Marilyn grimaced at the two letters sitting before her, one from George and the other from Draco. She never thought she'd live to see the day where a letter she received from Draco Malfoy was a great deal longer and more personal than one from George Weasley, but these were strange times. Even if the Daily Prophet always denied it.

George's letter was concise to the point of being curt, and she wasn't sure whether it was because of his suspicions, or because he'd never exactly been one for beating around the bush.

Marilyn,

Sorry if this seems very random, but have you been speaking to Draco Malfoy at all recently? Hope you're doing well, got this address off a girl who writes to a Beauxbatons boy all the time and switched out his name for yours, so with any luck it'll find you.

George Weasley

Draco's letter was a great deal longer, somewhat neater, and - she suspected - contained a fair deal more twisted truths. She knew him well enough, and she'd argued with him enough herself, to be able to pluck the truth from what he purported.

Maybe he'd been honest when he said Gryffindor only won by a margin, but they were sore winners very easily became 'I didn't take losing well, and decided to run my mouth'. We were only teasing and they took to all way too seriously became 'I set out to get a reaction, and when I got one I decided to play dumb'. It all painted a picture that was fairly familiar, and painfully feasible. Draco went out looking for a fight, he got one, and he was celebrating by trying to pin every part of it on the other party.

While she could see through all of that easily - much more easily than she suspected the likes of his parents could when met with similar cover stories - and she was even more willing to call out the blatant bullshit than any of his lackeys would…she wasn't exactly on the opposing side. Oh, Draco was a right rotten shit when he wanted to be, with a knack for getting himself into an argument unlike any she'd ever previously seen, and she didn't doubt he'd decided to nurse his wounded ego (over Quidditch, or all things) by picking a fight with his favourite set of Gryffindors…but the views he'd expressed towards the end of the letter weren't quite so off the mark.

Oh, she didn't doubt that his own hatred of the Weasleys had him trying to stoke animosity between her and them - in the case of his letter. Did the same ring true as far as his throwing her in George's face? No doubt he wanted to boast about it, but was he trying to turn George against her? She thought not. There was nothing to turn against - they hadn't spoken in months, and if Draco hadn't dredged her name up it would've been longer still. Friendship, acquaintanceship, any sort of communication with Draco Malfoy was complicated and headache-inducing, but she didn't think him some great Hannibal Lecter-level mastermind.

And it wasn't like he had no leg to stand on in the latter half of his letter. There was a distinct sort of cheek for George to quietly and subtly bring their friendship to an end, only to then write and ask about who she had or had not been talking to in the interim. What right did he have to an opinion on that?

In the end, she took to the gleaming and pristine Beauxbatons library, all white marble, blue paint, and light wood, to puzzle out the answers to the fifty thousand questions in her head, both letters laid out before her on the desk, along with a quill and a few sheets of parchment.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you get so much mail in my life," spoke a male voice behind her "You weren't here last year, it's true, but the one before you never received so much as a newspaper by owl. Now? Now you have floods."

"I'm thrilled to hear my dire social life up 'til now has been so noticeable and entertaining."

The sixth year who fell into the seat at her side was an old friend - Adriano Cipriani - a fellow dancer who, despite his great many prospects, chose to remain at Beauxbatons and see out his entire education, juggling NEWTs and his dancing career. The decision wasn't one Marilyn was sure she'd make - she could barely focus on getting her DADA essay done at OWL level, not with this offer from WIB on her mind - but their friendship was a good source of guidance for her. He'd been here, he'd done it. Although she'd never admit to needing his guidance, he'd only be insufferable about it if she did.

"Entertaining? Maybe not. Noticeable? Yes."

Dark eyes flickered from the letter before her, then up to her face. Marilyn resisted the urge to snatch them up from the desk, or at least turn them face-down so he couldn't read the contents. It would only increase the intrigue.

"I never notice how many letters you get," she pointed out.

"That's because you're a narcissist, my dear, you never notice anything beyond your own pointe shoes."

Marilyn grinned, and then she laughed "Cheeky bastard."

"In any case, you have to admit that going from little to no letters, to so many that you have to come here to answer your heaps of fan mail is notable at least. Both from boys, too, judging by the handwriting."

"I have the feeling you're hedging towards an actual question."

"I've heard the rumours, you know, about your time at Hogwarts."

"Ugh."

This time she did disturb the letters, tucking the one from George - the one mentioning Draco by name - below the other, and folding them both up together.

"The Malfoy reputation for being shits was hard earned, apparently," he hummed "It's good to know you weren't friendless."

"Given my affinity for tunnel vision, that's probably a fair fear," she snorted.

"Who are they, then? You've got a teenage boy interested enough to pen you a novel-length letter, and yet you haven't mentioned it at all."

"Just a Ravenclaw boy - David. His little sister is interested in dance, so he wrote to me over summer asking for advice. The conversation just sort of went from there."

"How charitable of you."

"What can I say? That's just the kind of person I am," and then, hiding a smile at the amusement on his face, she added "And I resent the fact that you find that funny."

"Hey, if I did not like you, I wouldn't have come offering help."

"With what? My pile of fan mail?"

"In a manner of speaking. You've left it long enough, right? Now it's time to accept WIB's offer. I was going to see if you want help drafting the letter - considering I've been through it and all."

It spoke volumes as to how the Draco-slash-George situation was stressing her out that she hadn't even thought about her acceptance letter to WIB in, oh, twenty-four hours.

"What do I say?"

"Dear sir-or-madam, I'm writing to congratulate you as you now have the two best dancers Beauxbatons has to offer under your belt. Treat us well, or we unionise."

"Kisses, Marilyn Baxter?" She finished drily.

"Just so. See? You didn't need my help at all."

Snorting, she hesitated for a moment and then dropped both letters into her bag. Draco's she would answer later. George's? She wasn't sure she was going to answer that one at all. Would it be more damning in the long run? That was highly possible. But nothing could be more damning than what Draco had already gone and bloody well said - she highly doubted that George had swanned up to Draco on the first day after summer and explained the intricacies of their cancelled plans, so the only way Draco could have known about it would be because she'd told him. George was clever, and it hardly took a genius to puzzle it out. So why write and ask her? Maybe he wanted to verify. Maybe he didn't trust Draco. Fair, really. Or maybe he wanted to see what she'd say - to test whether she'd lie, and give her a chance to defend herself.

That last, most likely, possibility was what really pissed her off. There'd probably come a day where she'd have to justify or explain her decision to speak to Draco again, but George was not the one who was owed that justification, nor any sort of apology. To contact her months after gently ending their friendship, asking who it was she'd been speaking to in the time their communication fell off? That was some amount of gall. It was just a happy coincidence that if she hadn't been speaking to Draco, she wouldn't dignify such a letter with a response, and so her 'cover story' aligned nicely with her wishes.

She just wished she didn't feel so bloody guilty about it.

It wouldn't be completely true if Draco claimed he didn't keep an eye out as far as George Weasley's mail was concerned over the next couple of weeks. Marilyn's next letter to him didn't address his assertions that she shouldn't write to the idiot at all, although she did suggest that she struggled to believe his, ahem, polished version of events concerning what had happened on the Quidditch pitch that day. Ordinarily that might have annoyed him. Now? Now it just had him almost happy - not just because of how well she knew him, but because she also didn't cow and pretend to believe him anyway. Most would have.

Still, the days drifted by, the owl post dropped down onto their heads every morning, and none of it ever seemed to cause much of a stir over at Gryffindor table. Draco could only assume that meant she had not responded.

His suspicions were confirmed one day in the library when he heard the two idiotic clones whispering to one another.

"Still no response, then?"

"I think it's safe to say I won't be getting one, Freddie."

"Kind of an answer in itself, isn't it?"

"I dunno - maybe we should try ignoring Ginny for a few months before quizzing her on her personal life. See how she takes it."

"Mm. There is that. Still, he couldn't have known unless she told him."

"S'pose not."

"So we were right to keep her at arm's length, then. If she went running back to him that easily, our reservations were justified. You owe Snuffles a galleon."

"I don't think it was easy, though, that's the thing. That's what bothers me. You know her - she's stubborn. Proud. Gryffindor material, really. How shit must things have been for her to go running back to the likes of him? I don't think it's so simple as she was going to do it either way, I think it's more a case of she did what she did, because we did what we did."

"She's what? Fifteen years old? She can make her own terrible decisions."

"I'm not saying we're completely to blame, just that we had a hand in it."

"...Yeah. Alright. Maybe," his twin sighed "But that's not our fault, and we can't afford to take it on. There are bigger things at stake."

"You're not wrong there," he muttered, and then repeated it - sounding unhappy at the fact "You're not wrong there."

They'd promptly changed the subject after that - maybe they'd finally noticed his presence on the other side of the bookcase that separated their tables, or perhaps they'd simply realised that the middle of the library during third period was no time or place to discuss the finer points of a war.

Their exchange left Draco with a question or two, too. Not just what sort of weirdo they associated with who referred to themselves as Snuffles, but also that final exchange. We can't afford to take it on, there are bigger things at stake. It didn't take a genius to work out what they were talking about, what they viewed as being at stake, but he had to laugh that they seemed to think they had to conserve their energy for more important things.

If it did come down to war, Fred and George sodding Weasley would hardly be the ones to change the tide. If indeed the tide could be changed at all.

Although Draco had to question why his certainty that it could not be no longer filled him with the same level of untainted pleasure that it had a year or two ago.

20th December 1995

[A simple white Christmas card reading Joyeux Noël in glittering gold calligraphy.]

To George, Fred & the Weasley family,

I saw the article in the Daily Prophet about your father's accident. I'm so sorry. I'm thinking of you all, and I hope he has a speedy recovery.

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year

Marilyn x

20th December 1995

[A bright green Christmas card, depicting an avocado in a Santa hat dancing around on the spot, with white printed letters reading below 'Here's your Christmas avo-card-o!']

To Draco,

Merry Christmas. I hope you like the gift - I used the same wool to knit this scarf as I did for your gloves last year, so if you still have them, they'll match. The embroidered snake at the edge might be a bit on the nose, but I had to use every ounce of my self control not to stitch a lion on there. Be very, very glad that lions are far more difficult to stitch than snakes.

I wasn't sure whether to send it to Hogwarts or to your home, but in the end I had it sent to your house - can't have you thinking I didn't get you anything.

Meryl Monroe x

P.S. Keep an eye on the arts section of the Prophet this week.

22nd December 1995

[A distinctly fancier Christmas card of deep navy blue, littered with twinkling bronze stars of varying sizes, with Merry Christmas printed in the middle in looping cursive script.]

To Marilyn,

That card was so unbelievably terrible that I nearly burnt it and the gift on pure principle. In hindsight, I'll now admit that I'm glad I did not, for the scarf is very nice. Thank you. Here's your gift, I hope you like it - another charm for the bracelet. A quill charm seemed fitting, considering the sheer extent of these letters. I don't think I've ever flown through so much ink in my life.

It's…mad to think, isn't it, that the Yule Ball was already a year ago? It feels like it was just last week.

Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year, Baxter.

D x

Draco sat at the breakfast table on Boxing Day awaiting the arrival of the paper with a touch more eagerness than was usual. These days his family knew more of what was going on than what the papers claimed (although that wasn't something that was strictly new, anyway, given his father's many contacts in the Ministry), what with Fudge still so deeply entrenched in his denial. But Marilyn's card had caught his interest, and with each one that arrived he combed through the culture and arts section, reading inane details of shows due to be put on, and interviews with aspiring opera singers and a few think pieces written by journalists who mistakenly believed that an abundance of three syllable or more words constituted an educated opinion. It very rarely did.

He was beginning to grow bored of keeping an eye out, wondering if he'd already missed whatever it was Baxter had been referring to, until his eyes finally landed on an article reading Wizarding International Ballet Signs Beauxbatons Student. The noise Draco made in response was involuntary - stifling a smile as he combed through the article in which the writer waxed on about the rarity of such a deal for one so young, along with the fact that Beauxbatons currently only boasted two students who could say they had a contract with Europe's most prestigious Wizarding ballet company, and a few quotes from Madame Maxime in which she balanced her time between saying that she was hardly surprised, and that it was such a great honour. If it wasn't a surprise, could it really be called an honour?

The smile on his face faltered, though, when he reached the end of the article and the writer felt the need to comment on Marilyn's blood status - making it clear that she was indeed a Muggleborn, and while she was one of only two Beauxbatons students to join the WIB, she would be one of only four Muggleborns in its entire cast. It went on to discuss that there were indeed a great number of Half-bloods dancing for them, and plenty of Purebloods, too, but Draco didn't like the discussion delving into that at all.

In times like these, drawing attention to that was asking for trouble. Indeed, any Muggleborn who had their blood status advertised up by their full name, along with details regarding their employment and where exactly it was that they went to school was somebody who was all but being cast into harm's way the next time someone in the Dark Lord's inner circle decided they wanted to find an easy, pointless target as a way to make a name for themselves.

"What are you reading, Draco? You seem positively engrossed," his mother snagged his attention.

Both of his parents were a little worse for wear this morning, their Christmas celebrations having reached new heights thanks to the general air of revelry that every good and loyal pure-blooded family was awash in these days.

"Just this and that," he shrugged slightly "I was thinking it's been a while since we were at the theatre, that's all."

His mother extended a hand and he passed the paper over to her without reluctance, knowing she'd spot it all too quickly if allowed a glimpse.

"Mm, it has been," she murmured in agreement "Although it'll be a fair sight longer if they keep throwing mudbloods into the mix in an attempt to ingratiate themselves with the wrong sort. Really, what does a show of sitting on the moral high ground achieve when those who can truly appreciate the arts are left watching somebody without a clue as to what they're doing stumble and fumble their way through the steps with all the grace of a House-elf?"

"I'll never forget that opera we attended during our honeymoon - Florence, was it?" his father cut in.

"It was. It could've been a lovely night," his mother sighed, closing the paper and returning to her porridge.

"What happened?" Draco asked.

"The lead - she came down with some terrible affliction. What was it, Lucius?"

"Laziness," he replied flatly.

"Dragon pox, I think," his mother corrected with an amused smile "They replaced her with the understudy - some mudblood girl whose voice cracked on every other note. We left not half an hour into the thing."

Draco made sure to offer up the right response - a grimace, a scoff, and a muttered jab about a lack of reliability - but he couldn't help but wonder. No doubt if his mother saw Marilyn dance and knew nothing of her, she'd assume her a pureblood through and through. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, even, if indeed there was a single member of that number who she would not know on sight. How would she react, he wondered, if the day came where she did see her dance? If she knew of her blood? Would she pretend she was no good despite the fact that it blatantly wasn't the case? Would she declare it a fluke? A performance or a lucky blessing of nature bestowed upon the undeserving?

Or would she sit with pursed lips and not comment on it at all, because it did not align with everything she belie- everything they believed?

Perhaps one day he would find out. They did go to a fair number of ballets, and the WIB was the finest in the world. It stood to reason he would one day be there to see Baxter dance again. Well, unless it did come to a war. And then…

Draco's appetite abandoned him rather quickly.