Having to attend a dance casually after having just performed for her bloody life (or, well, her reputation - which had oddly grown to feel just as important as of late) was not something that Marilyn exactly looked forward to in the run-up to her performance. She was certain she'd be exhausted, not just from the dancing but from all of the emotions leading up to it, and the aftermath of it all, for better or for worse. Instead, it wasn't half as bad as she'd feared.

Riding on a high, her hands had practically been vibrating with all of the leftover adrenaline coursing through her when she spotted George in the crowd and approached. The low, ridiculous bow he dropped into once she was before him would have been utterly stupid if performed by anybody else, but he pulled it off with a cheeky grin along with an absolute lack of care over whether it was indeed ridiculous. One could get away with a hell of a lot when toting an attitude like that.

She danced with George. Then Fred - to keep things fair, they'd joked. She'd even shown off a little, rising up en pointe, twirling and spinning and jumping just to make sure they really got their money's worth when it came to being seen dancing with one of the Beauxbatons ballerinas. After how kind they'd been with her, it was the least she could do. They'd even tried to wind up Ron by suggesting she dance with him, likely hoping to see their little brother's face turn crimson, but instead he'd grumbled something about not being in the mood before slinking away with not so much as a blush. That had her confused for all of five second before she noted the curl of his lip as he watched Viktor Krum spin Hermione around the dancefloor while the only female in the golden trio let loose a series of very uncharacteristic girlish giggles. Oh.

Good for her - that was all that Marilyn thought as she stepped out of the Great Hall, which was steadily growing more and more humid - no small feat for such a large room. When she left him, George was dancing with Esme. Good for him, too. Crossing the corridor, she slipped out of the castle's great double main doors and stepped into the freezing night air. The doors had been left open, lighting up a strip of the stones in candlelight which in turn made the snow that caked the courtyard a dazzling white.

Picking her way down the steps, she veered left and stepped out of the patch that was illuminated by candlelight until she was in the shadows, sitting down carefully on a stony ledge.

"Baxter."

Marilyn tensed slightly when Draco's voice sounded somewhere off to the side - although not for the same reasons she would have a week or two ago. He must have gotten there before her.

"Draco," she returned, continuing her scrutiny of the starry snow strewn landscape that Hogwarts was situated in "Thank you."

His shoes crunched in the snow, giving his movements away as he shifted unsurely for a few moments. Was it her thanks that had thrown him off, or her use of his first name when he'd used her surname? Then again, it was entirely likely that he simply had no clue how to act with somebody after he'd done them a solid…especially having done that solid after having been an absolute prick. Was there an etiquette guidebook for that sort of thing among the pure of blood? A section reading "what to do if you find yourself being kind to a mudblood" - which was probably followed by "step one: throw yourself into the nearest lake, there's no coming back from that".

"What for?" He asked finally.

Playing dumb, or trying to see if she knew for certain? It wasn't like he'd tried especially hard to hide it.

"You know what for," she said - with no bite to her words "I don't know why you did it, but it was good of you. I'm grateful."

He didn't offer much of a response to that - but when he came to stand by her side she turned her head to look at him and found a troubled sort of furrow in his brow, and she suspected then that he didn't know what to say in response at all.

"How did you do it?"

"I told my mother I wanted another," he shrugged - like it was that easy.

For him, it probably was. And who was she to judge it now, when she was the one who'd benefited from it? Should she have refused the broom and used one of the spare ones? Her pride said yes, but it was the only party of her that did. It just seemed like a way of reigniting whatever spat had been raging between them, and she had no stomach for it. It was easy to say that now, though, that it had gone well. If it had been yet another prank - however unlikely - she'd be standing here with a few fresh bruises cursing his name. The fact that it hadn't ended like that was a curiosity in itself.

"You can have it back now."

"Don't be ridiculous, it was a gift."

"I'm not being ridiculous - and I'm not trying to be ungrateful. It's a beautiful broom, but I don't play Quidditch and I don't do much flying. I've used it as much as I'm going to, and it'll just go to waste now. And questions will be raised about where it came from. It'll cause problems - potentially for the both of us."

"Just say it turns out your parents sent it - they, I don't know, scraped together and saved up."

Marilyn snorted. It was difficult to be offended by his assumption that she'd never be able to come by a broom like that with her own means considering the assessment was a painfully accurate one.

"That'd be even less believable than Santa Claus himself swinging by and dropping it off."

"They're not big on Christmas?"

"Eh," she shrugged "Not really big on being parents, full stop."

A troubled furrow began to take root in his brow, but it was likely more down to the fact that he had no idea how to respond to such a statement. Marilyn couldn't blame him for that. She meant it as a straight-up fact (and it was a straight-up fact), but it could easily sound like some sort of big emotional confession to the unaccustomed.

"The castle's stunning tonight," she offered a lifeline.

"It is," he agreed.

And, though he still did his best to sound somewhat indifferent, it spoke volumes about just how well the Hogwarts staff had done that he didn't make any sort of disparaging comment, nor even a condescending 'they tried their best'. Marilyn didn't try to pre-emptively beat any silence that tried to settle after that - doing so could often be more awkward than just letting it lie.

"Do your feet hurt? You danced a lot."

A dig? He'd seen who she was dancing with.

"So did you. Romilda Vane, wasn't it? Is she related to the Clarabella Vane?"

"Distantly."

"Ah," she said "There are these special ballet shoes you can get, you know. They soothe the feet as you dance, allowing you to dance longer before the pain really sets in and you have to call it quits."

"Your ballet mistress doesn't seem the sort to allow that."

Marilyn grinned "She doesn't. My feet are fucking killing."

Digging her feet into the snow to illustrate her point, she gave a sigh that bordered on outright wistful as she felt the cold seep through the silk of her shoes, and then her tights, soothing the throbbing that emanated all throughout her feet and threatened to even travel up her legs from there. But it was all worth it. Hell, if the pain doubled - tripled, quadrupled - she'd still find it worth it. Maybe that said worrying things about her priorities, but she absolutely didn't care; not only because she'd succeeded, but because those sort of priorities meant she had what it took to make it with this whole thing. She had a future in it. And that was good, because if her future wasn't ballet, she had no idea what it might look like at all.

"I suppose you're done dancing for the night, then."

"Is that an invitation?"

"So what if it is?"

Blinking in surprise, she turned to face him. In return, he offered an exasperated roll of his eyes as he grumbled out.

"Nobody's out here - and even if they came wandering out, have you seen the amount of flasks making the rounds tonight? They won't remember anything. It's not like anybody but us will know."

"Highly flattering, that."

"Oh, please. Do you seriously mean to tell me that you'd jump for joy if either of those two Weasley prats you're so fond of saw you out here with me? Or Granger? Potter? They'd be no more thrilled to see you dancing with me than any of my friends would be to see me dancing with you, so it's no use playing high and mighty."

He had a point there. Of course, her friends would have a problem because of what he'd done, while his would be unimpressed because of who she was, fundamentally speaking. Those were two very different things. But Marilyn wasn't in any mood to argue. The music was drifting out from the castle, the stars were shining, and even the snow sparkled along with her body glitter and her dress. Everything felt damn magical - even more magical than the whole school of witchcraft and wizardry kind of magical that usually filled their days, and that was saying something.

Turning towards him, she eyed him for a few long moments. He did look very handsome tonight - in what was sure to be his poshest dress robes with his hair all immaculately combed back and his goddamn immaculate bone structure, he looked like the hero of some sort of romantic period drama. Okay, maybe the anti hero.

Bowing her head, she exhaled softly and held out her hand. Draco faltered for the slightest of seconds, and then took it - surprisingly gently - before standing and helping her up. It was a good thing, too, because of her stiff and tired muscles. They tended to be fine if she kept moving, but it was remarkably difficult to get going again once she'd stopped - it was all about momentum. Clambering to her feet, she worked some of the stiffness out, her skirts swishing about her as she bent and straightened her legs a few times in quick succession.

"Am I to prepare myself for a particularly strenuous dance if you're warming up like that?"

"I don't know what kind of things your lot get up to at your fancy soirees. The foxtrot? A Viennese waltz? The rumba?"

"One free of all of your hysterical little jokes?" He suggested drily.

"Ballet's the only one that fits that bill, and you don't seem the tight-wearing type. Not the leotard kind either, really."

"Thank Merlin for that."

Were she less content, she might've found it disturbing how easily they slipped back into their teasing and joking. They stepped even further out of view of the castle's doors until they were obstructed from view entirely, tucked into one of the corners. The music was no quieter here than it had been by the doors, and barely even more muted than it had been in the hall itself - it must've been audible from the top of the astronomy tower.

There was a moment then where they both sort of paused, each waiting for the other to step forward and bridge the gap between them. While neither of them could probably be described as shy, she was pleased to see that she wasn't the only one feeling a bit unsure of their brand spanking new reconciliation. Had they even reconciled? It was difficult to tell with Draco where one stood - until you were on the wrong side of him, and then you really knew. So the fact that she was unsure must've been a good sign. Harry likely didn't share that sense of confusion. Still, she was sure she could be forgiven for being tentative around the boy who'd embarrassed her in front of the entire school very recently.

But she didn't have it in her to hate him. Maybe it was her victory, maybe it was the beauty of the night, maybe it was just the sodding Christmas spirit, but she looked at him then and she didn't hate him. Her skirts brushed his shoes as she stepped forward, lifting her left hand towards his shoulder. Draco's hands came up as if on reflex then, one falling gently to her waist and the other taking her hand.

The music playing wasn't really up to a waltz, it was much too slow for it, nor was the terrain beneath their feet suited to any sort of impressive footwork, and after a few moments of awkward faltering and fumbling that absolutely did not live up to her mental image of how their dancing might go, Draco let go of her hand. Dropping it down to her side, she stepped back and tried to think of something to say that might dispel the awkwardness but his hand instead came to join the other, resting at the other side of her waist. Ah.

His lips parted slightly and for a moment she thought he was going to ask if this was okay - before he must've decided that to ask such a thing was terribly wet, and so he left the question unvoiced, technically, but still lingering there. Marilyn lifted her other hand to his free shoulder, too, in answer.

"Is this to be my payment for the broom?"

They began to sway slowly back and forth to the music, the dancing more of an afterthought to the proximity.

"I thought the broom was to be repayment for…what came before it."

"I thought what came before it was repayment for what caused all of this. Our little miscommunication."

"Perhaps it's time we stop keeping score. It's all getting awfully muddled," he murmured.

Marilyn huffed a soft laugh "It's always going to be muddled."

"Best not complicate things further, then."

"Are you talking about the dancing or the score-keeping?"

"The score-keeping," he said "Although this likely isn't the best idea, either."

"Probably not," she agreed.

But neither of them moved to put any distance between them. And she suspected he was masking his relief at that just as much as she was. Whether either one of them was at all successful at doing so was another matter entirely, but she didn't really have it in her to care.

"…However…bad decisions don't always have to be…bad…" he said.

"I suppose not. Not as long as everybody stays fully aware that it is a bad decision."

"There's no danger there. If it's all conscious. Neither of us are prone to denial or delusion."

Which sounded a whole lot, in itself, like denial and delusion. So what did that make her when she nodded her agreement? A fool. A damn fool. A damn fool who was now being snowed on, it turned out, as fat snowflakes began to slowly drift down towards them, settling amidst Draco's already very pale locks and melting on Marilyn's bare shoulders and arms. She told herself it was for that reason that she stepped even closer, seeking out warmth. So much for that lack of delusion.

"I'm not dancing with you to settle a debt," she admitted quietly.

So quietly, in fact, that she'd sort of hoped that the sound of the wind or even the music might drown the words out. The snow, however, made everything around them still and quiet in an ethereal way that made her feel like one of the characters in the ballets she danced so obsessively.

"I know that," he replied just as softly "You don't do things because of some sense of obligation, or to climb a social ladder, or because of somebody's family name. You never do anything you don't absolutely want to do."

Was that really how she appeared? Was he right in that observation? If he wasn't, she did a piss poor job as disproving his little theory when she rose up to the tips of her toes and pressed her lips against his.