A/N: Sorry for the delay! I wasn't intending to take a break, but I ended up moving my focus onto finishing my Pirates of the Caribbean story (which is now done!), and then I wanted to spend some time just really focusing on my original novel, so this got put on the backburner. The good news is that I'm now on a ban from starting any new fanfics until my novel is done, so as far as fic goes, this is my priority!
Draco was in a foul mood as he exited the Slytherin common room and began to make his way to breakfast. Today was the day that those inclined to leave Hogwarts for the holidays would do so, and last night - his last chance to work on the Vanishing Cabinet before he left - he'd been nabbed by Filch and accused of trying to sneak into Slughorn's Christmas do, of all things. Then Snape had gone and stuck his nose in, and he'd been too wound up to sleep much at all.
With any luck, though, his back-up plan would work. Slughorn would give Dumbledore the mead while he was gone, and news of the old dolt's death would reach them while he was too far away to be tied to anything to do with it. Then again, he'd hoped the same with the necklace and that stupid cow Katie Bell hadn't managed to be of any use. Was it too much to hope that Slughorn would be any better?
He was almost at the stairs that led up towards the ground floor of the castle when Snape stepped out of his office, his dark eyes landing on him immediately.
"Mr Malfoy," he said "A moment."
Any other year Draco would have hid his annoyance - or he mightn't have been annoyed at all in the first place - but this was not any other year. Sighing, he ground to a halt and shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes. Snape might've punished him for that any other year, too. As it was, he jerked his head in the direction of the office, and then led the way inside.
For a moment Draco considered not following at all, but his day would only grow more annoying if he didn't, so he strode after Snape and resisted the urge to kick the door shut behind him. Once he had closed it - gently, with his hands, because he had the patience of a saint - he turned and remained where he stood, watching as Snape moved to sit behind the desk.
"I assume, given that you have not yet been to breakfast, that you have not seen this morning's headlines."
Draco stilled "Why? What's happened? Is it my father? Or just another fascinating think-piece on the rise and fall of the House of Malfoy?"
"Take a seat," Snape ordered, his face not giving anything away.
Despite his foul mood, Draco did not push his luck by arguing. All but falling into the chair opposite the desk, he leaned back as he sat and waited for his Head of House to finally arrive at whatever point he appeared determined to make.
He finally did so, but only after fixing him with one of those unyielding stares for a moment that seemed to stretch on for an insufferably long amount of time. When the paper slapped down onto the desk in front of him, though, Draco thought he'd rather preferred the staring contest.
Ballerina Attacked Mid-Performance! The headline read, getting directly - and almost gleefully - to the point. It took all he had not to seize the paper and begin scanning it for details, and more still to tear his eyes away from the photograph nearly the full size of the front page. Marilyn, teetering on the toes of one foot on the length of a broom, followed by a bolt of light shooting down from above the stage, hitting the broom which sent both it and her off balance. The photograph ended as she landed hard on the floor, easily twenty or thirty feet below, and did not move - even as that stupid dance partners of hers rushed towards her. Then it began to loop.
He did not watch it a second time.
"Why should that concern me? I hardly recall fourth year at all."
She was not dead. No, she couldn't be. If she was, the headline would say so. Ballerina killed mid-performance, something like that. And they wouldn't have run the photograph. If it showed someone dying. If it…if it showed her dying. Would they?
Snape's lips thinned "Your face betrays you, Mr Malfoy, and you must bring it under control before you go out there, amongst your peers, who will expect you to celebrate this turn of events."
"Why shouldn't I celebrate it? Stupid, foolish, idiotic little- little mudblood got what she deserved."
"You must also be sure to say those words a shade more convincingly next time."
"What are you implying?" Draco scoffed.
The older man's black eyes stared unflinchingly at him, and Draco stared back with thinned lips. So long had gone by since that damned dinner with Snape and his parents, and so much had happened in that time and demanded his attention - with it going entirely unremarked upon, no less. He'd always sort of assumed that he'd just…forgotten. Or at least he'd hoped that he had. It was a nice thing to tell himself when the world seemed to be doing its very best to cave in on him.
"She did not die," Snape said matter-of-factly "She was, however, seriously injured and spent the night in Paris' finest Wizarding hospital having many of her bones mended. She is expected to make a full, swift recovery. There is some speculation as to whether she will return to her place upon the stage, and whether doing so would leave her vulnerable to further attacks. Of course, we know quite well that it would, and that it will."
And Draco knew quite well that none of that would stop her. He also knew that his relief had shown on his face.
"Why have you brought me in here, then? To threaten me with this absurd little story you've dreamt up?"
"No," Snape replied mildly - which in itself caught him off-guard, for he'd expected fury in response to his cheek "This is a delicate time, and he does not need your…youthful indiscretions distracting him from the task currently at hand. Little good could come of it."
Draco continued to stare at him. It was tempting to be relieved - much, much too tempting. But this would be an easy game to play, wouldn't it? The 'don't worry, I'm not going to tell anybody, just tell me everything and it'll all be fine' just to get an admission of guilt. If this was indeed what Snape was doing, Draco knew he'd never know regret of the like that he'd feel if he walked into that trap.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Something flickered in Snape's gaze, and he hesitated before he responded.
"I admit, your commitment to denying it offers some reassurance, but under these circumstances that reassurance is only ever bound to be limited. You are not the first to find yourself in a position such as this."
"Oh, Merlin."
"Nor are you likely to be the last," Snape pressed on sternly, speaking over him "But I promised your mother I would watch out for your best interests, and it is for that reason that I find myself compelled to inform you that there is a long history of those in your shoes soon finding themselves dead - or worse. Both parties involved, or occasionally only one, but all the same instances where neither find themselves on the wrong side of a Killing Curse are rare, if indeed they have ever occurred at all."
"We don't tend to wax poetic about the tales of the mudbloods who didn't get what they deserved," Draco pointed out flatly.
"Indeed. We do not. Be that as it may, I have given my word to act in your best interest, and I shall endeavour to do so. That is a fact worth keeping in mind, going forward."
Draco's brow furrowed, and he stared at his Head of House in suspicion. That sort of statement was the kind of thing he'd expect to lead up to some grand insistence that he cease whatever it was Snape believed he was up to with Marilyn. But it did not. And he'd already made it clear that he had no intention of telling anybody about it - about her, about them. That's what most in their circles would mean if they said they were going to act in his best interest. So what did Snape mean by it?
That he wouldn't snitch on them, yes, but he'd already established that, and the way he spoke and the way he stared at him while he spoke seemed to suggest something greater. Which, by sheer process of elimination, could only mean…
Surely he wasn't saying that he would cover for them?
Draco stared at him in disbelief, and when Snape saw that it had clicked, he nodded slightly and then leaned back in his chair, busying himself with the parchment on his desk.
"That is all, Mr Malfoy, you may go. Give my regards to your mother."
He left the paper on the desk as he took his exit.
A broken collarbone, a couple of cracked ribs, and a royally fucked up pelvis. To use the medical terminology. Apparently that was what happened when one fell at a great height down onto a surface that was decidedly unforgiving. What did not tend to happen, however, was the recipient of those injuries walking out of hospital that very same night without even a single bruise. Well, beyond the emotional sort. Were she a Muggle, it was the sort of injury that could've very easily seen her walking with a cane for the rest of her life - if she could walk again at all.
The pain had been horrible, the memory of it so vivid that she swore she could still feel the pain radiating through her bones whenever she moved, and the fear hadn't faded anywhere near enough yet to even become a memory yet. Which was why she jumped out of her skin when a knock sounded at her door.
Her wand hadn't left her hand since she'd been brought back to her dormitory room late last night, plied with calming draughts and potions to supply her with a dreamless sleep. The rule about underaged magic and Wizarding schools was extended to WIB headquarters precisely for those in her shoes (pointe shoes, at that) - for she could hardly be expected to learn magic without being able to practise a charm or two. Now she was grateful for that fact as she adjusted her grip on the smooth, light wood of her wand.
"Come in," she called.
Adriano slipped into the room, and her grip relaxed.
"I don't think I've ever seen anybody look so tense while on bedrest," he commented, and then cast a glance about the room and muttered something in Italian.
She couldn't blame him for that - every flat surface the room boasted was littered with flowers. The desk, the dresser drawers, the nightstand, the window sill, and the floor when she finally began to run out of space. It was one thing to get a bouquet to her dressing room after a performance, but this? This she did not like. Lying in her bed and looking at it all had her feeling like the corpse in a funeral parlour. It might've been nice for them to wait until she was actually murdered before they started treating her as such. Even those walking by outside lowered their voices to hushed whispers as they went by her door.
Sure, that could have very well been because they were worried she was sleeping and they were just being considerate, but she was feeling grumpy and chose to overlook that sound logic. Attempted murder did that to a girl.
"Don't tell me you're here to scold me."
"No, I'm here to help you," he gave her a rakish grin, and produced a small, sleek silver case from his jeans pocket.
Frowning, Marilyn shifted in the bed, sitting up and watching as he approached. Well, she watched his face more than she watched his eyes. She was having trouble with that today - eye contact. That was a fairly new phenomenon, Christ knew she wasn't much of a shy little wallflower, but he was the third person to visit her today (following Sabrina Koenig herself, and then Madame Garnier), and he was the third she couldn't quite look in the eye. Maybe she feared seeing pity there. Or it could have been that she feared what they would see in her own gaze.
The case - a cigarette case, she realised as he opened it, contained something that was not quite a cigarette.
"You're joking."
"What? You think anybody around here will know what this is?"
"Adriano."
"It's-a medicinal - an old Italian herb from the home country. We put-a it on da pizza, no?" he affected a ridiculous accent worthy of Super Mario, and she couldn't help but laugh - which was probably the point.
"Right before you bake it, no doubt," she muttered.
"I bring a get well soon gift and this is what I get? This is your gratitude? Puns? You disappoint me, stellina."
"On this, the day of your daughter's wedding?"
"Don't reduce me to a stereotype, you know how I hate that," he said as if he hadn't just done the very same not a full minute prior.
As he scolded her without any bite, he moved to the window the room boasted and pushed it all the way open. Then he moved the flowers on the ledge, setting them down on the floor, and waved his wand towards the heavy wooden door to her room. It clicked, locking itself. Only afterwards did he lift the joint between his lips, lighting it with the tip of his wand.
"Are you joining me?" he asked, his words muffled.
"Is it a good idea? With the paranoia?"
"It's not paranoia," he paused to blow out smoke "If the fears are based in reality."
Well. He had her there. Scooting off of the bed, she adjusted her joggers and then moved to join him, accepting the joint and practically leaning all the way out of the window so she could take a few puffs.
"Do you want to back out? Of our little performance?"
"Do you?"
"No. I told Sabrina that this morning."
Although it hadn't been easy - even amidst reassurances that they'd up the security further still. The wards, she'd assured her, would be extended from a screen between them and the audience, to what would essentially be a box encasing her and Adriano throughout the entirety of their performance. Nobody would be able to attack, not from the rafters, not from backstage, not from anywhere.
In theory.
"I know, she told me. I'm not asking what you're going to do, I'm asking what you want to do."
"If I quit, they win," she pointed out.
"Your quitting doesn't have anything to do with them winning or losing, Marilyn, you're not going to win the war through the art of dance."
"I know that," she allowed "But this doesn't end if I stop, either. It's too late for that. They're not going to sit back and go eh, well she stopped doing her little indie performances, no harm done, guess we'll let it go. I'm on their shit-list now. Only way off of it is in a body bag."
"And that's your plan, is it? Suicide?"
"Of course not. But if I don't get up on that stage tonight and do my little dance, it sends a message."
She handed the joint back to him, and then kicked the ball back into his court along with it.
"You haven't answered. What about you?"
Adriano hesitated, shaking his head as he took a long draw.
Marilyn continued "I need you to hear what I'm saying, and really take it at face value. There'll be no problem between us, ever, if you back out. If I were you, I might do the same."
"I doubt that," he scoffed "And I'm not doing it, either. Not now. But…but I cannot promise that I never will."
"Good," she nodded.
"Good?"
"That tells me that you're only still doing it because you want to - and you know where the exit is. The second you feel the urge to take it, the very second, you go for it, yeah? Promise me that."
He chuckled - a tired, humourless chuckle as he shook his head yet again "I promise. You're too brave to be younger than me, you know that? It's emasculating."
"I'm younger by a year. And not even a full year," she rolled her eyes, accepting the joint back "It's not like I'm twelve. If I was you'd be a right wrong'un for supplying me with drugs."
"Too long among the Gryffindors, I think, that's what did this to you. The Potter effect," he muttered "Speaking of - which one of these lovely offerings is from your Hogwarts boy?"
"None of 'em."
And then she wondered if she should've just lied. But the weed was kicking in, and she found herself having to perch on the window ledge just to take the weight off of her legs, which were beginning to feel unreliable.
"Oh."
"It's been less than twenty-four hours," she said "And…it's complicated."
"I don't doubt that, nothing is simple these days. Perhaps he's sifting through the finest offerings the Wizarding botanist industry has to offer."
"Probably not - I'm not expecting anything. Here, you can have the last of it."
Adriano took one more draw, and then flicked what was left out of the window, out towards the rocky cliffs below.
"A boy who writes you that many letters can send you flowers. Even if you are still pretending only to be friends."
Marilyn gave him an unimpressed look, but she didn't deny it. Denying it would only make her look more guilty - and it likely wouldn't do much good. Flirt as they might with one another for fun, Adriano was just a friend, and he therefore knew fine well what friendship with her looked like. Enough, at least, to be able to tell even from an extreme distance that it wasn't what was going on with her and "David the Ravenclaw".
"It's not that it's the…the optics. It wouldn't look right. His family…"
"They're on the other side?"
"What? No! Of course not. Christ. But they're not Muggle-born either, and they wouldn't approve of him putting himself in danger with any big shows of support."
She wondered if he'd still turn up for their little meet-up. Or if she should turn up for it at all. It was highly likely that he'd deem it too dangerous to turn up to…and if he did, he'd give her the bollocking of a lifetime. Deserved or no, it wasn't something to look forward to.
The high was washing over her - like she'd just slipped into a hot bath at the end of a long performance. Adriano had been right, it was what she'd needed. Her problems would still be waiting for her when it wore off, but they'd be no worse for being ignored for a couple of hours.
"Cowards," he snorted "Him, too, if he listens."
"I don't think it's that simple," she sighed, shaking her head "People…they're just doing what they need to do, at the minute. That looks different for everybody. These are shit times."
"Your year of studying under Dumbledore's eye has you speaking like him," Adriano teased.
Marilyn thought about that for a moment, and then she snorted - which quickly devolved into a fit of giggles. Giggles which Adriano joined in on despite not knowing what she was laughing at.
"What? What is it?"
"Just- imagine Dumbledore getting up and standing before all of the students, sighing, and saying very seriously these are shit times."
Grin widening, Adriano laughed, raking his free hand through his hair before muttering ruefully "If anything could make him do so, it would be the state of everything now."
