A/N: A shorter one, sorry! It do be eventful, though.


Autumn was fast turning to winter, and the nip in the air outside was threatening to pervade even the usual warmth and cheer of the Great Hall. Although Draco had been immune to that cheer all year, so it made little difference to him - save for that it provided an excuse for him to wear his gloves indoors. They offered some comfort, for they were the ones Marilyn had knitted for him nigh on two years ago now.

His gambit with the necklace had been a disaster, and now he was left looking to other avenues. Those would show themselves soon, no doubt - for Christmas offered plenty of opportunities for all sorts of unexpected and unexplained items to turn up without seeming sinister in the slightest - but he wasn't half so daft as to think that this might be easy. He'd even considered staying at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays, but given that he so rarely did that, it would only draw suspicion. Plus, it would leave his mother alone. Yes, she'd have his aunt Bella, but only a few moments spent with her betrayed the fact that solitude would be preferable.

No, he would make the most of what remained of the term, and then he'd endure Christmas at home. As well as all of the questions and the expectant stares that went along with it. No doubt his mother would feel obligated to throw their usual Christmastime soiree (because not throwing it might suggest something was wrong, and then the sharks would work themselves up into a frenzy), so he'd spend whichever night that fell on dodging Pansy and her ever-renewing stock of mistletoe.

The girl in question was sitting beside him at the table - having arrived after he'd already sat down, and occupied the space without asking. Although he'd hardly have been able to turn her down had she asked. That didn't change the fact, though, that he wished he'd told her to piss off once she'd unfolded her copy of the Daily Prophet and begun to crow over the headlines.

"Oh, this is too good," she snickered to herself.

And then she kept going on. 'To herself'.

"I can't believe it," she continued, and when he still did not ask she pressed on "Unbelievable. Always knew she'd put her foot in it before long. Disgrace."

Oftentimes Draco would take a petty sort of pleasure in purposefully not asking the question she so desperately wished he would, but now he just wished she'd shut up and leave. He wished this whole bloody hall would shut up and leave, and that he could just have a few moments of peace and blissful silence.

But then Pansy continued, and he found himself facing problems far greater than noise.

"The Wizarding International Ballet, what a joke. Well, I dare say they'll get theirs very soon."

He'd always considered the description of blood running cold to be very melodramatic, but in that moment Draco swore he could feel the contents of his veins drop to sub-arctic temperatures. It took a concerted effort for him to maintain the posture he'd had before he'd realise what it was she was talking about, and he did so only because he knew it was his only hope of looking unbothered. Then he adopted a bored tone and forced out.

"What are you on about now?"

Apparently she was too delighted by the headlines to care about his dismissive tone, turning to him and showing the paper.

"Remember that mudblood cow from fourth year? Look what she's done. Can't see her being around much longer after this."

It took everything he had not to snatch the paper from Pansy's hand as she turned it to him so that he could read the headline - WIB Makes a Stand Against Blood Purists - but the moment he read the words, and then finally comprehended them, he wished he had not. Pansy was looking to him for a response, and it just so happened that this time around his first thought was one he could actually share.

"What a fucking idiot," he breathed.

"Right?" Pansy agreed with a grin "Even roped that blood-traitor into dancing with her. It's his funeral, I suppose."

Shaking his head, he grabbed his bag from under the bench and making to stand "I'm going to the library."

"What? We both have a free period first, I thought that-"

"I need to study. And to forget that she- that mudblood exists. Ruined my bloody appetite," he grumbled.

Unable to hear whatever protests Pansy might have offered over the hectic pounding of his heart, he stormed out of the Great Halls and then through the corridors until he spotted a first year Hufflepuff, sitting on the ledge of one of the archways that led into the courtyard, poring over the paper. Without hesitation, he strode over and snatched it from his hands. The kid put up a half second of protest before he saw who it was that had taken it from him, and quickly left. It was the sort of thing that would have once given Draco a pretty streak of joy, but now he felt nothing - not beyond blind panic and fear, his ears filled with his own heartbeat.

The temptation to go through it right then, right there, was overwhelming, but he knew anybody could happen across him and he was very quickly losing his grip on his ability to appear unbothered. So he had to move. Wedging the paper under his arm, he began striding in the direction of the ground floor boys' toilets, loosening his green and silver tie as he walked because he couldn't bloody well breathe.

Only once he was in a cubicle, his bag dumped atop the closed toilet lid and the door locked behind him, did he open the paper. Tearing through the pages (and quite literally tearing one or two of those pages in his haste to find what he was looking for), he finally reached the full article and felt sick when he found it hadn't all been some terrible shared hallucination between himself and Pansy.

But no, there in the photographs was Marilyn Baxter herself - being swung about the stage by some twit in white tights with dark features and hair so long it brushed his shoulders. Draco wrinkled his nose at the pictures (of which there were many), his priorities momentarily forgotten by a voice in his head that insisted that the photos alone wouldn't bother him half so much if she was alone in them. Or if the costume she wore wasn't little more than a loose, flowing nightgown that floated about her form with her every move.

The dance was clearly meant to be a romantic one, judging by how they were all but wrapped around one another for most of it, the dolt staring simperingly into her eyes as he dipped her low in one of the photographs, the back of one finger tracing gently down the side of her face as she gazed up at him adoringly. They weren't quite as close in the next photograph, although that would've hardly been possible without it involving actions not exactly appropriate for a stage, dancing up to one another before one always parted from the other, looking back at them as if hoping they'd follow - which they would, prompting another series of nauseating twirl-laden embraces.

Finally, the third photo depicted something he'd already seen; Marilyn doing what Clarabella Vane was so well-known for, dancing atop a broom while her dolt of a partner watched from below, appearing enamoured and entirely dim-witted.

But how was any of this taking a stand? This was just ballet. Unless they meant she was taking a stand by existing, or by dancing at all, which people in his circles would surely agree with but was hardly something he could take issue with her doing. Taking in a few deep breaths, he waited until he'd calmed enough to be able to read the body of the article, and he had his answer - his terrible, stomach-dropping answer - in the first few paragraphs.

What place the arts have in politics - if indeed they have any place at all - is a question that has been, and likely always will be, fiercely debated by those who take any interest in theatre. However, it appears that the Wizarding International Ballet have offered an answer to that question; as far as they are concerned, at least, beginning their new season with a pointed statement for all in the audience to see, and to hear.

Miss Marilyn Baxter has, wittingly or not, made herself a distinct point of interest in ballet circles for some time now, refusing interviews and instead letting her rumoured keen skill speak for itself. And speak it did. Audiences last night were stunned when the curtains rose in Paris fifteen minutes early, and they found themselves bearing witness not to the first act of The Veela and the Vampire, but to an entirely original piece masterminded by creative director Sabrina Koenig, male soloist Adriano Fallaci, and Miss Baxter herself. One that had more than one group of attendees standing up and leaving before they'd even had a chance to see the ballet they paid to attend.

What was this piece? I hear you ask. Miss Baxter, a young Muggleborn witch, seamlessly managed to execute a technique which Clarabella Vane - of the Sacred Twenty-Eight Vanes, no less - pioneered in her day over a century ago…and she did so to Muggle music. The song chosen, perhaps aptly or ironically, was believed to be Bewitched by Frank Sinatra, a Muggle singer well-loved by non-magical folk. The combination of what is widely considered a Pureblood triumph, executed by a Muggleborn dancer to Muggle music, has scandalised many and, as we understand, WIB have no intention of this statement being a one-time occurrence.

There was more, but Draco stopped reading. Namely because his hands trembled too much and the words were practically vibrating before his eyes as a consequence of that fact.

He felt sick - in fact, sticking around inside the cubicle was probably a good idea because of how nauseous he felt. She was an idiot. But he knew her - and he knew her not to be an idiot. Only a few months prior he'd sat and watched her pale as he emphasised the very real danger she could be in, before she swore up and down not to draw attention to herself. And now this? Practically mocking the Dark Lord and his fanatical followers to their very faces? If Potter was public enemy number one, she was at least now in the top ten, if not the top five. She…she'd signed her own death warrant.

Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe the company had strong-armed her into it, and she'd had little choice in the matter. If it came between keeping her career and keeping herself out of the Dark Lord's notice, Draco knew well enough which decision Marilyn sodding Baxter would take. Perhaps that was it. She was at the mercy of a creative director - this Sabrina Koenig - and her mad grab for fame at any cost. But that made little difference, for it was not Miss Koenig that had her face plastered across the papers.

Throwing the newspaper to the floor with such force that it smacked loudly against the worn white tiles, he lifted his hands and raked them through his hair. If there was ever a situation that warranted sending a howler, it was this one.