even as her brain found a few less than pleasant adjectives to fill in its place. Heinous, for example, as Flint's face crossed her mind once again. Despite how relieved she was to have been saved from that bullshit, she was also happy that George was leaving her here - it wasn't anything against him, but it was difficult to pretend that she was cheery and unbothered when she was very much not so, already dreading running into those assholes again during her time here.
As she strode down the hallway, dodging students from all three schools gathered, she lost a bit of the feigned cool she'd managed to adopt as the redhead had escorted her back to the castle, her heart pounding in her chest from the aftermath of the confrontation. It wasn't exactly how she'd planned her first full day here going, but it could have gone a lot worse. Yeah, she'd met a handful of absolute wrong'uns, but she'd also met one certified good'un. Surely that cancelled things out?
Yes. That would be what she'd tell herself. If only so that she wouldn't find herself retreating to the toilets for a cry before she even got her timetable for the year.
