Two Months Later

Marilyn sat in the office that belonged to the woman who was inarguably the creative mind behind the Wizarding International Ballet, feeling far more nervous than she hoped she looked. The meeting was a necessary one, she knew that, but when she'd raised her concerns she hadn't expected all of this - the meeting, the paperwork, being pencilled in by somebody who could sack her the moment they felt like it. It all felt very grown up, and while she fancied herself as grown up as any other sixteen year old, sitting here and waiting for Ms Sabrina Koenig to arrive.

Yes, she'd done nothing wrong, and she knew she'd done nothing wrong, but that didn't erase the fact that she was very new here. To be seen as kicking up a fuss so early on could easily overshadow any amount of talent she brought with her in the eyes of the wrong person. So would Ms Koenig be the wrong person? When the sound of heels on hardwood flooring sounded in the corridor outside, she supposed she'd soon find out.

Rising to her feet, she turned to the door as it clicked open. She'd seen Sabrina before, a strikingly beautiful woman with copper skin and dark silky hair who was known for her impeccable, if not slightly eccentric vintage manner of dress, and had once been a ballerina herself. While she was pretty hands-on about everything, and she'd spoken to all of the dancers as a group and introduced herself to the newbies then, they'd never interacted properly one on one.

As she stepped into the room today, she wore black three-quarter length slacks, with a blindingly white shirt tucked into them, and a crimson cardigan that matched the flower in her hair, and the kitten heels on her feet. It had Marilyn feeling woefully under-dressed in her post-practise workout gear, which basically amounted to joggies over her leotard and tights, a sweatshirt, and a messy bun.

"Marilyn! Hello! It's good to meet you - now I can finally put…well, if not a face to a name, then a voice to a performance," she greeted sunnily, a barely detectable German accent lacing her words.

"It's good to meet you, too," Marilyn blinked, surprised at the warm reception "I…really didn't expect all of this when I talked to Helena about my worries."

"Yes, well," Sabrina's smile was strained "Something like this needs a serious response. Please, sit, sit."

Marilyn obeyed, crossing her ankles and tucking her feet beneath her chair as Sabrina rounded the desk and sank into her own chair, clasping her hands atop the desks.

"Now, I understand you've been receiving some distressing letters since our official cast list for the season was published," a great deal of the sunniness left her dark eyes as she spoke.

"Yeah - I, er, I have them here if you need to see them," she paused, reaching for her bag before the woman interrupted.

"No, no, I believe you, don't worry. Unless there's something in them in particular you think I should see?"

"Not really, it's just, uh, the bog standard sort of thing, I suppose," she grimaced "Mudblood filth, you're stealing the place of a real Witch, so on. Pretty uncreative."

"In line with official policy, I should caution you against reading the letters. They're all, of course, safety checked for curses, hexes, and jinxes - a policy drafted up in the first war - but even if all they contain is hatred, it's not something you should be exposing yourself to."

"I'd rather read them," Marilyn admitted sourly "I think it's all just stupidity, but if there are any real threats there and I miss what could have been a clue or a warning…"

She felt sick every time she did read them - dizzy, almost, from the sheer hatred they always contained from people who'd never so much as spoken to her. But it made sense to at least look at them. It was better than wondering and torturing herself over what they may or may not contain. Maybe she just feared the day when she opened one and saw that it read I know who you talk to.

"The decision is yours," Sabrina inclined her head "I cannot force you to act one way or the other - all I can do is tell you that they are wrong. Your position here is based on merit, as it always will be. But I have a feeling you already know this."

Marilyn flushed, but she did not argue.

"That merit is what spawns the attention, and that attention spawns the letters," Sabrina continued, geturing pointedly with her hands to illustrate her point "Unfortunately, you cannot have a career here without the merit or the attention, and therefore we cannot eliminate what draws in the hate."

"I thought…" she took a shaky breath in, furious at the fear that threatened to creep into her voice "I thought that by refusing to give interviews, by accepting nothing but the necessary exposure, that I'd fend them off. Slip under the radar, or something. But it didn't work."

"I'm afraid it appears to have done the opposite," Sabrina offered a sad smile "You now have a mystique about you. This lauded newcomer who has little interest in backing up her ability with empty words."

"It's not what I wanted."

"I know that."

"I thought it would make the letters stop, and they haven't."

"And I'm sorry for that."

"So I'm actively turning down opportunities, and hiding away like I'm doing something wrong, for the sake of a goal that I'm not achieving - and in that case, why am I still doing it?"

"What is it that you'd like to do instead?"

Marilyn's mouth snapped shut, and then she frowned down at her lap. She'd gotten carried away, and in that process forgotten who she was talking to.

As if sensing her apprehension, Sabrina leaned forward, prompting her to look up.

"I think, perhaps, you're aware that I'm a pureblood," she said carefully.

Marilyn nodded, and she continued.

"What you're likely not aware of, however, through my own efforts, is that my wife is a Muggle. So if you have any concerns as to where my personal opinion lies with all of this, I hope that would rid you of them."

It did. Her shoulders eased up, and if there was any worry within her that she should have just plastered on a smile and insisted she was fine without getting personal about any of this, it was gone when Sabrina waved her wand and two teacups brimming with hot tea appeared before them.

"I…I have to get angry, or else I'll just be sick with nerves all of the time," she admitted quietly "The anger, it…it overshadows the fear. The only thing that can, really."

And somehow she still felt nauseous and lightheaded every time a letter arrived for her. Even when she glimpsed Draco's handwriting on the front she hardly felt all that less scared, because then she was worried that it might contain something far more consequential than blind hatred. Sure, if anything big was happening, he'd hardly be daft enough to put it on paper, but that wasn't much comfort. And it didn't take an idiot to see that something big was happening.

His letters had shortened dramatically, the longest lines in them now being where he reassured her that he did want to keep writing - even if he didn't wish to contribute much to said conversation. Apparently her talent for endless bullshit-laden rambling was finally coming in handy and providing him with either comfort, distraction, or some combination of the two.

When his letters did have any kind of length to them, they were great big "hypothetical" rants, or concerned the world at large instead of what was going on with him specifically, often wondering half-furious and half-exasperated as to how the world was just pushing on as if a war wasn't going on. How the teachers, and the Ministry, and pretty much everybody, expected them to push on with their daily lives as if the war was little more than a backdrop.

It was something Marilyn sympathised with. Other than her very charming fan mail, and the precautions put in place by company, it hadn't really touched her life in the way it had his - thank Merlin - but even so, she often found herself feeling ridiculous as she went through her stretches, learned her routines, or studied for her classes, like it was any other year. Like fresh disappearances weren't still being reported. Dancers, and ballerinas in particular, were infamous for barely being aware of anything outside of dance, but even Marilyn (whose vision was more often than not painfully tunnelled) was having a difficult time playing along now.

It probably helped, or didn't help rather, that she was bearing the brunt of all of the blood purist hate. Getting death threats had a way of making playing ignorant difficult.

"Some might disagree," Sabrina said "But I think anger's as good a motivator as anything."

"Anger motivates these letters," she pointed out.

"I would argue that a great deal of it is fear and desperation too, deep down."

"So they're all just in desperate need of therapy?" she asked drily.

The question helped her pretend that the woman wasn't dangerously close to hitting the nail on the head as far as Draco's situation was concerned - but they weren't all like Draco. Maybe one or two were, she didn't know, but they'd be small in number. And she only believed they existed at all now because she did know Draco.

Sabrina laughed "Perhaps. But I won't pretend it's not anger and hatred, too. The difference is that yours is urging you in the right direction."

"They'll be telling themselves that, too."

"Ah, but we're in the right."

"Well," Marilyn snorted "I can't argue with that."

"I should hope not. But I don't think you're much interested in debating the philosophical side of this over tea with me."

"No," she remembered herself "No, I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I…I'm shunning all of the attention as much as I possibly can without actively harming my career," she explained slowly, thinking through her words before she actually said them "But it's not working. So why am I hiding like I'm doing something wrong?"

"Is there something you'd rather do?" Sabrina's demeanour did not betray her opinion on her thinking, nor did her face.

Not for the first time since she'd set foot in the shop, George's face came to mind.

"I don't suppose you've heard of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?""

Sabrina shook her head - another fatality of those ballet blinders that they all walked around wearing.

"It's this joke shop that my friend owns, but joke shop makes it sound more trivial than it is. They have a sign out from openly mocking You Know Who. Like it's nothing. And while I don't want to do that-"

"Nor could we encourage such behaviour," Sabrina murmured.

"There's bravery in it. Rebelling by laughing - by refusing to be scared. He operates on fear, and they won't grant him that. So why am I cowing to it if it's not bloody well helping? If I'm going to- if I'm going to die, I want it to be with my boots on. Or my pointe shoes, I suppose. Not cowering in the corner with my head bowed like a good little mudblood."

Sabrina's immaculately painted lips thinned, and Marilyn remembered herself, crossing her arms to disguise how her hands trembled.

"I'm sorry - sorry, I got carried away."

"Not at all," Sabrina admonished gently "This is precisely the sort of reason I invited you here. So we can discuss this."

"It's just, I've…" she paused, collected herself, and found that she had to stare at the desk rather than at the woman before her in order to continue "I've spent a long time biting my tongue, and hiding myself away in order to avoid conflict. I just got myself out of that situation. I can't resurrect it here, not with ballet, and maybe if it was working I could grit my teeth and bear it, but it's not, so I can't, and- thank you."

When she'd begun running the risk of talking herself into breathlessness, Sabrina had stopped her in her tracks by extending a box of tissues before her. Rather than using the silence to speak, the older woman simply continued to watch her, sincere sympathy clear on her face.

"Just…" Marilyn pulled herself together, wiping at her eyes and thanking god that she didn't choose to wear mascara that day "Please tell me honestly. Is there any risk of me losing my position here because of this?"

"Absolutely not," she answered without hesitation "We don't cow to terrorists, and doing so would set a dangerous precedent for these people. Marilyn, I cannot tell you what to do - not beyond things directly involving dance and choreography."

Marilyn set down her teacup.

"I know. I'm sorry. I just needed to get it out - I can't, not with my friends, and not with…yeah. I know. I didn't mean to ramble. And thank you, by the way. For the solos, and the opportunities-"

She was already taking up her sports bag and preparing to stand when Sabrina interrupted, holding up a hand.

"However, I do have an idea. It was one I had for quite some time, but with no intention of bringing it up. It wouldn't have been fair to do so, and you must know that you're entirely free to say no, but given what you've just told me…it seems prudent that you should at least hear it."

Marilyn slowly lowered the bag back down to the floor, curiosity piqued.


The WIB functioned almost like a whole Wizarding school in itself - well, if that school was catered solely towards ballet. The lavish structure was situated on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea not too far from Monaco - the ability for dancers to swim in the ocean as part-rehab, part-relaxation being a major point of pride for the place, although not quite a selling point because they didn't sell to anybody. They were the ones who chose, not the other way around. They had their studios, a hall with a stage dedicated towards larger scale run-throughs and dress rehearsals so that they could practise how the shows would look before they took them on tour, and then on the upper levels they had the dormitories for students like herself, or those who simply would rather stay with the company instead of returning to wherever home was at the end of each day.

Truth be told, she was already starting to see why so many on this path either didn't attempt NEWTs at all, or abandoned them quickly after a few weeks of studying remotely. Sure, she touched base with her Beauxbatons professors back in France at least once per fortnight, but lessons weren't an option with how demanding the Wizarding International Ballet was, and all of her learning had to be done via textbooks. If that wasn't enough to have her considering abandoning academics, the war on top of it all was.

As she left Sabrina's office and made for her dormitory on the top floor of the grand castle-like building, the last thing she particularly wanted to do was open a textbook and start reading up on the debatable medicinal properties of Hippogriff claws. On an ordinary day she probably wouldn't have the energy, but today especially her mind was reeling. It was a relief, for that reason, when she opened the door to her small bedroom and found Adriano sitting at her desk. It was one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, seeing as she'd yet to really make it her own. Matters of interior designed seemed a bit trivial these days.

"How did it go with big Sabs?" he enquired, leaning back lazily in the chair.

"You do know you'd never have the balls to call her that to her face, right?" she snorted.

"You'd be surprised what I can get away with when it comes to this accent - it's suave and charming."

"Unlike the rest of you."

He grinned "She must have truly stressed you out if you're this prickly. Here, I'll help you stall your answer even more - this arrived for you."

The lightness with which he held out the letter to her was markedly feigned. He knew all about the sort of mail she'd been receiving, he was one of the few she'd happily discuss it with. The only person, really, other than the official folk in the company. She sure as hell wasn't going to heap that shit onto Draco's plate, was she? He'd probably know the handwriting on the sodding letters. And anyway, he'd only freak out and demand that she do something mental like stop dancing, which wasn't an option. Ordinarily that level of protectiveness from somebody like Draco might give her the warm and fuzzies, but those warm and fuzzies were having a hard time getting through all of her fear and worry and tiredness at that moment.

Accepting it, she didn't quite breathe a sigh of relief when she recognised Draco's handwriting on the bloody thing. Sitting down on the single bed pushed up against the far wall, she cracked the seal and began to quickly skim the letter - she'd read it properly later, but unless she did this and proved to herself that it didn't contain outright world-ending terrible news, it would be all she'd think about until Adriano left. It did not, in fact, contain any more doom and gloom than was appropriate, but it still had her frowning…although she didn't quite realise that until Adriano spoke up.

"Another threat?" his usual, er, Adriano-ness had drained from his voice, his tone serious - icy, even.

"No," she shook her head "No, my friend from Hogwarts."

"You still write to each other?"

"Mm. He, er, he's quit playing Quidditch."

It had seemed like a fairly safe topic to bring up with him, if only so that it didn't feel like she was sending him mini autobiographies in every letter, asking how practise was going and when his next match was.

"Oh. Was he a gifted player?"

"I don't know, they cancelled the House matches during the year I was there. But he enjoyed it."

"Well, it's probably nothing. You said he was a Ravenclaw? Those are the ones known for being academics, no? Perhaps he wishes to focus."

"Yeah," she said dully "Maybe."

Folding the letter back up, she set it down on the bed and resisted the urge to slip it beneath her pillow or into the drawer of her bedside table. It would only look suspicious. If it had been a letter from anybody else, she'd happily leave it in the open, so that was what she had to do now - all while acting like she wasn't painstakingly aware of it where it sat. On the bright side, it made her somewhat more willing to discuss what had come up in Sabrina's office - and so she did so, without further prompting from Adriano.

As she spoke, he went from mildly interested, to confused, which then shifted into wide-eyed alarm, until he was leaning forward and staring at her intently, hanging on her every word as she outlined the plan that Sabrina had proposed. When she was finished, his dark eyes remained fixed on her, handsome features incredibly grave.

"You think I'm mad," she spoke when he did not.

"Are you going to accept? Go along with this?"

Marilyn hesitated. It was enough to spawn a reel of rapid-fire Italian in her direction - so quick and utterly profane (from the limited amount she could grasp) that it almost gave her whiplash when he returned to English, bringing both hands up to his head and dragging them over his long dark hair, smoothing it back against his head.

"You're going to do it? Are you mad?"

"I'm shit-scared," she admitted frankly.

"You should be! This is bad, very bad. The sort of attention this could bring, stellina. The sort of statement it makes…."

"Like death threats to what is, for all intents and purposes, my home address."

"Do you think if Quello Scuro means to kill you, he'll send a letter first? No, Marilyn! He will simply do it. There won't be a warning!"

"That's a chilling thought."

"You will be very chilled when you are dead!" Adriano's voice rose to a shout.

He appeared to regret it afterwards, although he remained agitated, fidgeting this way and that in his chair as he regarded her, shaking his head.

"I already have their attention, 'No," she pointed out quietly "The company dances before all of their high society each and every season. How many of them hate the likes of me? If I don't leave, it's only a matter of time before I become a prime target for them to score bragging rights with their master. And I'm. Not. Leaving."

He saw her point - she could see he did, his eyes cast downward and his leg jerking up and down as he tapped his heel incessantly against the floor. Her own restless energy was demanding to be channelled, so she kicked her shoes off and pushed herself backwards until she was sitting with her legs crossed on the bed, curling her arms around her so she wouldn't fidget. As if a lack of fidgeting could sell him on this.

"You really mean to do this?" he asked gravely.

"My gut's telling me I should," she replied "I wish it wasn't, but it is. Dumbledore, he said something during Cedric Diggory's memorial. That a time would come when we'd have to choose between what is easy and what is right."

She expected Adriano to curse her - to tell her that Dumbledore himself would call her mad for even considering this idea. Instead, though, he stilled, sighing heavily.

"All right. Very well. I'm in."

And that wasn't what she'd wanted, either.

"What? No! You're not even a Muggleborn - there's no way you can-"

"Muggleborns aren't the only one who can choose sides in this fight," he rolled his eyes "And I'm not letting you do this alone."

"Adriano," she said, her voice thick with emotion "This is dangerous."

"I know - I was just trying to make you see that. In any case, you know how I loathe to share the spotlight. Jot it down to my ego, and pray we both survive this. I'm too pretty to die before I get a chance to party my looks away."

It was then more than ever that Marilyn hoped to high bloody heaven that she was doing the right thing.


A/N: I didn't want to have book six be a combination of letters (again), briefly broken up by Draco's baby Death Eater antics, so here we are. That being said, I really don't think Marilyn would sit back and be set dressing at this point either, so this ballet storyline we're embarking upon was born. Fear not, we won't be Draco-less for long.

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