A/N: A time skip was in order just to keep things moving and stop the plot from dragging - I'm pretty excited about it! Just a quick note first though, in terms of differences between the books and the movies and which one I will be following. In the seventh book, Draco continues to attend Hogwarts in his seventh year. I had to look it up because I couldn't remember, but he was at the manor to identify Harry because it was during the school holidays. In the movies, though, he stops attending Hogwarts after his sixth year - he says as much in the sixth movie, that he won't be attending for another year after that, because Pansy gets all confused about it when he says so.

I'm going to be following the example set by the movies in this case, just because it gives me more room to play around with what happens, but also because it just makes more sense to me. I think Draco would be too traumatised from the previous year and the state of his life now to be able to seriously consider going back to school and studying for NEWTs if he had the option not to do so.

Anyway, a chunk of this is heavily reliant on the movie dialogue. I generally try to cut that kind of thing down as much as possible, but it felt necessary here, and it gives us the opportunity to see it from Draco's perspective - knowing Marilyn, no less.


Six Months Later

Draco's former Muggle Studies teacher was suspended in mid-air above the dining room table. Unconscious. It would've been a difficult thing to ignore under any circumstances, but given that her presence made him think of the girl he'd spent the last six months doing his utmost not to think about, ignoring Professor Burbage's presence was impossible.

A few copies of the Daily Prophet lay strewn around the table, the most recent of which was at the head of the table, in front of the Dark Lord himself. One of the older editions was in front of Bellatrix, who took great joy in ripping off shreds, rolling those shreds into little projectiles, and flinging them up at Burbage's motionless form. A few scraps stuck in her hair, or in her robes, but most ricocheted off of her and hit others around the table…all of whom carefully ignored it, so as not to provoke his aunt's wrath.

He had grown used to tuning out his surroundings. Perhaps that wasn't the phrase - for he was still aware of them. One did not fail to pay attention to the Dark Lord. Draco was always aware, he just…retreated inwards. What happened played out somewhere above the surface, while he watched idly from somewhere far away. It was an easier coping mechanism to cling to when he was alone. When there was no fear that the Killing Curse, or even the Cruciatus Curse, would zip across the table because it might amuse the Wizard sitting at the head of it. But Draco tried his best all the same…although it became more difficult when Professor Burbage began to stir - twitching and gasping where she was suspended in mid-air. Bella snickered.

The meeting did not begin in earnest until Snape arrived - his footsteps echoing through the halls of Malfoy Manor, preceding him before they saw so much as his shadow. He drew to a halt at the end of the long table. Draco did not look at him, seeing him only in his peripheral vision as he stared at the patch of table before him. Looking at Snape would be a gateway to looking at Burbage. Or at any one of the newspapers atop the table.

"Severus," the Dark Lord greeted silkily "I was beginning to worry you had lost your way. Come. We've saved you a seat."

Snape obeyed, taking the seat that had been left vacant for him and offering no explanation for his lateness.

"You bring news, I trust?" the Dark Lord enquired.

"It will happen Saturday next - at nightfall."

"I've heard differently, my lord," Yaxley cut in "Dawlish, the Auror, has let slip that the Potter boy will not be moved until the thirtieth of this month. The day before he turns seventeen."

Draco did look up now, to find that Snape watched Yaxley impassively, unbothered by the contradiction and how it might incur the Dark Lord's wrath - depending on who he decided to believe.

"This is a false trail," he said simply "The Auror Office no longer plays any part in the protection of Harry Potter. Those closest to him believe we have infiltrated the Ministry."

"Well," the Death Eater to Draco's right rasped with a chuckle "They've got that right, haven't they?"

That earned laughter around the table - and even a terrible, cold smile from the Dark Lord himself before he spoke.

"What say you, Pius?"

At the other end of the table, Thicknesse replied.

"One hears many things, my lord. Whether the truth is among them is not clear."

Draco's shoulders ached with the tension held within them, even despite the fact that the Dark Lord breathed a soft laugh. He knew how quickly that could change.

"Spoken like a true politician. You will, I think, prove most useful, Pius," there was a grim sort of promise in those words before he turned his gaze back to Snape "Where will he be taken, the boy?"

"To a safe house. Most likely the home of someone in the Order. I'm told it's been given every manner of protection possible - once there, it will be impractical to attack him."

His aunt Bella cleared her throat and then spoke up, leaning forward as she did so "My lord. I'd like to volunteer myself for this task. I want to kill the boy."

A cry interrupted her, and whatever calculated ease had been fixed to the Dark Lord's face as he shouted furiously across the hall.

"Wormtail! Have I not spoken to you about keeping our guest quiet?"

An odd sense of relief threatened to well within Draco then. If the Dark Lord was occupied with disciplining Wormtail after this meeting, he could scurry off and be left well enough alone. Wormtail stammered out his apologies and fled in the direction of the dungeons to rectify his error.

"As inspiring as I find your bloodlust, Bellatrix, I must be the one to kill Harry Potter."

Bella shrank back in her chair as though chided.

"But…" he continued "I face an unfortunate complication. That my wand and Potter's share the same core. They are, in some ways…twins."

The word once again had Draco training his eyes away from the papers on the table - some of them opened to a photograph of a pretty blonde girl standing between two lanky redheaded gits, all three unaware of the photographer standing outside of the doorway that framed them, snapping the shot. Rising, the Dark Lord walked silently towards where he and his parents sat.

"We can wound, but not fatally harm one another. If I am to kill him, I must do it with another's wand. Come…"

Draco's jaw twitched and his eyes fell to his lap as one pale, spidery hand wrapped around the backrest of the chair he sat on for a moment.

"...Surely one of you would like the honour? Hm?"

He moved past him, a few chairs down, and Draco almost had the lack of sense to feel relieved. Until he stopped. And then he turned back.

"What about you…Lucius?"

Draco's father sat to his left, and then the Dark Lord returned to them in order to stand behind his chair. Hesitantly, Draco turned his head in time to see his father look up at the Dark Lord, disbelief and dread mingling on his face.

"My lord?" he asked softly.

It was likely as close to a 'no' as he would ever dare give.

"My lord?" the Dark Lord echoed mockingly - and this time there was no laughter from anybody as he extended his hand "I require your wand."

Poorly concealed reluctance was written all over his father's face - but Draco suspected he wouldn't be punished for that. No, in fact he'd like it all the more that he would still do something he so clearly did not wish to. His mother watched on, sitting at his father's other side, with the barest hint of a frown on her face. Not only because with one request, the Dark Lord was essentially forcing his father to live as a Muggle, but likely because she knew as well as Draco did that this could get so much worse.

Drawing up his cane, his father removed his wand from it slowly - and then held it in two trembling hands before he moved in the barest, slightest of increments towards the grasping claw of their master. He continued to stare at it even as the Dark Lord wrapped his long, white fingers around the snake head grip.

"Do I detect elm?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ah."

As if it was of little consequence, he snapped the handle from the wand. His father flinched as he did so, and his mother finally looked away. Draco could not.

"And the core?"

His father made to respond, but had to clear his throat and begin again when he attempted to do so "Dragon heartstring, my lord."

"Dragon heartstring," the Dark Lord echoed before he'd even fully finished, a strong thread of mockery still in his voice "Hmm."

He threw the snakehead handle to the table. This time Draco flinched along with his father. When he looked around the table, he found some - Snape, primarily - watching the scene with grim, stony expressions. But others? Others watched it with poorly concealed smugness. Most of them the same people who had vied for their approval and their friendship not three years prior.

The Dark Lord turned to the right, facing him, and Draco swallowed - wondering if he would be the next target. But instead, he tutted as though just remembering something and lifted his newly stolen wand. Professor Burbage's suspended form began to drift forth until it floated directly above the table. She whimpered in response.

"To those of you who do not know, we are joined tonight by Miss Charity Burbage, who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her speciality was Muggle Studies."

Memories drifted to the forefront of Draco's mind unbidden. Baxter, mimicking his handwriting to fill in the answers of a quiz he did not fill out when Burbage announced that those who failed would have to come back at lunchtime to try again. The way she winked at him when he asked her how the hell she knew the answers - unaware of her blood status. The snickers that the Dark Lord's words drew had the memory twisting around in the pit of his stomach.

"It is Miss Burbage's belief that Muggles…are not so different from us."

Baxter's elbow nudging his accidentally as they worked on homework at the back of the class, sitting side by side. Well, she was doing homework, he was pretending to and musing whether he thought she was a half-blood, or just one of the lesser pure-bloods. He could have easily believed both. All of the many letters they'd shared in the two years that followed, during which he was quite certain nobody had ever understood him so well - nor tried to do so, for that matter.

"She would, given her way…have us mate with them."

Baxter, sprawled out beneath him in the bed of that hotel room, crying out in pleasure as she-

His aunt Bella gagged dramatically at the notion amidst rounds of groans and laughter. Draco's fingernails cut into the skin of his palms beneath the table until he was sure they would soon draw blood.

"To her, the mixture of Magical and Muggle blood is not an abomination, but something to be encouraged."

Draco looked up without entirely meaning to, and locked gazes with Snape's dark, impervious eyes. Whether he knew what was on his mind or not was debatable (although Draco knew what he personally suspected) but either way, he did not let on at all. And then Burbage spoke.

"S-Severus, please," she sobbed, and then whimpered out "W…We're friends."

If this was what he did to somebody who supported fraternising with Muggles and half-bloods, what would he do to those who actually did it? To his followers who failed to uphold the proper values, and to Muggleborns who forgot their place-

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green struck across the table, and Burbage's corpse thudded onto the table directly in front of Draco. Only fear kept him still in his seat - and he knew that fear showed on his face. Snape met his gaze again, his expression stony. Draco did what he could to match it.

"Nagini," the Dark Lord said softly "Dinner."

Draco's eyes returned to his lap as the snake enjoyed the meal its master had bestowed upon it.

"Of course," the Dark Lord continued, as though the beast on the table was eating something of little more consequence than a dead field mouse "She was not the only Witch who failed to recognise her place."

Flipping a few pages after Burbage's essay for the Prophet, he came to a stop on the page that a handful of the other papers were already open at, leaving no illusion in Draco's mind that this topic was incidental. It was a 'where are they now?' style piece, filler content more than anything, not even taking up one full page where it looked back on the incident six months thereafter. On the page, Baxter nodded attentively as she listened to what one of the Weasley twins said to her, toting an armful of mail that she'd no doubt been tasked with handling. When one was done, she turned to the other and said something clever - judging by how he smirked at her when she finished. Then she turned her back to the camera, making for the winding staircase in the centre of the shop.

All things considered, she looked good. Tired. But well.

"My lord, we dealt with the ballerina bitch," Bella said, always eager for another pat on the head "My sister and I."

"You did," the Dark Lord indulged her "And you did so admirably, but not permanently. The message was a fair one, but we are reaching a time where it would be prudent to truly reinforce our point."

"I'll finish what I started," Bella said - all but ardently "I can go to Diagon Alley tonight, my lord, this very night."

Draco felt certain that he was going to vomit. If not because of Nagini's maw and its slow progress up the shins of his former professor, then certainly because of this. But what could he say? He was at these things because he had no choice, he never spoke during them unless explicitly called upon to do so (which in itself was rare), his plan of action otherwise being to remain as unnoticeable as possible and leave the table with his life and all of his limbs. And both of his parents. To have this be the first time he spoke up would be foolish. The Dark Lord was no fool.

"That may not be wise," Snape intoned coolly.

Bella glared at him, but he was unperturbed, and when the Dark Lord turned to look at him he continued, face impassive.

"My lord, the mudblood clearly has strong ties with the Weasley clan," he said the latter part drily, earning some scoffs and snickers from their brethren "If we were to strike now - at such an insignificant target, no less, it would drive them directly into lockdown. They would be on their guard. They may change their plans. And for what? A diversion we shall be free to pursue at a later date."

Draco could feel his fists trembling where they sat atop his knees beneath the table, but all of the energy he had was being driven into keeping his face devoid of emotion as the Dark Lord considered Snape's words…and Bella's bloodlust.

Finally he inclined his head.

"A matter of priority? Perhaps not. But I should look warmly upon the one who puts an end to the so very brave Marilyn Baxter should they come across an opportunity to do so. It goes without saying that Potter is the priority. However, certainly once our world has been brought truly to heel, I see no reason for her to continue breathing long thereafter."

It was difficult to feel relieved, with an endnote like that. The thirtieth was less than a month away - far less - and there would be a price on her head thereafter.


Unlike the last time Marilyn Baxter had been a topic of conversation in his circles, when Draco shut his bedroom door behind him he did not fall apart. He didn't even crack a little. It had been a long six months between now and then. Apparently they'd managed to harden him, if the sense of solemn determination that threatened to wash over him was anything to go by. That was good. It did not, however, help him with his dilemma - beyond preventing him from allowing fear to rule his thinking. It was still there, it always was as of late, but it had long become his new baseline. He'd given up on wishing for a day when it would no longer be so.

But he hadn't given up on all but praying that his loved ones would get out of all of this alive - no matter which side won. Although the sad fact of the matter was that the Dark Lord's defeat seemed the safest option for them, even if it put them on the wrong side of the war. And where Marilyn was concerned? That was the only option.

He'd been good. He hadn't contacted her since the last attack - and either she'd gotten the message and followed suit, or she took his silence as guilt. It was difficult to get high and mighty over that considering his mother and aunt had been behind it, and he could insist all he liked to himself that it still didn't make it his fault, but that self-righteousness lasted right up until it was announced that Marilyn Baxter would no longer dance with the Wizarding International Ballet.

The verdict would've destroyed her. Nobody would ever mistake him for a great master empath, he had the self-awareness to know that well enough, but when photos surfaced a month or so later of Marilyn rubbing elbows with the Weasley dolts in that absurd shop of theirs, he didn't even have it in him to be annoyed about it. Well, not once he noted the dark circles below her eyes and the strained nature of her smile in the photograph as she turned and nodded in response to something one of her new bosses was saying.

Their last night together - their first night together, in a manner of speaking - was something that seldom strayed from his mind. The part of him that strived to be all impressively stoic tried to insist that if it was the last interaction they were to ever have, it wouldn't be a bad thing at all. Unfortunately, that part was rather drowned out by the fact that he didn't bloody want it to be the last time they had anything to do with one another.

Things had eased up now. Marginally. That display at the table was a stark reminder to never grow comfortable, and it wasn't even a semblance of the true horror the Dark Lord could inflict for his own amusement. They were hardly in his good books, but the longer things pressed on, the more Draco suspected he did not have good books. Even his aunt Bella, with her simpering, sycophantic fanaticism, was hardly treated with warmth beyond vague amusement. Unwavering, psychotic loyalty was expected, not appreciated. And anything less was punished severely. Draco had even begun to wonder if the fabled glory days he'd grown up hearing so much about had really existed, or just been a product of rose-tinted spectacles on his parents' behalf. He couldn't much imagine the Dark Lord being much sunnier during the first war.

Even had Marilyn never existed, even had he never sat down beside her during that fated Muggle Studies lesson, he knew he'd think the same now. It wasn't like it was her existence that kept their leader cruel and foul tempered, or even impacted the Dark Lord in any way at all.

But it did impact Draco. The tiny, sleek black box buried at the bottom of his dresser drawer proved that well enough. There were no eyes on him. Not now that Dumbledore was dead. The risk of doing nothing was greater than the risk of doing something. Or so he told himself.

It was her birthday soon - the box had been sitting there for a month already with that in mind. He'd already turned seventeen, it would be a small thing to nip out, borrow an owl, and send it anonymously to her new place of work. She'd know who it was from, for even if the Weasley's new business venture meant they could afford such a thing, they didn't have his good taste. And they wouldn't think to add to the bracelet she still wore. Or at least he hoped they wouldn't.

It just so happened that the gesture might come in handy now - if he needed it to precede a warning. Draco only hoped he'd have the courage to give that warning if and when the time came. Or, failing that, the stupidity.

First, though, he would need to charm it correctly. A charm on a charm. Perhaps she'd see the humour in that, if she ever found out about it.