A/N: Okay, this chapter exists just to take us through the transition of what's left of fourth year, right up to the summer before their sixth year and (drum roll) war. The drama!

The New Year rolled in, and Draco soon found himself reaching for his new scarf out of habit as he prepared for each day of classes. Even the days without classes, really, whether he planned to spend much time venturing out onto the grounds or not. There was just something nice about it. Handmade gifts were never something he thought he'd have much time for - more or less writing them off as something for those who couldn't afford something actually well-made in a shop - but this was different. It was finely made, he hadn't lied or offered false flattery with that, although knitting was hardly something he knew much about.

Although he supposed if he could see that it was good without quite knowing how, that was another mark in its favour. The stitches were all even, it didn't look wonky or half-arsed, and there were even a few knot-work designs worked into the end, along with a small easily missable silver snake. She hadn't been lying - they matched the gloves well, which were barely showing their heavy wear from the previous year.

It helped that she wasn't here to see him wear them - unlike last year - because Draco did know himself well enough to be aware of the fact that he'd probably wear them less if anybody who knew their origin, Marilyn herself included, was around to bear witness. Mostly because he'd be embarrassed about what sort of statement he might be making; that he looked like some ridiculous sap carting around minor tokens and viewing them as being more than they were.

Still, there was something nice about them. He missed Marilyn, he wasn't afraid to admit that, not in his own mind at least. The letters he received were always read in her voice, for she did have a tendency to write how she spoke, rambling and belligerence included, but it wasn't the same. It was almost easy to forget he was really speaking with her at all, not privy to her reactions to what he was saying for better or for worse. The ease with which he forgot it was probably dangerous. More often than not he'd found himself pausing after writing a particular sentence or two, painfully conscious of the fact that had he been saying these things to her face, he would not have said them at all. And then he'd sent them anyway.

Did she find herself at the mercy of similar feelings? It was hard to imagine so - it was hard to imagine that she might ever not voice whatever thought was in her mind at that particular time - but he couldn't brush off the idea so easily. While she was blunt, they were similar in that they loathed sharing any sort of vulnerability. If they'd been speaking in person and he tried to pry for details on her home life, he doubted she'd have given him any answer at all besides the wave of a hand and a nervous laugh. Then again, had they been speaking in person, he doubted he would have pried at all, wary of the prospect of awkward silences or - Merlin forbid - the presence of tears.

The gifts had a personal quality to them that reached through in ways the letters, however warm and candid, could not. He could not wear letters. It was strange, wrapping the scarf about his neck and thinking that she had knitted every stitch with her own two hands not so long ago - maybe plagued with thoughts of him as he was with her.

Their letters continued into the New Year, of course, and Draco found himself growing more and more aware of what they did not discuss almost as much as what they did. Those things were numerous, but they all fell under the same category. Events. World events. The Daily Prophet decried the recent escape from Azkaban, blaming Sirius Black for it as an effort to further purport their denial as to what was happening, and he wondered if they weren't just as bad for how they avoided the topic altogether.

He hadn't known the full details of it - he wasn't a member of the Inner Circle, he wasn't privy to plans and plots and intricacies - but his mother had commented on the fact that he had not yet met his Aunt Bellatrix over the Christmas holidays. Not yet. Wording that wasn't lost on him at the time, and certainly rang in his mind more than ever now. His own unwillingness to mention it, even to play dumb about it, caught him off guard almost as much as Marilyn's equal unwillingness to bring it up. Ordinarily he took great delight in bringing up uncomfortable topics, and she appeared to do the same, perhaps not setting out to upset but on some sort of principle to not leave things unsaid when she'd decided they were important enough to voice.

But now, if anything, he dreaded the day when something so catastrophic happened that they could no longer bury their heads in the sand over it in favour of less perilous topics.

As it was, that time had not yet come. When the Prophet article came out not two full weeks into the New Year announcing the Azkaban escape, they discussed New Year's Resolutions in their letters, and how they'd spent their Christmasses. Six weeks later, when some rag called The Quibbler ran an article that sent shockwaves throughout the Magical community in which Potter spoke out about the truth of his encounter with the Dark Lord, they were busy trading barbs that were just slightly too flirtatious as to how their Valentine's Days had gone. Draco pretended not to be pleased that she made no mention of this Adriano fellow who she was so fond of in that particular letter.

Two months after that, in April, Draco himself played a role in catching Dumbledore's so-called "army" for Umbridge, Dumbledore fled and was replaced by Umbridge herself as headmaster, and the two clownish clones Marilyn used to be so fond of set off a barrage of fireworks inside the school before promptly fleeing themselves. Draco made no mention of any of it in his letters - and although only one of those three things hit the papers (Dumbledore's escape and subsequent replacement) for Marilyn to have the opportunity to know and bring it up, they both still remained silent, opting instead to discuss OWL preparations, and Marilyn's week of travelling to dance for the higher ups at WIB - which, unsurprisingly, went very well indeed.

June rolled through and Draco's birthday along with it, and he was mildly surprised (but no less pleased) to find a gift and card awaiting him from France that morning - he hadn't mentioned it, because it didn't fit naturally into conversation and going out of his way to do so seemed a bit like begging for a present, and Malfoys were not beggars. He'd leave that to the Weasleys. But Marilyn remembered it, and he tucked into the chocolates she sent with more happiness than he expected to feel over something so simple. The birthday was a topic they did not avoid, and when OWL exams were finally upon them, they discussed those too, and it was nice to have things going on that they didn't have to skirt around. It instilled rather a false sense of security. For all of a fortnight.

Then everything went to shit.

On the twentieth of June, although Draco had little knowledge of it as it was actually happening, his father and his fellow Death Eaters were embroiled in a battle at the Department of Mysteries. And how could one ignore headlines reading HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS in great big bold capital letters? No doubt Marilyn was fearing what this would mean for her personally, and Draco found himself in a similar boat, because his father had been captured, and his failure meant that the Dark Lord wasn't in much of a mood to orchestrate another breakout from Azkaban anytime soon.

The letters stopped, and Draco wasn't of much of a mind to stop and ponder who had failed to respond first. No, he was much too distracted by headlines reading Death Eaters Walk Amongst Us! punctuated by photographs of his father's mugshots. By the time the summer holidays were kicking off, when open war was upon them, and those headlines changed to be about the trial, paired with photographs of he and his mother leaving the Ministry after said trial, Draco stopped looking at the papers at all.

He didn't write, either. Not because he could hardly remember what the last letter had even concerned - something as inane as History of Magic exams, probably - but because he wasn't sure he'd get a response at all if he did. Until, that was, halfway through July when a letter arrived bearing familiar handwriting.

Draco felt numb as he opened it, pleased when he saw how short it was, for he wasn't sure he'd be able to make sense of any paragraphs at all.

D,

I hope you're okay. I'm worried about you.

M

From anybody else, the sentiment would have infuriated him. The few who had asked him how he was doing since everything had happened - mostly with pinched, polite smiles - had found themselves brushing dangerously close to an angry tirade on the sheer stupidity of such a question. His father was in Azkaban, the mess at the Ministry was being pinned by the Dark Lord solely upon his family, and he and his mother found themselves on the receiving end of all of his wrath. How did they imagine he was doing?

Worse still, admitting any of that would only be construed as weakness. They asked only so they could sit back and watch as he was forced to affect an air of indifference - but not too strongly, lest it reach the ears of the Dark Lord and he come to the conclusion that they weren't being punished enough for their supposed transgressions. What bothered him most was how most who asked would relish it if any of that fear and worry slipped through the mask - how they'd feast upon it like vultures. His life as of late was fear and worry, followed by pretending not to be scared or worried, and then fearing and worrying that it was showing through anyway.

Marilyn, admittedly, and to his own surprise, was one of those sources of worry. What was happening now could spell disaster for her, not least because she was hardly the type to put her head down and lay low. Knowing her, she'd end her first performance - whenever it came - with her new company by striding to the forefront of the stage and denouncing the Dark Lord as an arsehole. Despite himself, he smiled at the mental image. That would be very her.

What was also very her was checking in because she actually wanted the answer. Because she cared. And despite what had happened, despite the fact that his family - or his father, at the very least - had been shown up for Death Eaters on the front page of the Prophet, she did still care. She hadn't even committed the cardinal sin of asking whether he was okay. Yes, she hoped that he was, but she didn't ask. She knew the answer. She knew him. It was then that Draco had to acknowledge an unfortunate, dangerous fact, like his life didn't consist solely of unfortunate and dangerous facts these days.

He wanted to see her.