A/N: I know in the fourth book the students from the other schools don't arrive until well into the first term, but…well…it's my fanfic and I'll cry if I want to. Plus in the movie they pretty much are there from the get-go, so!


The students, mostly boys, of Hogwarts (and a few from Durmstrang) quickly learned something that the ballet admirers of Beauxbatons had already realised long ago - that the idea of spying on ballet practise was a lot more exciting than the reality of it. Oh the novelty was there in the beginning, and it took some time to wear off judging by how often their teacher-in-residence, Madame Garnier had to chase off admirers who peered through the glass panels in the door, but by the end of their first week there, those instances already grew marginally fewer. The fact that they practised nightly rather helped.

She knew what they expected - whatever the reason for their admiration, be it curiosity, admiration, or some form of jealousy. Lots of twirling, impressive feats of athleticism and flexibility. A show. The reality of it was probably disappointing - hours upon hours of footwork practise, basic strengthening exercises, honing precision when it came to timing. Even the parts that were flashy or complicated grew less exciting when repeated to death over and over again so that they might become muscle memory. Before long, they were entirely unable to compete with the buzz surrounding the tournament and the Goblet of Fire, and the ballerinas of Beauxbatons were left quite alone.

At least during their rehearsals, anyway. For the novelty was much more difficult to beat away when Madame Garnier was not around to do so, and Marilyn faced it tenfold being the only non-Hogwarts student in the fourth year classes. For good reasons, mostly, and she learned to smile in the face of the novelty she posed, hiding her nerves and her awkwardness and answering the same handful of questions fifty times over, knowing soon she would be Marilyn and not 'that Beauxbatons girl'. Discomfort and difficulty were not two in the same, but she had no problem with facing either.

That, however, didn't mean she enjoyed it, and at the end of the week when she faced her first actual difficulty. It was her first Muggle Studies class here at Hogwarts and she arrived early, making a bee line for the back of the class. The desks in this room sat two at a time, with one heavy wooden table sitting two rickety chairs each behind. Her potions essay (because Professor Snape was the only teacher to set an essay during the very first week) was already out on her desk and being added to when she became aware of somebody standing before her. Lifting her head, she met the gaze of two Slytherins - idly noting George's 'proverb' in the back of her head. Green is gruesome. Or ghastly. Grim? Something like that.

Well, gruesome, ghastly, and grim all befitted the sneer on the face of the girl in front of her, a look which Marilyn returned with a blank expression of her own, her eyes drifting to the left of the girl to take in the blond who stood beside her. He didn't look half as angry - just bored, again. The Malfoy boy.

"We always sit here during Muggle Studies," the girl announced imperiously.

Marilyn glanced around. The class was beginning to fill up, a few students sending looks varying between curiosity and sympathy their way.

"Seating isn't assigned," Marilyn pointed out "And I'm already settled."

"Well settle somewhere else, you don't even go here."

Marilyn blinked, then she took up her quill and returned to her work "No."

The Malfoy boy sighed and Marilyn steeled herself for his interjection - one that would no doubt be sharp-tongued and nasty. Instead, though, he slung his fine black leather satchel from his shoulder, lowered it to the free space on the desk beside her, and then began to round the desk so he could take the free chair to her left. It was difficult to say who was more surprised by this - the Slytherin girl, or Marilyn herself.

"Draco?"

Marilyn certainly hid her surprise better than the girl, she thought, hand never faltering as she carefully wrote down the difference between adding rosemary sprigs whole to a potion and grinding the buds down instead.

"I always sit here," he supplied in explanation as he sat down.

"Are you joking? You're sitting with her instead?"

"I'll see you at dinner, Pansy."

His tone broached little room for argument, lofty and almost daring her to disobey. Marilyn resisted the urge to snort. If anybody tried to take such an imperious tone with her, they'd never see her again - nevermind at dinner. But Pansy huffed, made a high-pitched indignant noise in the back of her throat, and stormed off to the other end of the classroom. Probably to make some sort of point. When Marilyn next looked up, she was sitting at the front of the classroom instead…and a few of Malfoy's fellow Slytherins were nudging each other and murmuring about how he'd bagged the Beauxbatons girl who thus far had refused to flirt with anybody other than George Weasley.

Marilyn couldn't decide which part of that assessment she resented the most, so she chose not to think about it at all. The Malfoy boy was almost entirely silent as he set out his own supplies in front of him - a quill, an inkwell, and his own half-finished potions essay. He broke his silence only to let out an annoyed sigh when the professor, a bubbly middle aged blonde woman, walked in and greeted them sunnily. Sitting back, Marilyn put down her quill and made a show of paying attention just long enough for the lesson to begin properly…before promptly returning to her potions essay.

Malfoy, who didn't bother even making a cursory show of polite interest, glanced towards her as she returned to her work, his writing pausing.

"I see I'm not alone in recognising what a waste of time this so-called class is."

Now it was Marilyn's turn to pause. Ah. He thought her a pureblood. Or at least a half-blood prejudiced enough to deem anything non-magical a complete and utter waste of time, mistaking her pre-existing knowledge as indifference.

"In a manner of speaking," she replied carefully.

If he didn't know she was a muggleborn, she had no reason to tell him. What would be the point? She saw no need to invite harassment. And she hadn't even really lied - the class was a waste of time. For her. It was like when her Muggle friends back home from Spain or France took French and Spanish at school for the sake of an easy grade. Still, the hum of approval he gave when she agreed was almost funny as he seemed to visibly decide he was in good, agreeable company thanks to their apparent shared prejudices.

"Your girlfriend won't be happy with you," she commented quietly upon noticing Pansy towards the front, turning her head just slightly as if to check whether they were speaking.

"She's not my girlfriend. Not yet."

"She never will be if you keep talking to her like that."

The boy snorted haughtily "You don't know her at all if you think that."

"Well, maybe one day she'll get a bit of self respect about her."

He chuckled, maybe not realising her words were as barbed towards him as they were his future girlfriend.

"Why are you here?"

"It's a mandatory class at Hogwarts."

"But not at Beauxbatons?"

"Not beyond our first year - although it's strongly encouraged."

"I hear at Durmstrang it's barely offered at all - they run it, but nobody takes it."

"They probably have to run it. They produced Grindelwald."

"And they have to at least pretend to be apologetic about it," he snorted.

Marilyn said nothing, but he was still waiting for an answer to the question he'd actually asked.

"Our ballet mistress, Madame Garnier, came with the seventh years. Unless I wanted to miss out on a year of ballet, I had to come with."

"There aren't any other teachers?"

"None like her. Were I a crappy dancer, she wouldn't have allowed me to tag along, but I'm not, so here we are."

"You're here through sheer strength of your talent?" He sounded suitably skeptical.

"Skill," she corrected boredly.

It wasn't quite true - the topic was a loaded one. Ballet provided the same unfortunate fate as other sports did for most athletes in that you could practise all you liked and still be beat by somebody better genetically predisposed to the requirements set. Luck did play a factor, for she was winning on both fronts - on her willingness to work, and the role that fate played with her physique. So far. These next few years would be make or break, and she had to pray that she wouldn't unexpectedly shoot up and grow too tall to be a dancer. But just as with the matter of her blood status, she had little reason to get into all of this with him. Despite how the snort he gave made her almost tempted to explain herself.

Luckily, or maybe unluckily, she was saved by Professor Burbage's interjection.

"Mr Malfoy, might you explain to us what topic of discussion you and our visiting student find so much more fascinating than my lesson?"

Marilyn forced a bashful smile onto her face - aided by the curious looks this question had the class in its entirety turning round in their seats to send her and her new friend.

"I'm sorry, Professor," she answered before he could "The curriculum is very different at Beauxbatons - Draco was helping me clear up some confusion."

The woman, at first, appeared unsure as to whether she wanted to believe that. But Marilyn's embarrassment, combined with the innocent look on Draco's pale face, must've convinced her, for she blinked.

"Oh. Well in that case well done Mr Malfoy, that is precisely the sort of consideration we're hoping to foster this year - five points to Slytherin."

Draco inclined his head with such nonchalance anybody might've thought he really had been clueing her into the finer points of the Muggle Studies modules for the year. He waited until the lesson resumed and the curious looks waned before he spoke again, more quietly this time.

"You know my name."

It was more of a statement than a question - and a lofty one, at that. Smug, really. Like he wasn't surprised at all. Marilyn scoffed.

"I heard it from your lovely friends. Back at the lake."

"Hm."

That was all she got - and it wasn't even a particularly apologetic hum. She wasn't sure whether that endeared him to her more or less. After all, if he'd been particularly sorry he would've stopped them at the time. Pretending otherwise now would've just been a weak attempt at saving face, and then she'd have been obligated to nod along like she was an idiot who believed a word of it. No, his refusal to play that game saved them both the bother.

"What's your name?" He prompted.

Impatience and exasperation seeped into his tone in equal measure, like he was annoyed that she made him ask rather than offer it up of her own accord. She'd earned some measure of patience from him, though, apparently - whether that was through the disdain he thought she had for Muggles, or the fact that he wanted to be seen earning the interest of the only Beauxbatons fourth year, she knew not. Marilyn sighed softly, turning her head to look at him. He was very good looking, she noted idly…and he knew it. But she wouldn't grudge him that. Not while he was being amicable, anyway - something she knew would only last right up until the moment he realised the true nature of her blood status.

Better then, she supposed, to show him that muggleborns did know how to behave while she had the chance to. Not because she had anything to prove, but because she knew it would be all the more infuriating to him when he realised the truth.

"Marilyn," she answered finally, giving a nod.

She even did an admirable job of pretending that she wasn't blushing when she glanced away from the teacher to look at him and they held the gaze of one another for a few stretched out seconds before they nodded, and then returned to their essays - because, damn him, he really was good looking, with piercing eyes and fine features that belonged sculpted in marble. Judging by the way his eyes lingered on her face for just a moment, too, their opinions on that matter regarding the other was more than mutual.

A shame, then, that he was a prejudiced asshole. Oh well. There would always be other boys. And, she noted to herself, as they both returned to their essays in a silence that verged dangerously on the companionable, at least they were on the same page as far as how this lesson should be spent - even if they reached that destination from vastly different paths.