A/N: So I had a reader express an interest in a flashback scene of Marilyn first going to Fred and George after she lost her position in the ballet company – it's not in this chapter because I just couldn't make it work, but I have a few ideas of where it could slot in later :)


"I'm curious," George stood, leaning against the door frame of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' back office.

"Does that make you Curious George, then?" Marilyn asked dully, leafing through piles of parchment in her bid to organise them.

"A Muggle reference?" he hazarded a guess.

"A low-hanging one - just couldn't resist. What are you curious about?"

"What you're doing two weeks from today - the first of August."

"Turning seventeen, mostly."

"No," he grinned his disbelief "On that exact day?"

"On that exact day."

"Why didn't you say anything?" he entered the office properly, taking up the seat at the second desk the room boasted.

She shrugged slightly "Didn't want to make a big thing of it."

"Well do you have plans? Beyond moping?"

"Nope, I was planning to make a full day of it. Do some really deep-reaching self pitying, you know? Only wear clothes with elastic waistbands, eat my body weight in very expensive ice cream - you know, the kind that has caramel and bits of brownie in it. That sort of thing."

"Do we pay you enough for that?" he frowned.

"Fortunately so."

"Oh. Well in that case, you're welcome," he said "But I was going to recommend something that might be a bit less, er, completely and hopelessly depressing."

"Oh?"

"Bill's wedding. To Fleur Delacour - you remember her? It's at the Burrow, it's going to be a whole big fancy do, and you're very good at seeming respectable up until you speak and the accent ruins it."

"George Weasley are you asking me to be your date?" she teased.

"Mm, I don't know if I'd use the word date…"

"Shy, are we?"

"Nah, just hopelessly out of your league."

"I seem to remember a very underwhelming kiss that says otherwise."

George gasped his offence "Low blow, Baxter! And to your boss, as well!"

"Boo hoo," she smiled tiredly at him to take the bite out of her words.

"And I place the blame for that underwhelming factor squarely on your shoulders, by the way."

"Convenient."

"D'you want a rematch to find out who's right?"

He wriggled his eyebrows as he asked her - just to make sure there was no danger of her taking that offer seriously.

"And to your employee, as well," she echoed his earlier words back to him "I'm sure that's grounds for a sexual harassment case, you know. I could sue the pants off of you."

"Marilyn Baxter," George gave a long-suffering sigh, closing the door to the office with a wave of his wand "When you came to us six months ago, destitute…"

"Still on a full-time ballet wage," she corrected drily.

It didn't run out for another month and a half.

"At the mercy of the elements," he continued.

"What, the light drizzle?"

"So very clearly searching for something, deep, deep down…"

"Yeah. A job. I was pretty open about that. The clue was when I asked 'George, Fred, can you please give me a job?'"

"I knew then what sort of task was being set before me," he said.

"Management?"

"A calling, if you will."

"I will not."

Despite the annoyance she did her best to lace her tone with, she couldn't help but fight back a smile.

"A noble cause," he pressed on grandly "A higher purpose."

"Oh, Christ."

"Much like his, yeah," he sniffed "I knew what it was then that I had to do."

"Make sure my summer wasn't wedding-less?"

"If it took proposing to you myself," he said solemnly.

"Well, remind me to thank Bill and Fleur for saving us from that eventuality."

"I'm proud of you for hiding your broken heart so well. It's impressive, Baxter, truly."

It was difficult to say what part of his sentence had her remembering Draco - the dry use of her surname, or the allusion to her broken heart, however sarcastic it might've been. Shit, the sarcastic humour was probably just yet another thing that reminded her of Draco, too. Either way, it all had the combined effect of the smile freezing on her lips, then becoming more of a grimace than anything else.

George, of course, caught it and his face softened somewhat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"You're better off shot of them."

Well, at least he didn't know where her mind had actually gone.

"Yeah," she replied lightly "Who needs the most prestigious ballet company in the Wizarding World, anyway?"

"That's the spirit!" he grinned "In all seriousness, though, I can't allow you to spend your seventeenth sat about that poky little den of a flat you have, alone and depressed. It's too tragic. I can't let it go on. But given that I also can't particularly ignore my brother's wedding to celebrate with you…"

"And you call yourself a friend," she shook her head with a sigh.

"Oh, trust me, I wish I could - the preparations alone are unreal. At this point I'm fairly certain that if I ever take the leap, I'll either elope, or do it in my pyjamas at the breakfast table just to save the bloody fuss, but if I ducked out mum would have my hide, and the death of Bill's brother might just take a bit of the shine off of the nuptials."

"Depends on the brother. He's got quite a few others."

"Yeah, but those others include Percy - who, thank Merlin, will actually not be there - and Ronald. Fred is the only real competition there. Charlie, too, I suppose, but only because he handles dragons. That always adds a cool factor."

"Not a hot factor? Given the, you know," she used a hand motion that was supposed to mimic fire-breathing.

It earned her a look that was so thoroughly unimpressed that it also reminded her of Draco, too. But it morphed to sincerity too quickly for her to really sit back and celebrate her victory.

"Come to the wedding with me. Please. If it sweetens the deal, it'll really piss Fred off, because mum will be walking on air if I bring a ballerina to this thing, especially because you're actually fairly decent at pretending to be all sweet and nice when the situation calls for it."

Marilyn rather suspected that the identity of the ballerina might take a bit of the shine off of it. From what she knew, she was notorious for reasons not exactly to do with bravery among George's crew.

"Is it an open bar?" she asked.

"Of course, we're not animals."

"No, that's my lot - according to some very angry masked individuals these days," she said "Fine, I'll come."

"I should've led with that, eh? The promise of free booze would tempt any northerner."

"No, just anybody tethered to you for a whole event."

"Working on that sunny and sweet demeanour already, I like it," he grinned "Good! It'll be fun. I was starting to think I'd have to kidnap you to get you over."

Wisdom told her he probably wasn't even joking with that threat. But he was continuing before she could respond.

"By the way - this arrived for you, addressed here. I was going to give you grief about a secret admirer, but now I'm guessing it's a birthday gift, which is a bit less exciting."

"Depends on who it's from, really," she murmured, accepting it carefully.

"She says while looking distinctly unexcited," George pointed out.

Shifting in her seat, she hesitated and then put whatever acting skills her time on the stage had instilled with her to use, sitting back and sighing with a shrug and an annoyed grimace.

"Anybody I was close to got my address once I was settled back in England," she pointed out.

That list amounted to Adriano, and the company - so they could contact her about anything that might concern her wages. She might've been bitter, but she wasn't about to pass up an easy bit of money to sit on.

Of course, there was one person who was pretty much a permanent fixture in her mind these days, who it would've been near suicidal to contact with an address slip due to the likelihood of it falling into the wrong hands. If she was a betting gal, she'd put money on there being more wrong hands than right ones in Malfoy Manor.

"That only leaves the people who would only be able to reach me here, after the Prophet printed that thrilling think piece of theirs. Like there's not a sodding war going on. Making this," she held up the box "Either an annoying bit of arse-kissing…or pity."

Or a third, secret thing.

"Let's see what their pity's worth, then," he wriggled his eyebrows.

Smiling a little, like her chest wasn't so tight that it felt like every breath in might split her skin, she undid the silver latch of the box and flipped the lid open - 'incidentally' angling it so that George wouldn't be able to see it before she did. If it was something that would require a bit of explaining, she at least wanted time to dream up that explanation first.

In the middle of the box sat a gleaming silver charm in the shape of the outline of a heart. The middle was hollow, save for one sparkling blue gemstone set into the centre. Marilyn blinked down at it, her mind falling utterly silent. Curiosity apparently having grown too great for something as insignificant as patience, George rose and moved to stand behind her, leaning over her to peer at the box.

"No note?"

"No note," she said - and then she lied "I wonder who sent it."

"Beauxbatons blue. Looks like somebody's upset you didn't return for NEWTs."

If that was the explanation that George wanted to go with, she wasn't going to waste energy coming up with a story of her own. But it wasn't Beauxbatons' own particular shade of blue. No, she'd been surrounded by that for enough of her life to know it when she saw it. This shade of blue was significantly lighter, and tinged with the slightest hint of green. Some would've thought it muddied the gemstone and ruined the look of it, but Marilyn knew better - because it was the exact same colour as her eyes.

Christ, but she felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs. Not only was she still on his mind, but she was on his mind vividly enough for him to be able to replicate her eye colour perfectly.

"Of course," he added conversationally "If they were a serious contender, they'd have sprung for the chain that the pendant is supposed to go on."

"Maybe the next one will send just a chain and I can have them duel to the death for the honour of my time and attention."

It was a testament to the sheer amount of shite that she so often effortlessly talked that she was able to do so now, when she was only half present in this conversation - hell, in this room. No, the moment she opened that box, her consciousness had been hooked and yanked out of her body and dragged all the way to Wiltshire.

"Spoken with all of the modesty a girl could possibly have," he teased.

Marilyn gave a tired smile - and this time her hesitance wasn't thanks to her reeling mind. Seven months ago she'd have laughed and proclaimed that modesty was for people who didn't know what they were about. Not truly. But these days she was one of those people, whatever jokes she might make, so there didn't seem to be much use in mocking them. The thing she'd built her entire life around had been yanked out of her grasp before she'd even truly succeeded at it, and most days she wasn't really sure what she'd been left to work with as far as going forward was concerned.

Her arrogant shtick (which usually could be matched only by that of Draco's…in hindsight it was no wonder they'd gravitated towards one another) only worked when she had something to show for it. What did she have now? Sod all.

But the only thing more pathetic than that fact was acknowledging it.

Sighing, she chucked the box into her work bag like it was of little consequence to her before turning to the three piles of letters on the desk before her "Right - all the stuff on the left is what I've taken care of, the middle is stuff that needs your signature, and the right is stuff that's down to you to handle entirely. Sound good?"

"You've yet to fail us," George shrugged happily, waving his wand so that each pile either went to the filing cabinets at the far side of the room, or his desk, depending on what she'd said "You're definitely coming to the wedding, then?"

"Sure, but I might need your help getting there."

She'd yet to visit the Burrow - not for lack of invitation, but because George let slip to her that over the last few years, they'd been apprised of her 'former' "Death Eater fetish" (to use his words), and the last thing she wanted was to sit at a dinner table, with Draco as the elephant in the room, while she already spent most of her time these days thinking either about him, or her lost career, while trying her utmost to think of neither.

At least she knew now that the feeling was mutual on one of those scores.

A wedding, though, sounded far more bearable. At a wedding, she'd be the last person anybody gave a crap about…and George was many things, but cruel was not among them. He wouldn't invite her if he thought it might go badly. And he was right - she did need a break from moping.


The moment the door to her little box of a studio apartment was shut behind her, Marilyn was all but tearing into her bag to pull out the box again. Part of her didn't even dare believe it was there - certain that she'd open it up to find that it was actually one of a pair of earrings, and there'd be a note in there that she'd previously missed. From- from Adriano, like he hadn't already sent her a card and a gift, or from Beauxbatons, or even a pity gift from Sabrina. Anybody but Draco.

But she opened the box, and the charm was still there - the fixture at the top identical to those of the other charms on the bracelet that still lived permanently on her wrist. That was when tears fogged her vision. Sighing heavily, she abandoned her bag, and her shoes, and her coat, and staggered numbly to her bed, sitting down on it with her legs crossed, staring at the charm. It was a comfort and a sadness both to her, this reassurance that she was still on his mind. Draco Malfoy was hardly the sort to send out gestures all willy-nilly, but here he was, remembering her birthday and the precise shade of her eyes both. In the middle of a war.

It…had been a long six months. Her flat wasn't bad, akin to the sort of digs a student could expect in the Muggle world. And her job was far from bad, for she was a hard worker and the twins were exceedingly fair bosses, but it was all bleakened by the fact that it all felt wrong. It wasn't where she was supposed to be. Months of going through the motions with her head down, not thinking about the long-term for the sake of her own sanity. Months that felt even longer for the communication black-out that had taken root between them, sorely missing . And she understood it. Hell, she'd contributed to it. This wasn't a game anymore - it wasn't a bit of teenage rebellion, or even youthful stupidity. If no longer writing to one another could keep them alive, it was the price that had to be paid, and she did so while ignoring the voice in her head that insisted his silence meant guilt - the one that mimicked Harry, Ron, Hermione, George, Fred, and just about every other fucker in the Wizarding World who believed that Draco poisoned every room he was in just by breathing in it.

She knew him better than that. Which was exactly how she could miss him so sorely. She wished he'd been around to make her problems feel drastically lessened thanks to one dry comment and a compliment delivered as though it were fact. A well, the WIB is a second rate company so it would be fitting that they rid themselves of their first-rate dancers - they'll regret it in the end, Baxter. Then, when the world was robbed of Dumbledore and she finally connected the puzzle-pieces, she wished she could write to him. Go to him. Offer him the comfort and the affection and the understanding that none of the folk on his side could clearly be arsed to offer, because it broke her heart now that she knew what had truly weighed on him when they'd last seen one another. She'd known it was bad, but she never could have known it was that bad.

George had been the one to tell her - turning up to the shop ashen-faced the morning after it had happened, explaining numbly that the shop would not open that day, and that Dumbledore was dead. He heard the story from Ron, who had heard it from Harry. That the task had been set on Draco's shoulders, but that he "couldn't manage it" and so Snape had done it instead. Marilyn had been certain that her legs would give way beneath her when she heard it all - George's clarification that Draco's failure to do the foul deed was a matter of willingness rather than technical ability perhaps the only thing that had her waiting 'til she was back in her flat to start hyperventilating. That day was the closest she'd come to cracking and sending him a letter after all.

Draco's supposed failure - his victory, in her eyes - was a small mercy amidst everything. A very small one. But Dumbledore's death meant nothing good for her kind, and her endeavour to keep her head down and take everything on an hour-by-hour basis gained new motivation as the world continued falling apart, and she had to reckon with the fact that her survival in the coming years (or maybe even months) lay on whether a lad barely a full day older than her could kill the darkest Wizard of all time.

If anybody could do it, it was Harry…but that was a really fucking tall order, and his success could very well mean Draco's demise.

Everything was just wrong. It took concerted effort every day for her not to sit and think about where they might be if He Who Must Not Be Named had never existed. She and Draco could have gotten together and broken up fifty times by now, driving everybody around them mad with their petty teenage bullshit. His parents would disapprove of her because she was working class rather than because of her blood status, and those around her would think she shouldn't bother with him because he was a right prickly little arse when he wanted to be, and not because he'd been born into a sodding cult.

But, as she took up the charm out of the box and held it against her lips, closing her eyes and sighing quietly, she couldn't regret any of it. She couldn't wish they'd never had that Muggle Studies class together.

God, she was glad the wedding was going to have an open bar.


A/N: I sorely underestimated how much I'd missed writing George and Marilyn and then I blacked out and wrote four pages of them talking absolute shite ;_;

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