A/N: Quick updates galore, what can I say, I'm on a roll.


Their reunion felt much more real in the brighter, warmer light of the coffee shop than it had flitting between street lamps and pretending this all wasn't bizarre. Well, it was probably bizarre in Draco's mind - in Marilyn's it was just mortifying. Of all the times for him to show up. Christ, she'd never once thought he'd show up at all, but for him to do so then? Tonight? Yeah, it had smoothed over her exit - a part of her had genuinely feared that it was all about to come to blows, something that felt like it had been a long time in the making, before he'd knocked on the door - and Merlin knew it wouldn't have been any better if he'd arrived after she'd gone.

Still. It was her birthday, and the lad she'd had a kinda-sorta thing with, the one she'd exchanged surprisingly and increasingly personal letters with over course of the school year - had turned up and witnessed that. Some sweet sixteenth she was having, huh? And now he sat opposite her, waiting for his cappuccino, looking hopelessly like he had no idea what to say or do. That made the two of them.

He looked all grown up now - compared to the last time she'd seen him, at least, he hardly looked like he was about to start collecting his pension or anything. There was just less of a gangly teenage boy about him and more of a young man, cringe worthy as she found the phrase when she even just mentally referred to him with it. The fact that he'd replaced the school uniform with a suit probably helped, as well as the fact that he'd lost the boyish floppy curtain fringe in favour of simply combing his bright blond hair back from his face, even if it was a little bit askew now. It wasn't just the styling, though - his face was less rounded and more angular now…and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

Idle admiration shifted into concern when she noted that - but when she caught him staring at her in turn, she couldn't help but blush. Blush. Like that was something she ever actually did. What did he see, looking at her now? He hadn't exactly caught her on the best day, and she felt woefully underdressed in her jeans and plain white t-shirt combo with her hair in desperate need of a brush. Then she felt like a tit for even caring. Had she changed as much as he had, though? Ballet was strange in that it gave her a clinical sort of awareness of her body - she could sit back and note that she'd gained an inch or two in her hips and chest, but she stared at her form so often in a mirror that she never really noticed it.

It truly was a testament to teenage hormones that she even gave a crap about it now rather than the fact that the boy across from her had just seen his father imprisoned for Death Eater-ing. Death Eating? One of the two. Maybe both. Sure, it was a bit of an open secret beforehand, but now it was fact. The sole comfort of how done in he looked was the fact that he didn't seem to be happy with his state of affairs at all - and she had a feeling it wasn't just because Lucius had been caught.

If it took her offering up an awkward explanation to clear the air and break the ice, she'd happily do so. Mainly because if she didn't, it'd loom over them.

"I turned sixteen today," she supplied.

He blinked "I know."

"Yes, well, I don't know how ahem, other laws work on this, but if I'd left my mother's house properly before today, the authorities here - the ones I'm at the mercy of during summer - would've only taken me back if they found me. They'd have started poking around and asking questions. Now that no longer applies, so I decided to leave as soon as I could. She didn't take it well."

"But she doesn't like you. Why should she care? Surely she should be pleased to be rid of you, if she resented having you around over summer that much anyway."

There was that famous Malfoy tact. Marilyn snorted, liking it far more than the empty placations she might've received from others.

"Way she sees it, she was saddled with a defective daughter, with certain rules in place stopping her from even reaping the rewards of those deficiencies. Now that she never will, since my seventeenth is a year off and I don't plan on seeing her at all between now and then, or after for that matter, she's not too happy."

"She's an idiot. If she had half a brain, she'd have played the long game and started sucking up to you a year or two ago in preparation for this. What did she expect to happen this way?"

"We're not all evil geniuses," she teased.

"Good, that leaves the low ground for me and me alone," he replied drily.

"It never would've been enough, anyway. I don't think she realises the limitations behind the ability - she'd have expected more than it can give. Castles, unending money, fame, the works."

Draco snorted, rolling his eyes at the suggestion. They fell silent for a moment when a worker came up and gave Draco his coffee and Marilyn her iced tea and brownie, but when the guy returned to his station behind the desk, they began talking again.

"Do you think…if you hadn't been born with those deficiencies, she'd have been good to you?"

"No," Marilyn answered, not needing even a minute to mull it over "She'd have found something else to be a bitch over. She's not suited to being a parent, whoever her kid ended up being she was always going to blame them for it. What's the alternative? Looking inward? Hah. But this way, she just has a shining beacon to use as an excuse. Not like she'd have had a problem finding some other flaw, though."

"Then she's an idiot."

That sounded dangerously close to flirtation.

"Yeah. Well. We'll drink a toast to bad taste and all that. She'd certainly prove some right about her kind and theories of brainlessness, but it is what it is - and what it is, is out of my life. I have a proper contract with WIB now, and a shiny new signing bonus, so I won't have to knit my fingers down to the bone to be able to afford a hotel room for the summer. I didn't touch any of it during the school year, and this upcoming year I'll hardly have the time to touch it, splitting my time between that and NEWTs."

"You're still doing NEWTs?"

"Have to prove I'm more than just a very pretty face."

Unless the war really broke out. Some would argue that it already had - and they'd be correct, but it was just harder to accept when it was barely visible. It was one thing when Harry had reappeared outside of the maze announced his return. She'd believed it, of course she had, but up until it was all painfully official, she'd been able to more or less kid herself that it would be sorted without touching the lives of anybody who wasn't a major player. That…oh, that he and Dumbledore would track He Who Must Not Be Named down behind the scenes and put an end to him themselves, and that would be that. She was shown just how stupid that was fairly quickly. But even now, the papers were littered with disappearances, and there were grim events here and there which may or may not have been the handiwork of the Death Eaters, but without duels breaking out on her very own doorstep, something as big as war was hard to accept. It was the sort of thing that refused to sink in.

Maybe it was different for those who weren't Muggleborns - those whose parents had been involved in the last war. But to her, war was the sort of thing that resided in black and white photographs depicting trenches and evil men wearing red armbands, it wasn't the sort of thing that threatened her life. A hell of a privileged position to be in, for sure, but the more this pressed on without anybody bursting into laughter and shouting out 'psych!', the more she suspected that privilege and naivety wouldn't last a whole lot longer.

"Where will I be able to reach you?" he asked.

"This year? Beauxbatons still. After that, I'll keep you posted."

"And before that? Over summer?"

Marilyn smiled before she could help herself, breathing a surprised laugh. She hadn't expected that.

"As soon as I know, you'll know. I'll…write to you at your house. Assuming that's…still safe."

The way any small amount of mirth that had built up in his eyes immediately vanished, becoming instead empty and devoid of much of anything, gave her the answer she sought - and it worried her massively.

"It's probably best to keep them brief. Until I'm back at school. And maintain the fake names," he said "It…would be best of all if I could write to you at a secondary address until the school year starts up again. I know most Owleries permit such things, for a small fee."

"Like a PO box," she said.

The shrug he gave suggested he didn't know what that meant - but she hadn't really expected him to. His words were more meaningful than he'd likely realised, judging by the lack of bashfulness on his face, for Draco Malfoy was not a lad who enjoyed being inconvenienced in any way, shape, or form. If something was complicated and ultimately unbeneficial, it was best just dropped. Which could only mean their letters weren't just the amusing novelty she'd kinda-sorta feared they may have been to him - not because she doubted the stellar conversational skills she had, but because it was just a safe thing to assume where Draco and their sketchy history was concerned. Although she'd already begun to doubt that fear-slash-suspicion the warmer his letters had become, and the more his usual bravado drained from them.

Using the plastic knife on the table, she cleaved her brownie in two and offered half to him.

"Here."

"It's bad enough you had to pay for the coffee," he said.

To the surprise of absolutely nobody, he did not carry Muggle money.

"It's how my folk do birthdays - we buy presents for others. Don't be rude by rejecting it."

"Really?" he frowned.

"Of course not, but take it anyway. I don't want to be the only one sitting here eating."

He snorted, then he shook his head, and then he rolled his eyes. But finally, he did as she'd said, picking up the brownie between his thumb and index finger like it might do him some harm. Which was silly, really, because it had white chocolate and raspberry pieces. She'd live solely on them if she could.

"You haven't changed, you know," he muttered ruefully.

"Haven't I?"

"Not in some ways. In others, perhaps," she didn't need to ask what those ways were when she saw the blush that threatened to rise across his features, but he hid it by taking a bite, only continuing once he'd chewed and swallowed "You're still you though."

Who would've thought they'd see the day where he said that like it was a good thing and not an insult? Taking a bite of her own half, she decided not to push her luck by seeking elaboration.

"You look tired," she said once her mouth was no longer full.

He responded with an unimpressed look, grey eyes boring into her for a moment before they turned downward to his coffee cup.

"That is code for 'you look terrible', you know. People imagine it's polite, but it's actually rather classless."

"I wouldn't be me if I was classy - and you don't look terrible. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But you do look tired."

Several emotions crossed his face at once there - annoyance, which quickly faded, then discomfort. Finally, as though he'd then decided that the facade hadn't worked and was therefore useless, a great deal more tiredness rose to his face. Marilyn thought she knew tiredness. After a day of hard dancing, where she could barely peel her tights off before falling asleep. At the end of a long summer dealing with her mother's bullshit. But what she saw on Draco's face was different - and it seemed too extreme for anybody their age to be able to feel.

"I am," he admitted finally.

She knew him well enough to know just how much an admission like that would take for him, because he'd view it as admitting weakness. Sighing, she slid her hand across the table and rested it atop his. After a moment or two, she squeezed and made to let go, but he turned his palm upward and held fast. His eyes lingered on the silver bracelet at her wrist, and he smiled a little.

"I didn't know if you'd reply to the letter," she said "I thought not, to be honest, but I couldn't not write."

"I wasn't expecting you to write at all," he replied "Thought I'd have heard the last of you after it all came out."

A safe assumption, really. Not just because the lines had officially been drawn in the sand and they found themselves on wildly opposite sides of that line, but because it was difficult to know what to even say in the first place. She must've drafted that letter fifty times - and after the first five, she'd gotten annoyed at wasting parchment and begun drafting it on Muggle printer paper instead just to save supplies.

What did one say to somebody whose father had just been imprisoned for being on the nasty side that wanted people like her dead-slash-enslaved? The first couple had started with I'm sorry to hear about your father, but she couldn't send that, because she wasn't sorry. She was sorry for him, sorry that he'd been born into such a family, sorry that he had a parent who he actually liked, who had then been taken from him. But she couldn't say she was sorry that Lucius was in Azkaban, because she wasn't. Had she been at the World Cup a year prior and found herself at the business end of Draco's father's wand, she probably wouldn't be here now. She couldn't ignore that for the sake of sending a few pleasantries.

The letter she'd ultimately ended up sending was the best she could do - a short and sweet letter that did what it was supposed to, and let him know she was thinking of him. Apparently it had gotten the job done, too, judging by his presence.

"I've been worried about you," she said.

"I'll be fine," he replied - but he didn't appear convinced "But…there's something I need to ask of you."

This time when she let go and pulled away, he relented his hold on her hand as she watched him warily.

"This…is a bad time for someone of your background to go drawing attention," he said finally "You need to keep a low profile, Marilyn. Or else you'll be in danger. Grave danger."

"What- what are you saying?" she breathed a laugh "That I should quit the company?"

He scoffed, shaking his head "I'd never ask that of you, I don't have a death wish."

"Draco, my job – my dream involves standing up on a stage and having people watch me. The job is to draw attention. I don't understand how I could do as you ask while doing my job."

"Just be sensible about it. There are plenty of people around right now hoping to make a name for themselves in certain circles, and there's no better way to do that than by making examples of folk they deem undesirable."

"Such as ballerinas?" she asked doubtfully "Yeah, of course, I see your point, we're the real threat to- to him. Not Harry, or Dumbledore, but ballet."

"Marilyn," he snapped "Who do you imagine attends the ballet? Especially the most prestigious ballet in Wi- in our circles? And who do you imagine will draw the attention of those people when she's already had articles in the Prophet speculating as to her ability before she's even twirled in front of an audience?"

"You don't…you don't really think that they'd…surely not?"

"I hope not. I really, truly, dearly pray bloody well not…but you want to be the next Clarabella Vane, yes? There's a distinct difference in blood there, and a subset of people growing in power and number by the day who will take great offence to the comparison because of that difference."

"Jesus Christ."

It was like she was discovering her naivety had new depths previously unknown to her.

"I'm not trying to frighten you," he sighed tiredly.

She must've either gone horrifyingly pale, or looked downright shell-shocked, to have drawn such a response from him. Probably both. Already her mind was filled with images of Killing Curses being flung at her while she danced on stage, being kidnapped from her dressing room before performances, the works.

When she imagined how a war might finally hit home for her, she envisaged curfews and trips being banned from Beauxbatons' Hogsmeade equivalent, and worrying for those who she knew from Hogwarts whenever she picked up a paper. She did that last part already - not least for the boy sitting opposite her.

And despite everything she'd been told about him during her fourth year - despite everything she' feared about him during that year…he really didn't look like the sort of person who thought that the proper world order was about to be set in place. If he was that boy, the one she'd been warned about, she suspected he wouldn't even be here now. He wouldn't be seeking comfort from her, because he wouldn't need to be comforted, and he wouldn't view a lowly mudblood as being somebody who could provide it either. Was that just hope talking?

No, no. Because there was one piece of irrefutable evidence that he'd just given her, here and now. If he was that boy - the one Hermione, and George, and Harry, and Fred, and so many others thought he was - he wouldn't be sitting here warning her. He'd be sitting back, maniacally cackling that she was about to get hers.

"I think…" she began slowly "This is the sort of thing where anybody who isn't frightened has something hopelessly wrong with them."

The way the corners of his lips downturned suggested he'd thought of an example of the sort of person she was talking about. No doubt he was surrounded by them. He didn't even use it as an excuse to assert that he wasn't scared in the slightest - which the lad from their fourth year absolutely would have done.

Not only was he not the boy Hermione had warned her about, he was no longer the one who'd sneered at her and denounced her as a grief thief for crying at Cedric Diggory's memorial.

"I can minimise my exposure," she said slowly - and with some reluctance "I don't want to, it could harm my career, but- but, well, I think it's the sort of thing where if I don't do it, and I'm met with the consequences, I'll wish I had."

The consequences here being kidnap, torture and a slow, horrible death. A career seemed laughable in the face of that. Draco offered a small nod in response, his lips pursed, confirming her fears.

"I'll refuse to give interviews. There's always all sorts of opportunities for the newbies - photo-shoots in Wizarding ballet magazines, the works. I'll turn it all down."

"I don't suppose there's any chance you'd add dancing badly to that list?"

"Oh, Draco, darling, if only I was capable," she gave a mock-sad sigh, and that pried a smile from him.

It wasn't to last, though, because that was when the guy from the counter called over - the two of them being the only people left in the café.

"I'm sorry to break things up, guys, but I'm closing in ten - so you don't have to go home but you can't stay here and all that, yeah?"

Marilyn forced a smile and a laugh. Draco did not.

When they stepped outside into the humid night air, he didn't make any comments about needing to immediately leave, and so she led him to a spot she knew would be quiet and out of view of any busy thoroughfares. Locals called it a park, but it was more a set of swings and a bench. She curbed the temptation to lead him to the swings, and instead settled down onto the bench. At least here they could talk a bit more openly.

"Where will you go?" he asked - likely because he sensed she was building up to ask him about himself, and wanted to stave that off.

"I think Wizarding accommodation would be best, all things considered," she said slowly "More able to defend myself without worrying about secrecy laws."

Hopefully with everything being so out in the open now, concerning the war, she wouldn't need to worry about being expelled for underage magic if it came down to it.

"There's an inn - in the city centre. I can walk there."

"That's where I Floo'd from," he nodded "We'd need to go back separately, though."

He was far more recognisable in places like that. Being plastered over all of the papers as a pariah did that to a guy, she supposed.

"I assumed so," she nodded quietly "Draco…"

"Marilyn."

"I won't ask if you're okay."

"Good, that would be tedious, and I came here to escape tedium."

"Dance, money, dance," she muttered drily.

This time he did not smile, so she changed her tack.

"I'm worried about you, Draco."

"Don't be," he said flatly.

"If only I could stop," she said as a call-back to her earlier joke - but then she hesitated before pushing on "Actually, no. I wouldn't stop if I could. I won't ask for details, I know I won't get any-"

"You don't want any," he muttered "Trust me."

"I do," she said, and she meant it "Trust you, I mean. But are you going to be alright? Are you…are you going to be safe?"

Not only did he not respond to that, his jaw and fists all clenched at once, and Marilyn's heart plummeted down to her toes. He couldn't even drawl out some false reassurance, or even a mere brush off. This was bad. This was very fucking bad. Questions flurried about her mind - the main one being to demand to know what that unhinged despot could possibly want with Draco, a teenager, but she didn't ask. He wouldn't answer, and trying to assign reason to somebody like the Wizard his parents followed was useless. It made a sick sort of sense, even. He'd probably deem it a punishment, for Lucius being caught.

Rather than ask, though, she stared at him. He couldn't even look at her.

"Oh, Draco," she breathed.

"He doesn't take kindly to being failed. Forgiveness is hardly in his nature, and second chances are more like punishments."

"Second chances?" she echoed "What sort of second chances?"

Draco offered no response, and it was clear he had no intention of doing so, his fists clenched and his face dangerously pale in the moonlight. Worry and outright fear warred for pride of place, leaving her chest feeling tight and constricted. Fuck. That was all there was to say, wasn't there? To think? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"I'm surprised you're still here," he remarked sullenly after a few moments of silence.

"Are you calling me fickle?"

"I'm calling you mad," he countered.

"Oh, that was established a long time ago," she joked weakly.

Almost two years ago, really. It had yet to fade - and she didn't really have it in her to regret that fact. Especially not now that she knew if he didn't have her, he'd likely be alone right now. Who else could he admit this kind of fear to? The other fanatics? And anyway, only Draco Malfoy would sit here and call her insane as he sat here seeking comfort from her. Probably because he was seeking comfort from her, really. He was scared, and he was tired, but he was still him.

Leaning into him, she snaked her arms around his waist until they wrapped around him. It was a bit awkward at first - every muscle he possessed was wound tight, like he was expecting a duel to break out at any moment. But then, finally, he relaxed, wrapping an arm about her in kind and pulling her impossibly closer until there was no hiding the slight tremor in his grip.


They'd stayed on that bench for an impossibly long time - until she was certain they'd soon see the sun drifting back up into the sky - neither of them being willing to break their hold on the other, because when they did the real world would come rushing back in. But then, whether they liked it or not, the real world came knocking. A group of teenagers down the street knocked over a wheelie bin, a dog started going ape-shit in response, and they both started apart, reaching for their wands on instinct.

It was decided that Marilyn would leave first, and he'd trail along behind her, both headed to the Pixie's Pocket in the middle of York. Before they'd set off, he'd given her a kiss on the cheek (one dangerously close to the corner of her lips, no less), and murmured something about writing to her.

And then she was left with her worry. The inn had an available room, and it felt like an entire suite despite its prison cell size for the fact that she knew she wouldn't encounter any screaming matches. Although that particular assurance did waver a bit when the landlady was at her door first thing in the morning, a bemused look on her face.

"Oh, don't look so panicked, love, there's nothing wrong," she said brightly when Marilyn opened the door, squinting at her and feeling very self conscious in her purple polka dot pyjamas "Here."

The woman thrust a pouch of galleons into her hand and Marilyn peered down at it.

"What?" she rasped "I gave you this last night to pay for the full month - is it not available for that long anymore?"

"No, no, that's all fine - but your friend came by last night and said he wanted to cover your bill, room and board both. Leaned into the mystery a bit, I have to say, all cloaked and gruff. A Mr David Malcolm, was it? He said to give you this, and to refund you what you'd already paid. Left this for you, too. Wish I had a friend like that, eh?"

The woman was gone as quickly as she'd arrived after that, pausing only to hand her a piece of parchment - folded and sealed. Closing the door in her wake, Marilyn blinked and threw the pouch of galleons down onto the bed before cracking open the note. It read only three words in very familiar handwriting.

Happy birthday, Baxter.