A/N: I wrote this one too quickly to send out previews to reviewers last time, so I'm very sorry about that! I figured you guys would prefer an entire new chapter over that anyway :)
Slipping away was no great thing. His mother was so distracted as of late - often weeping, and then pretending not to weep when others were around - that so long as he presented a half-feasible excuse, she accepted it. If anything, she appeared relieved that he was putting on a show of going about a normal life rather than hiding himself away in his room, avoiding his Aunt Bella and worrying about the plans the Dark Lord had. For he did have plans, and with each passing day, Draco feared rather gravely that they involved him. They definitely did, if Bella's ravings about blessings and honours was anything to go by - for there was only one person walking this planet who she viewed as being capable of bestowing such things.
The walking helped. Getting away helped. First he used the Floo Network to get to York, the little magical community tucked away there being at least somewhat familiar to him, although he'd only ever been once or twice long before he met Marilyn. That was the easiest part. Brandishing the, now very old and tired, piece of parchment listing her address, he slipped out past the street separating the Wizarding community from the Muggle one, and then he paused. The Muggle one didn't look all that different - if he squinted, he could've even mistaken it for Diagon Alley.
It didn't feel as late as it was thanks to the light summer night, and as he walked down the Muggle street, there were plenty of folk milling around just beginning a night of drinking, if the strange dresses, heavy makeup, smell of alcohol, and general revelry was anything to go by. It was when he reached the end of that first street and paused that he hesitated. Left or right? The problem was, he had no bloody clue. There were signs up everywhere, but they only offered directions to landmarks. Given that Marilyn did not live in the York Minster, that rather put him out of luck.
"Y'alright there, son?" a middle-aged woman leaning in the doorway with a cigarette in hand called out to him, her brow furrowed in concern.
He was in the only clothing he owned that would feasibly blend in around here - black trousers, a black shirt, and a black blazer. Though he knew little about the strange blue trousers all the men on this street seemed to wear - save for that he recognised them from some of the students at Hogwarts - he got the sense he was a little overdressed by their view.
If he was being honest, he almost ignored the woman entirely. But he had a horrible feeling that if he did, he'd only wish he'd taken her up on the unspoken offer of help when it had been given.
"I'm looking for this place," he said, extending the scrap of parchment towards her "Do you know it?"
Accepting the paper with her free hand, she frowned down at it with a look of such confusion that for a moment he feared he was in the wildly wrong place - that Muggles had two Yorks, or something equally as absurd. But as she studied the parchment rather than the writing on it, he got the feeling it was more to do with the stationery than anything else.
"It's a bit of a walk, but it's doable," she said finally, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
For a moment he'd been stricken by the foolishness of the idea - not just of associating with a Muggleborn in the current climate, he was forced to contend with that particular branch of his own stupidity ever since he learned the truth of her birth and then continued to associate with her, but of just coming to York and resolving that he'd be able to find her from there. If she'd resolved to find him, it would involve an absurd amount of hiking through the countryside before she even came near to Malfoy Manor. Thankfully, it looked like her house would be a bit easier to find.
He listened intently as the woman gave him directions, repeating each step in his head to commit it to memory, and when she was finished he accepted the address back and began to walk in the direction she'd instructed.
"You're welcome, then," she called sarcastically after him - Draco ignored her.
It was a long walk, she'd been right about that, including one particular stretch of road that just seemed to go on and on and on. That was the best of it, because it was straight with no turns, so he didn't have to stop and question whether he'd gone the wrong way just yet. Well, beyond wondering if going forward was the right thing to do at all, but that was less of a technical question and more of a philosophical one.
If he was being honest, each step that he took had him feeling torn - wishing to pick up the pace from a speed-walk into an all out jog, to stop entirely and think about what exactly it was that he was doing, and turn around so that he could put an end to this folly and go straight home. He couldn't even tell whether the sweat gathering on his brow was due to the pace he forced himself to take, the warmth of the summer night, or sheer nerves. There were even times when he did stop - once or twice - pretending it was so that he could get a good look at his surroundings and make sure he hadn't been followed, but really it was so that he could gather up his nerve again.
The thought that kept him going forward again each and every time was the certainty that if he turned around and went home, he'd spend the rest of the night wishing he had not…and he'd likely never build up the courage to come here again for a second shot. Plus, tonight was special. It offered an excuse.
When he began seeing signs pointing the way to the street name he'd written on so many letters before, it all began to actually feel real. She lived at Number Twenty, and when he saw Numbers Fourteen, Sixteen, and then Eighteen, he slowed to a stop at the end of the street to give himself a moment to collect himself. He'd frighten her half to death if he turned up breathless and antsy. Maybe he'd frighten her half to death, anyway. Given what the headlines were saying, that was still a possibility no matter how calm he looked.
Taking the moment's respite to gaze around his surroundings, he was glad she wasn't out on the street because it gave him a chance to hide the wrinkle of his nose. The houses were tiny. He had to admit that from the outside looking in, they seemed remarkably well-lit, but he supposed it was easier to light such tiny spaces adequately with only a fraction of the number of candles the Manor required. The houses in this particular close only had one floor - unless there were dungeons, but he doubted it - with scarcely enough room for two windows and a front door at the forefront of each one. How did people live here without going mad? Did they never get sick of the sight of the same three rooms? It was barely a step up from prison. The thought reminded him of his father, so he shoved it down, and that got his feet moving once again if only so he could distract himself.
Number Twenty drifted slowly into sight when he walked further down the street, the curtains drawn but thin enough so that light still poked through them. During his walk here it had gotten fully dark, but Draco was happy for it - it made him feel less exposed, standing there like a fool. She hasn't seen you yet. There's still time to leave. He batted that thought away, and replaced it with another. She was so seldom here, despite the fact that it was her home. She'd said so herself. And she hated this place (Draco could see why, based on first impressions), so it stood to reason that she mightn't have any wish to spend her birthday here.
The front door had a mottled pane of glass on it, allowing one to see light - of which there was little - and vague shapes inside the entrance hall. Draco was hovering at the end of the path that led up to the door when a light inside snapped on, illuminating the room inside in pale yellow light, revealing two figures. And then voice reached his ear - raised, shrill, furious voices. They were too muffled - by the door as well as the distance that stood between him and the door - leaving him only able to make out the voices and the blatant anger in them rather than what was actually being said. He had a feeling he did not want to know what was being said. Already, his hand itched to go to the wand in his trouser pocket. The fact that any stupidity on his part could easily leave them even higher up the Dark Lord's shit list had him curbing that impulse.
He took a couple of hesitant steps towards the house, right in time for the shriller of the two voices to rise from vexed to all out furious, screaming so loudly that he now had no trouble hearing exactly what was being said.
"You can't! Where do you think you're going to go? Who do you think you are? One year - one year out from all of your nonsense actually being of some use to me - your mother, Marilyn - and you're trying to tell me you're leaving? Ungratefulness - sheer bloody ingratitude, that's what it is!"
The other figure, the one that was not screaming, got close enough to the door that the image was not quite so distorted, and he could see that it was Marilyn. Had she gotten taller? He thought she might've - although she hadn't shot up quite as much as he had. Marilyn's response to the shouting sounded suspiciously close to oh, just fuck off and the front door opened an inch…only to slam shut again when the Muggle woman darted forward.
It was then that Marilyn's voice did rise to match that of her mother's.
"Get off of me! Ungrateful? What was I actually supposed to be grateful for? You tolerated me at best, and even then that was bloody well rare. If you wanted something out of this eventually, you should've had the foresight to play the long game and maybe not have been such a raging-"
"How dare you-"
Marilyn's silhouette faltered, like she was being yanked back and away from the door. Draco had enough. Striding up the path, he pretended not to have any second thoughts at all over whether he should be here, lifted a fist, and pounded it against the door. A deafening sort of silence fell inside.
He was almost tempted to knock again until he saw Marilyn step forward through the glass, and then the door was swinging open. She didn't look at him right away, too busy shooting a venomous look over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed with emotion and her chest heaving. And then she did turn to look at him, and her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.
Wide blue eyes blinked at him, and then again - more slowly this time, as though expecting him to disappear. Draco simply stood there, hands in his pockets, his shoulder slumped in a show of appalling posture, returning her gaze guardedly.
"Draco?" she breathed in disbelief "What…?"
Was he to take that as a sign that he was not welcome? Something in him worried that he should.
"Marilyn, love?" the woman behind her did a remarkable impression of not being the terror he'd just heard screeching through the door "Who's this? A friend?"
Marilyn ignored her, continuing to stare. The backpack on her shoulder slid down, catching at the crook of her arm, and her school case sat by her feet. Whatever leave she'd been trying to take moments ago did not look to be a temporary one.
"A school friend," Draco supplied, curling his lip at the woman before adding on a little white lie "From the year above."
If she knew about the rule regarding seventeen year olds and magic, better to let her think it did not apply to him. The subtle message of his words clearly caught her, too, for she paled and fell back. It was difficult for him to decide whether it made him more or less tempted to hex her. In any case, Draco watched with some tired amusement as she quickly turned heel and left the hallway, slamming the door to the room that she entered behind her. Marilyn did not move at all, continuing to stare at him.
She'd grown since they last saw one another, her frame still slender but a little less lanky, with a few added curves. And she'd somehow managed to get prettier. That was a fact that knocked him in the chest.
"I…don't know why I'm here," he admitted, for lack of anything else to say "I could leave, if it's too weird."
The moment he offered, he regretted it - not because he was worried she'd agree and say that he should (although there was that too), but because it was so terribly wet to say. Too pathetic. But it snapped her out of her stupor, at least, shaking her head quickly.
"No - no, I'm- sorry, I'm just…shocked. This…you're really here."
"Happy birthday," he said, and it sounded much less suave out loud than it had in his head.
Breathing a laugh that sounded dangerously shaky, she paused in the doorway, her hands lifting and then dropping like she was trying to work out what in the world to do with her hands - and the rest of her for that matter. It wasn't like her, she usually seemed to have such an ease in her own skin, such an awareness. Draco suspected it was what he'd just stumbled in on that prompted the change, and not the year of separation.
She wore a coat despite the heat, one that bulged at the pockets with numerous scarves and even, if he wasn't mistaken, a pair of tights poking out, suggesting the wearing was for convenience and transport rather than the cold.
"I caught you on your way out," he pointed out - mostly because she wasn't saying it.
"Yes- yeah, you have," she nodded.
"Do you have plans?"
"No, I'm just leaving."
"To go where?"
"Haven't worked that bit out here. Anywhere but here, really. Look - erm, do you want to…I mean…are you alright? Why are you here? Is something happening?"
"No - well…no. Nothing pressing. I just wanted to…come here."
"You prowl York suburbs often, do you?" she teased weakly.
It was the first glimpse he'd gotten of her since he'd arrived. Before he could respond, through, she continued.
"Do you want to get something to eat, then? I don't know if…"
The things they avoided speaking of were much more obvious in person. Letters didn't boast awkward silences. He was grateful that she didn't just come out and say it, though - he wanted to get away from all of the awfulness at home, not just come somewhere else to discuss it.
"Somewhere Muggle should be safe," he said.
Behind her, he spotted a shadow shifting below the door of the room her mother had gone into. As if it wasn't already obvious, a floorboard creaked, signalling her eavesdropping.
"Right. Yeah, okay, let's go."
Shifting the bag back up onto her shoulder, she took up the suitcase at her side and stepped out, the door slamming shut behind her. They got as far as three streets away, walking in silence, when he noticed the tremble of her lower lip - and when Draco slowed to a stop, she didn't insult his intelligence by playing dumb and asking why it was he'd halted.
"I'm fine," she said.
The fact that she had to steel herself in order to say those two words didn't lend much credence to her words - taking in a deep, shuddering breath and clenching her fists against whatever sob was trying to work its way up her throat.
"All right," he replied.
"I am," she repeated, as though he'd argued with her "I'm just an angry crier. Pain in the bloody arse, it is."
"I've pissed you off badly enough times to know that from experience," he pointed out.
The sound she let out then might've been a laugh, or it might've been the beginnings of that sob she'd been fighting off. It was difficult to tell. Draco could only stand there awkwardly, watching and thinking that he definitely shouldn't have come. He didn't know what to say in these situations, and he wasn't used to feeling so utterly awkward in his own skin, hyper aware of how he was standing and what he was doing - along with what he was not doing. That wasn't even to touch upon what he was saying, and not saying. It was awkward enough with his mother, but with Marilyn? With Marilyn it seemed even easier to say or do the wrong thing, with potentially much more disastrous consequences.
Although he couldn't quite bring himself to leave, either. Because the only thing worse than standing here, feeling painfully awkward and wondering what he could or should do, was the idea of turning and leaving her here like this alone. There were plenty of people with whom he would happily lean into his persona of horrible selfish prick, but she wasn't one of them. In fact, she was the only one in that number who wasn't a member of his immediate family, and even with his own father he didn't often drop the bravado.
If he'd come a day later, he would have missed her. If he'd come an hour later, he would have done so, too. That had to mean something, didn't it? His belief in great signs from higher powers had never been particularly strong, but it felt too coincidental to be entirely meaningless.
When he plucked up the courage to lift a hand and rest it on her shoulder, he was relieved - despite the fact that she was tensed like steel beneath his grasp - because it was better than standing about like a moron doing nothing. When some of that tension in her shoulder eased, he felt even better. Dropping the backpack down to her feet, she stepped closer and curled her arms around his middle, and he returned the gesture without hesitation.
"It's good to see you," she mumbled "Surreal as all hell, but good."
He didn't voice his relief at that - because that would only add to the pathetic nature of having offered to leave moments after first showing up.
"How have you been?" she asked after a few moments, despite the fact that neither of them had let go yet.
"Not great," he said - and admitting it felt good "You?"
"The same."
There was a strange sort of solidarity in that. When she stepped back, she was no longer trembling.
"Hang on - I'll straighten myself out and then we can find somewhere for food."
She was the most embarrassed he'd ever seen her - head ducked down as she took up her backpack, cheeks flushed pink in the meagre light the nearest streetlamp offered. Maybe she was just flustered. Draco would be, had she appeared on his doorstep in the fallout of his father's sentencing. Although had she done that, they'd have had bigger problems on their hands than mild embarrassment.
Using her knee to balance her backpack on, she unzipped it and began to shove the random assortment of items she'd previously had stuffed into the pockets of her coat. As she did so, Draco caught sight of a hairbrush, as well as a toothbrush rattling around in a clear glassy case.
It reaffirmed any suspicions he'd had based on what he heard that she had no intention of returning to the house. He was tempted to ask, especially given she did not offer an explanation of her own accord, and maybe he would later, but not yet. First, they'd have to dispel this awkwardness between them as they each tried to reconcile the person before them now, and the invisible letter-writing source that they'd both spent the last year talking to.
As she zipped the last of her knick-knacks into the bag - now full to capacity - she looked up at him again, and this time her smile was a bit brighter.
"There's, um, there's a coffee shop around the corner. It's not quite fine dining, but it's small, and it's quiet, and it's open late. And it's Muggle, so y'know, recognition won't be an issue."
Draco nodded, glad that issues of stealth were as fresh on her mind as they were in his, however frazzled she might've been. Enough to allow himself a matching smile.
"Sound good?" she prompted when he didn't respond.
"Oh, you're done?" he said lazily "I thought there might've been a fiftieth and in there."
The laugh that earned him wasn't quite so fogged with tears, and when she turned and nodded in the direction they'd been heading, he even played the gentleman and picked up her case for her. Any regret he felt at having turned up was already beginning to fade.
