Try as she did - and she really, really did - Marilyn struggled to put the fleeting encounter with Draco in Diagon Alley out of her mind for the rest of the day. There was just something about it that she didn't like. At all. Her mind just kept replaying the look on Draco's face when he first saw her; the way his eyes widened as though his heart had dropped out of his backside. What would it take for Draco Malfoy to react like that to the sight of somebody? She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer…but it was plaguing her even so.
Okay, maybe it was just because it was her. No doubt she'd looked similarly dread-filled, and she didn't even have any specific fears - it was just the shock of seeing him when she hadn't expected to, while surrounded by plenty who knew nothing about their continued interaction. Plus, he'd been with his mum. No doubt she'd be able to pick up on any of his weird reactions or discomfort miles more than any of the Gryffindors were capable of doing with her. And yeah, Ron had been right when he said they looked like two people who didn't want to be followed, but that was only natural, wasn't it? They'd been plagued by photographers and journalists all summer - not to mention being hounded by both sides of the war. Stepping onto any Wizarding street was probably hell for them, and while Marilyn had limited sympathy (or none at all, really) for Narcissa, the same could not be said for Draco.
All of this reasoning was fair, she felt. Logical. Sound. So it was just a bit unfortunate that she didn't really believe any of it, because her gut sang a very different song. Something had happened today, in Knockturn Alley, and whatever it was had Draco Malfoy looking like a man taking the long walk to the gallows - the expression on his face being one that wouldn't leave her mind.
Distraction was hard to come by, and she ended up curled up in her bed with a mug of hot tea and a book that she stared at more than she actually read, when a knock sounded at her door. Marilyn froze. It wasn't the landlady - she always announced herself as she knocked. Paranoia (or just plain old worry, perhaps, considering it was rooted in fact) fresh in her mind, she slid the mug soundlessly onto the bedside table, and slowly took up her wand. The knock came again. Did Death Eaters knock before they attacked? Maybe - if they wanted the element of surprise. Had they tried the doorknob already? She hadn't heard if so, and all of the doors here had anti-Unlocking Charm spells cast upon them, so it wasn't like-
"Baxter," a voice hissed at the door.
A very familiar voice. Slipping from the bed, she padded towards the door, unlocking and opening it quickly so Draco could slip inside. He looked worse now than he had earlier in the day as he pulled the hood of his cloak down once the door was shut behind him, his face dangerously pale and his hair in disarray. Without looking at her, he removed the cloak and slung it over the single chair the room boasted. He was carrying himself strangely, she thought, although she couldn't put her finger on how. Stiffly, almost, like he was injured. But she couldn't see any signs of injury.
Then again, she supposed darkly, He Who Must Not Be Named likely never left marks when he harmed people. Not unless he wanted to. Remaining by the door, she leaned back against it and watched him unsurely. His shoulders heaved in time with his breath - like he'd sprinted all the way here, or as if he was spoiling for a fight and just needed an opponent to place themselves within his sights.
"Did…" she paused, "...did your mother say something…about me? I tried to play it cool, but I really didn't expect to see you there today, so I don't know if my face…showed…I don't know…"
Draco scoffed "You don't think we've anything better to discuss than you?"
Right. Well. It was going to be that sort of visit, then. Eyebrows shooting up, she slowly folded her arms and watched him quietly. She wasn't going to give him whatever argument it was that he so sorely desired - she was well practised in not giving people the fights they sought, and she wouldn't be a punching bag. Not for him, not for anybody.
Luckily - for them both - upon seeing her face he sighed raggedly and then ducked his head, shaking it slightly.
"I didn't mean that - I…can we just forget I said it?"
Not quite an apology, but certainly one in Draco's own specific language.
"Have you been drinking?" she asked quietly.
She was sure she could smell wine.
"We had a party tonight," he said bitterly, sitting down in the chair "To celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"It doesn't matter."
This was going to be the way of things, she had a foul feeling. From now until…until whatever happened, happened. Him upset over things she didn't know about - and likely couldn't know about - and her straddling the line between wanting to be sympathetic, and refusing to be a vessel for all of his fear, anger, and sadness. Usually while worrying herself sick about what it was he would not and could not say.
And whatever it was, it had to be serious because he hadn't even made any nasty comments about her talking to all of his least favourite people again.
Finally, she peeled herself away from the door, walking towards the bed and straightening the covers before she sat down on top of them. When she looked back to Draco, he was watching her - some of the previous awfulness on his face replaced by mild confusion as he took in her attire. The purple polka dot pyjamas were proving a real ill omen when it came to attracting visitors.
"What in Merlin's name are you wearing?"
"Listen, if you announced yourself before you came I'd make sure to have the formal guest-appropriate pyjamas ready. Complete with a top hat and a monocle. You didn't, so you have to make do with my current glory."
Snorting, he shook his head and looked away "Always so absurd."
He said it more to himself than to her - but not unfondly.
"You're not okay," she said quietly.
Mostly because it seemed less inane than asking him if he was okay.
"No," he said "I'm not."
"Will you be?"
"I don't…" he almost told her the truth, before he straightened and sniffed "Yes. Of course."
"All right," she nodded "Good."
What else could she say? Either he didn't want to talk about what had upset him - whatever it was that lot had just been celebrating (and she dreaded to think, really) - or he flat out couldn't. The reality was a mixture of the two, she suspected. She wouldn't pry it out of him, and speaking of other things, of attempts at pleasant distraction or just anything to fill the silence, felt ridiculous. How could they discuss whether or not it might rain tomorrow with all that was at hand?
Maybe her presence alone was a comfort to him. That prospect caught her off guard, her method of comforting herself had always just been to stay distracted and stay busy, which worked for her but not for others. Not unless he wanted her to teach him how to do a perfect fouetté.
"Why do you still speak to me, Marilyn?" he asked.
She blinked "Sorry?"
"Maybe one day you will be. So why? Why risk it? What's in it for you?"
"What…Draco, I have no idea what you're going on about. What could be in it for me? What are you getting at?"
"I don't know," he shrugged jerkily "Information? The hope that…that should things go badly, knowing somebody on my side may help you avert disaster."
"Yes, Draco, during all of those many hours we spent on that couch in Hogwarts, I was sat there thinking 'one day this will really come in handy'. You caught me."
"You make it sound absurd."
"It is pretty ridiculous."
"Is it?"
"Yes, you're mistaking me for Pansy. Or Crabbe. Or Goyle. Or any one of the rest of them."
"I'm willing to believe there wasn't any thought in…before…but when you wrote again? After it started becoming obvious it was heading towards a war. Why then?"
"I didn't believe it was going to come to a full blown war. Not then."
"That was stupid."
"Maybe, but if you're going to sit there and point it out, you can leave. You're going through something, I'm not blind - and no, I'm not stupid - but what you're not going to do is come here and take it out on me. I want to help, but I won't be a whipping boy."
Scoffing, he shifted in the chair and for a moment she thought he would leave…but then he settled again, shaking his head as his fingertips scratched restlessly against the knee of his trousers.
"I just want to know why," he said finally.
"I don't know," she sighed "It was a shit summer, and I felt very alone. You've always been good at making me not feel alone. Despite everything. Despite the fact that you're very good at being nasty when you want to be, too, and despite the fact that us having any sort of association isn't wise by any definition of the word. There's just…there's just something here. Something I can't turn my back on."
Whatever response he'd expected from her, it was clear that wasn't it. His eyes widened and the sneer that his features so often fell into by default slipped away. For the first time since she'd seen him that summer, he actually looked his age. But he didn't say anything. A beat of silence went by, and then another, and Marilyn hugged her arms about herself.
"It isn't just me is- er, is it just me, then? You don't feel whatever…this is?"
It felt pathetic to sit here and outright ask it, not when she'd been sure it wasn't just her right up until she'd started voicing it. But he had asked. And what if he'd asked because he didn't want to be the first one to voice it? Because he couldn't voice it? He wasn't used to dealing with somebody who sat and talked to him, rather than his surname or his money. Expecting him to leap out and acknowledge whatever this thing between them was first was a lot to ask.
When he stood, she half expected him to don his cloak and hood once again and leave - but instead, he left it where it was on the chair. When Marilyn rose in turn it was more or less on instinct, not wanting to be sat staring up at him like a complete idiot. What to do after that she would worry about when the time came - except the time came a second later, and she wasn't capable of worrying about it because Draco was kissing her.
They'd kissed before. A lot. But that had always been in their fourth year - and while it had hardly been unpleasant at the time, it hadn't meant half so much as it did now. Back then, as complicated as it had already been, it was simpler. You're attractive, you make me laugh, let's kiss. Now there was more there. Feelings. Very dangerous feelings. But ones that were reciprocated - even if he hadn't voiced it yet - based on how he pressed his lips to hers.
At first he did so softly. Like he expected, or feared, that she would push him back. Instead, she tilted her head upwards and wound her arms around his neck, stepping just that slightest bit closer to close the gap between them, her chest pressed against his as she kissed him back.
When he relaxed, she felt him do so, his shoulders easing as he finally put his hands on her, one smoothing around from her hip to the small of her back to keep her close as his tongue delved between her lips. His other hand snaked up to the scrunchie holding her hair up and tugged it away until golden waves spilled about her shoulders, then shifted to combing through it, pushing it back from her face in a move that could only be described as counterproductive. It might've made her laugh, were she not too busy melting into it.
His touch bordered on being reverent as his hands skimmed all over her - marvelling more than pawing or groping, and with a level of care and gentleness that he'd likely thoroughly deny were she ever daft enough to mention it. And anyway, she'd only do the same if he ever brought up how fiercely she clung to him, like she feared if she let go he'd disappear and she'd have to go back to worrying over where he was and if he was okay.
Despite all of that, though, and how little she wanted him to leave, when one hand tentatively began to inch towards the top button of her pyjama shirt, she let go and stopped it in its tracks. Draco pulled back, fighting to catch his breath just as much as she was, eyeing her without saying anything. She could sympathise with why - a question, or a request for explanation, could be seen as an argument. As pressure. But while Draco could be a lot of nasty things when he saw fit, that was never something she'd expect from him.
"Anything…" she cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks blaze "Anything we do now would be for the wrong reasons."
"Have you ever…?"
"No," she answered honestly.
Which was exactly why she didn't want to do it now. The first time wasn't going to be something tinged by fear and worry.
"Have you?" she asked.
He shook his head - and that surprised her. She made a point of never asking what exactly the situation was between him and Pansy Parkinson nowadays - in part because she didn't care, but mostly because she really didn't want to know, and the answer was something highly likely to live rent free in her mind regardless of whatever that answer ended up being. All the while, though, she'd more or less just assumed that they had something going on behind the scenes. It was part of his good little Malfoy heir thing, he didn't seem like the kind to sit back and pine over her from afar while not involving himself in anything else, and…loathe as she was to admit it, it would have been the smart move. If only to avoid suspicion.
"I want to," she admitted "With you, I mean, but…not now. Not like this."
"What if…" he exhaled, hesitated, and then spoke quietly "What if there won't be another chance?"
From anybody else, she'd have taken it as a ham handed attempt to manipulate her - the way shops put up signs reading 'one day only!' to try to convince people to impulse buy. But after what she'd seen from him tonight, and the genuine fear in his eyes now, she knew that possibility was something he genuinely actually believed.
"What do you mean, Draco?" she asked.
He shook his head, already making to step back, but she caught his hand and stepped forward again, keeping him close.
"Draco, what do you mean? Why would this be the only chance? What's going to happen?"
"Nothing," he said quickly, offering a tired - and very fake - smile "Nothing. It's just…there's a war on, isn't there? Forget I said anything, I'm being fatalistic. I'm tired."
"It didn't sound like you meant it that way - it sounded like you're worried for yourself specifically."
"Well that's not how I meant it. It's fine, Baxter. You're right, you know, it's…it's not the right time."
Yes, the new school year was just around the corner, but just because it mightn't be this year didn't mean it wouldn't be any year. Surely she could see him next summer? Hell, she'd even be happy to sneak out during one of the holidays or when she was with the ballet company rather than at Beauxbatons to see him. There would be time. There was time. Right? So, placations aside, why didn't he seem to think so?
This time when he made to step away, she didn't fight it, but when he did move to take up his cloak, she spoke up.
"You don't have to go," she said "I don't want you to…I mean, just because we're not going to…"
Oh Christ, she was turning into a rambling mess. But it at least prompted a small, tired smile from him as he abandoned his quest for his cloak.
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
"No," he shook his head "I can't."
She took that as more to do with stress than it being his way of saying he was watching his figure.
"Well, I haven't eaten," she lied "I'll have something brought up, and you can pick at it, too."
Barely half an hour later, they were sitting on her bed with a gargantuan bowl of chips lodged between them - she figured they'd be bland enough for him to stomach in spite of everything he was so clearly feeling, even if he wouldn't tell her what those things were.
"Why haven't you?" he broke the quietness he'd slipped into once the chips were half-gone.
"Why haven't I what?"
"Done it?"
"You ask that like I'm forty or something, it's not unusual, you know," she snorted.
"I didn't mean it like that," he rolled his eyes "You have a way with people, though. Drawing them in. I'm surprised there hasn't been somebody. Somebody like Weasley."
"Don't tell me you're still jealous of George."
"I said somebody like Weasley, not Weasley himself."
"He's…not you," Marilyn sighed - very begrudgingly "But between the two of us, you're the one actively involved in some sort of…of situationship."
"Oh please," he snorted, shaking his head.
"You are. I'm surprised you and Pansy haven't done the, uh, horizontal tango yet."
"Are we in for many more horrifying dance analogies?" he wrinkled his nose.
"Only if you keep finding them that horrifying," she grinned "Way to avoid the question, by the way."
"It wasn't a question, it was a statement," he said "If you want to know something, you must learn how to phrase it properly."
"Okay, why haven't you? With Pansy?"
"Because, Marilyn, believe it or not we don't lose our minds the second anything vaguely resembling a girl crosses our paths," he drawled and then gave her a rueful look "And she's not you, so she's guaranteed to disappoint. Doesn't seem fair to anybody involved, does it? Least of all her."
Maybe they couldn't have labels, not with the world they lived in and the sides they fell into in that world, and maybe they'd never be able to contemplate things like being boyfriend girlfriend, but hearing those from Draco meant more than she suspected a label ever could.
"You know, you're the only lad I've ever met who actively wants people to think he's less likeable than he really is," she murmured.
"Do you like me?"
"A lot," she had no trouble admitting it - not here and now.
"So what does the rabble matter?"
Marilyn breathed a laugh. Yeah, there was her Draco.
