A/N: My big plan for their fifth year is letters, and a time-skip, broken up by snippets of relevant parts of their fifth year. This chapter is a good example of it. The only other alternative would be to create a whole cast of characters at Beauxbatons and a storyline there solely with the purpose of giving Marilyn's fifth year some substance, and I just don't see the point because it would just be a whole lot of dancing, and a lot of it would stop being relevant after that arc, anyway, so I don't want to waste the words, or my time, nor yours.

I have a plan or two for some actual scenes taking place during the fifth year that I put together when I looked over the timeline of the book, but other than that I don't want to stretch it out to a stupid extent when a lot of it isn't even relevant up until Draco gets traumatised as hell in the run-up to/for the duration of his sixth year. I mean, we're almost forty chapters in and we haven't even reached the war proper yet, so I have to make adjustments where I can so that this fic doesn't end up being 200 chapters.

I'm not above writing a 200 chapter fic, but when that day comes I want it to be one that requires 200 chapters, not one that I've just padded out with unnecessary waffle. Well. Not anymore than my fics usually contain B)


7th August 1995

Baxter,

I meant use a false name when you sign what you write. It's a bit harder to explain letters addressed to this "Doctor Marten" that come to my house than it is to explain ones addressed to me. Probably best to burn the ones you receive from me, too. I can't say I'm surprised to learn that the Weasleys have failed to meet expectations set out before them. I imagine they had some pauper's convention to attend, or maybe they're preoccupied reorganising their shoebox so it might better accommodate all fifty of them. Are you staying with that friend of yours now, then? The one from your home city? If so, how are these letters reaching you? All in all, I'd say you had a lucky escape. I wouldn't call that a poor summer.

And no, I haven't seen anything about these so-called disappearances. Press hysteria, if you ask me - fuelled by Potter, no doubt. Have you seen the news of his trial? It's about time he had a fall from grace.

As far as my summer is concerned, it would be a far sight better if everybody wasn't so bloody insufferable. At least when you do it, it's on purpose. They all seem to manage it entirely without meaning to, which also means they can't turn it off. I'd be tempted to feign illness to escape a party or two, but my mother would have a Mediwitch here within the hour. Knowing my luck they'd be insufferable, too.

David M.


10 Aug '95

Doctor Draco,

Of course, my bad, silly of me, won't happen again. As it so happens, my other friend also couldn't put me up this summer, so I'm in the midst of learning a lesson in independence and self sufficiency (how's that for a positive spin on things?) — I don't know if I'd call it a lucky escape, but I'm trying to make the best of it. It is what it is. No use crying. As I remember, I get told off by you when I do that. They reach me here just fine, no worries. Just depends on when I'm around to get them.

We'll never agree on the Harry thing. And feel free to call me Columbo, but if things weren't so dangerous, as he says they are (Harry, not Columbo, he's mum on matters of the Wizarding world and its dangers), why would I need to burn evidence of our correspondence? Weird.

I'll have you know that when I'm annoying it's entirely effortless. It just so happens to be purposefully effortless, but I did feel the need to clear that up. Imagine how bad I'd be if I actually tried? The horror. Civilisation would collapse. Or maybe I'd be exactly where I am now - stuck here with no lifeline for the summer. It sounds like your mother really cares, though. Maybe the protectiveness would be annoying, but it's probably better than the alternative.

Meryl Monroe


12th August 1995

B,

What do you mean? You're staying with her all summer? From what I remember you telling me of her, that's not an ideal outcome. Unless I'm mistaken? Where is it that you go when you're not around to get them, if you've nobody to visit? Or no 'lifeline', as you put it.

[An ink blotch follows the previous sentence, as though his quill had paused over the parchment for too long]

Anyway, I suppose you'll be thrilled that Potter was cleared of all charges today. I could practically hear you cheering from the north when the news hit the headlines. Maybe the Weasleys will make a triumphant return to your life when they throw their celebration and name this the Day of Saint Potter, patron saint of attention seekers everywhere.

And of course she cares, that's her job - it's sort of the bare minimum of motherhood. A lack thereof should be denounced, rather than applauding its presence. Would you compliment somebody for buying a pet and then actually feeding it, too?

David M.

P.S. Your brand of annoying is at least somewhat more tolerable than a few others. Do with that what you will.


19th August 1995

B,

Might I have a sign of life? Are you still breathing?

D.M.

P.S. I was mostly joking about the annoying thing last time. Mostly.


Draco sat in the dining room of Malfoy Manor, but his mind was far removed. His mind was north. He'd sent his last letter a few days ago, and he was torn between wishing he had not, and the temptation to send another. It would've been easy to think that Baxter had second-guessed the wisdom in their writing to one another, and chosen to put an end to it. He knew he grappled with that every time it was his turn to write back. Not writing would certainly be the wisest course of action. Even Crabbe or Goyle would've been able to suss that out, had they been in his shoes. But they were not, and for Draco, the temptation to write outweighed the fear of doing so.

But would it outweigh his worry? Baxter was many things, but she was not shy, and she had a knack for flying headfirst into a point that would be best left avoided. If she no longer wished to write, she would have said so. She wasn't the sort to sit back and watch the letters trickle in, smirking to herself believing that she was driving him mad with her silence. And he wasn't the sort to be driven mad by silence. Not usually.

It was concerning, though, was it not? Back at Hogwarts she'd alluded to a less than fantastic life at home (someone with her blood would hardly associate with somebody from his family if all was well at home, Marilyn herself had joked), and now she'd reiterated that assertion before promptly falling silent. Had she not yet gotten his letters, or could she not answer? She'd said there were times she would not be around to receive them, but where would she then be if she was stuck with nowhere to go but home? And if the latter was true and she could not answer, then why?

Mulling it over was exhausting. Giving a damn was exhausting. If he could stop, he would have done so long ago, but apparently it was too late for that - she was not yet out of his system. The day would come, of that he was sure, but until it did he was stuck. In more ways than one, really, because what was he supposed to do? There was nothing he could do. Sending a third letter would be pathetic, and what would it achieve that the second one could not? And beyond writing, what could he do? Show up at whatever little Muggle hamlet she dwelled in? No. Continuing to write was stupid, but doing that would be irredeemably moronic. So he was confined to waiting. And that was exhausting, too.

Merlin's balls, he wished Dumbledore had never gotten it in his head to invite the other schools over. Things would be simpler if he'd never met her. Knowing that meddlesome old fool, he'd probably hoped for something like this.

"You're awfully taciturn tonight, Draco."

Blinking himself back into reality, Draco straightened in his seat and offered his mother a slight nod, making a show of pushing a chunk of steak about his plate with his fork.

"I'm sorry - my mind was elsewhere."

His father accepted the response readily enough, but it seemed to spark his mother's curiosity. And then there was Snape. Hogwarts' Potions Professor had joined them for dinner that evening, being an old school friend of his father's. The times had inspired him to strengthen those old connections, given that they were all on the same side - camaraderie and all that.

Ordinarily, Draco wouldn't have so much as blinked at that. They had guests for dinner all of the time, and Snape was his Head of House - it made little difference to him. But tonight he kept staring at him, the gaze heavy and pondering. It was making him nervous, and only adding to the burden already upon him.

"Where was it?" His mother asked softly "Your mind? Perhaps with the sudden appearance of all of these letters? Followed by their disappearance?"

Draco pressed his lips together. Baxter didn't know how lucky she had it - having a mother who didn't care. His had perked up the second he started receiving letters in feminine cursive.

"Letters?" Snape enquired silkily.

"Mm. From someone who cannot visit, apparently, so it remains a topic of curiosity. For me, if not for Lucius."

She was teasing, for the most part. Taking a bit of motherly delight in embarrassing her son amongst friends.

"Why should I find it curious? He's a fifteen year old boy. I'd be concerned if he had no girls to write to," his father drawled.

Draco smirked slightly. Because that was what he thought he'd do if the girl he was writing to wouldn't be enough to give his parents simultaneous heart attacks.

"But one who cannot visit?" His mother pressed "Tell us truthfully, Draco - is she ugly?"

Forcing a laugh, he shook his head and rolled his eyes "I wouldn't be writing to her if she was. She cannot visit because, er, she goes to Beauxbatons. Her family loathes to leave France."

"I can hardly blame them, with what Fudge is turning this country into," his father drawled "They must be good Purebloods. Not like those Weasleys."

"You make it sound much more serious than it is. It was just about a bit of homework."

"How could I not? You don't hear from her for a week and you're practically despondent," his mother continued to tease "Perhaps you know her, Severus?"

"Given that Draco has not mentioned a name, I cannot be sure," Snape said.

Draco almost frowned at that. Because as his mother had spoken, he'd realised he'd dropped himself right in it. In saying she was from Beauxbatons to explain why they did not know her, he'd then made it clear exactly which Beauxbatons girl it was - the only one it could have been - when he'd alluded to their being in the same year. Even if his parents hadn't clicked on, Snape should have known. Judging by the curiosity shining in the professor's dark eyes, he did know. But he was not voicing it. Why? Sweat threatened to bead on his forehead.

Only when he realised all eyes around the table were on him did Draco stutter out a name - the false name that Baxter had given herself.

"Monroe."

His mother turned her gaze to Snape, pale eyebrows arching with amusement.

"Ah. Yes. Miss Monroe. I do remember her. A perfectly adequate student," Snape said, his tone bored, and Draco failed to stop his eyes from widening.

Snape simply returned his stare, unaffected, giving nothing away in his expression.

"Adequate?" His father did not sound impressed.

"Well we already knew she wasn't of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, so none of us were accusing him of anything serious. He may be fifteen, but he is only fifteen, Lucius," his mother replied.

"I'm glad to hear I shan't be signing a marriage certificate when we've finished our pudding," Draco said drily.

He received a warning look from his father in response, even though his mother laughed.

"If she's from Beauxbatons, why were you enquiring about homework? They've all returned, surely? Unless Hogwarts' professors are now demanding essays from distant continents," his father frowned.

"Dumbledore does love to take meddling to new levels each and every year," his mother snorted.

Snape smirked in response.

"I wasn't sure about a Transfigurations essay, is all," Draco said quietly "McGonagall made mention of wishing for essays on the first day back from all who may wish to take her class at OWL level."

Another lie. Snape still didn't call it out. Draco wasn't sure whether the man was letting him dig himself into a deeper hole, or if he really was covering for him, but the nerves were enough to have something in his chest seizing up, even if he forced his posture to remain relaxed and unbothered.

"I should think that you should be sure, if you're going to get OWL qualifications befitting the heir to the Malfoy name," his father said.

"It wasn't the subject matter, father, but whether McGonagall still expects it. A lot of academic deadlines were cancelled thanks to the farce with Diggory - something about putting the world on hold to be respectful," he drawled, rolling his eyes "I was unsure as to whether it was still needed, and wondered if she'd heard anything on the matter before she left. But she had not, so I'll do it anyway in case it's needed."

His father nodded, accepting his answer and apparently approving of it. Snape continued to stare…and Draco continued to wish he'd bloody well stop. Worst of all, this meal had left him with more questions than he'd started it with, and he found his appetite had all but vanished.