"Oh."

"Oh?"

"...Oh."

Marilyn was more than familiar with what shock felt like - and the way that it snuck in as numbness that would eventually give way to a hell of a lot. This didn't feel like that. This just felt…empty. In fact, she found herself searching for something to feel more than she actually felt anything. And while she couldn't say she was thrilled, she also couldn't say she felt much more than she did when she heard Potterwatch list the newest list of fatalities suffered by strangers in the war. Her greatest source of disturbance was more at her lack of grief than any actual grief itself.

"When I say gone, I did mean that she-"

"Dead," Marilyn interrupted flatly "Yeah. I know."

"I…was expecting more of a reaction," he said slowly.

"Yeah. Well. I was expecting more of a mother."

She regretted it as soon as she said it. Not because she didn't mean it, but because she wished that she didn't mean it. That she wasn't the girl who found out her mum was dead and felt…well, if not nothing then very little. And then she just felt sick - thoroughly, physically unwell. Draco's hand slid from hers.

"She was your mother, Marilyn. I know that things were difficult between the two of you," Marilyn scoffed at that part, "But you can't…you can't just feel nothing at her dying."

"Roll up your sleeve and show me your tattoo while you lecture me on morals, Draco."

Another thing she regretted saying as soon as she said it - and the sort of thing that would've sparked an absolutely blazing row between the two of them a few years ago. Instead, he only bared his teeth in a bitter grimace of a smile, and breathed an equally humourless laugh.

"There's more," he said - after a silence that might have either been very long or pretty short.

Marilyn wasn't sure.

"More?"

Her mother hadn't known anything about where she'd gone, had she? No. There was no way. She'd never even heard of WIB, she could barely ever recall the name of Beauxbatons, so it was impossible that she might've known what Marilyn had gone on to do following both. If Fred and George had no idea where she was, her mother sure as hell didn't.

"Your ballet mistress. From fourth year - the one with the…bun."

"Madame Garnier? What about her?"

"They got her, too."

"Got her?"

Marilyn stared at him, stricken. She knew damn well what it meant. He'd just used the same phrasing to talk about her mother - but she hoped, she prayed, that it meant something different this time around. Draco's doleful look quashed that hope.

"She's…she's in France, though. Things aren't so bad there…he hasn't got a hold…"

"Not in the way the Ministry is his now," Draco sighed "They only went to question her. When they did, they found her harbouring British citizens - who are technically under Ministry jurisdiction. They released an edict over summer, you'll remember, that all British Witches and Wizards must attend Hogwarts this year. They didn't take it particularly well."

"That doesn't make sense, though. Harbouring British students? I was her only British dancer when I was at Beauxbatons…"

"I expect you inspired a few to follow in your footsteps."

That was like a punch to the throat. Once, just once, she'd have liked Draco to read up on the concept of tact. He was continuing before she could consider whether she wanted to admit that out loud.

"Some of them were Muggle-born, and evidently they chose to go to her for…for sanctuary instead of reporting to Hogwarts, or the Ministry. She refused to give them up without a fight. None survived, and she took out two of his in the process."

"Would they have started sniffing around what she was up to if she'd never taught me?"

It was then that he found that tact she'd just been hoping for. He remained silent, directing his stony gaze at her little campfire. No. Of course they wouldn't have.

Marilyn stood, and then found herself at a loss as to what to do next. She couldn't quite feel her legs beneath her, and her insides felt hollow, like they were gnawing at themselves. Crying wasn't an option. Not because she'd begrudge the tears shed over her old ballet mistress, but because she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop if she started. If she started freaking out, she'd spiral. Spiralling meant death.

Sucking in a deep breath of the cold night air, she faltered when that breath caught in her throat, and a high-pitched pathetic whimper snuck out of her throat. She closed her eyes - in part to hide the tears building in them, but also out of some vain hope that if she kept them shut, everything would cease to exist, and she wouldn't have to deal with it all.

Behind her, she heard Draco rise to his feet. She hadn't even been aware of how tense her shoulders were until one of his hands landed heavily between her shoulder blades. When she didn't shake him off, he smoothed the hand over to one shoulder, pulling her back into his chest. His other hand resting at her hip, he lowered his head to set his chin atop her other shoulder, and simply stayed there.

His presence at her back helped. He felt decidedly more solid and real than she herself did at that moment, grounding her as she leaned back against him and tried to regain control of her breathing. A few times it seemed that she'd calmed herself only for a shudder to roll through her spine and all of her hard work to be undone, then other times she was certain she'd lost control entirely and was about to thoroughly break down, only to reel it back in at the last possible moment. Through it all, Draco stood with her. How often had he been through a similar process, she wondered? Alone in his room, surrounded by Death Eaters who'd take any show of emotion as weakness?

It was only after a long stretch of silence had gone by without any shudders or sobs that she spoke.

"I'm sorry for what I said. About the morals. I didn't…I think I've lost any knack for polite conversation out here."

"Some would argue that puts us on even footing," he said drily.

Marilyn gave a wet laugh that sounded more like a sob, resting her hand atop the one on her hip, "I thought your lot trained you for that."

"Conversations in those circles are rarely polite. Not these days, for all they fancy themselves a cut above the common rabble."

He dipped his head lower still, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, and then he stepped away, returning to the chair he'd previously been sitting in. Marilyn followed suit, pulling her own impossible closer still to his. She could still barely feel her legs. A beat of silence followed, and then he continued where he'd left off - like he was worried that if he paused for too long, he wouldn't say what was on his mind.

"They used to talk about the first war a lot, you know. The older generation - my father, his friends. My mother and hers, too. At gatherings, parties, lunches, all of it. Constantly. I grew up hearing about it unendingly. They knew when to shut up, of course, around those who didn't have the correct views, or when to carefully allude to certain threats and hopes they had for better days, but behind closed doors…well, it was a very popular topic of conversation. The glory days. They don't feel very glorious."

It was clear that he wasn't done, the cogs behind his eyes whirring furiously.

"I've wondered, you know. Whether things are so different this time, or if they'd just been lying about the glory to…to help them lick their wounds after defeat. Or…"

This time it looked like he might not mean to respond, so Marilyn prompted him. "Or…?"

"Or if we've changed."

"We? His followers?"

"No," he shook his head with a snort. "Not all of us. Most love it. Bar…well, that doesn't matter. I was speaking of my family. We're not revelling in it the same way I always imagined we might before…"

"Before it became a reality?"

"Or before I met you."

"They happened around the same time, if I recall."

"Not quite," he disagreed quietly "Had you come during fifth year, I never would have spoken to you again after I found out the truth. And my retribution would've been harsher, if I thought I was making a statement for his benefit as well as the school's."

"I dread to think."

"So do I. But the fact remains, somewhere along the way my family has changed. I know what my father did in the last war - not the details, but I've seen enough, and heard enough whispers, to be able to piece it all together."

Barty Crouch Jr's words to Draco that day in their fourth year had never fully left Marilyn's mind. Not only because they were strong words indeed, but because given the state of her relationship with Draco at the time, she was worried what they spoke of would come back to bite her square in the arse. I know stories about your father that would curl your greasy hair, boy - roared in the voice of Mad Eye Moody.

She couldn't pretend she'd never looked back in relief that she and Draco hadn't had his class together. Merlin only knew what would've happened if he saw something he deemed questionable and reported back on it. Yet another close call.

"He had no qualms with it last time round, that much is painfully clear. Not with the cruelty, with the bloodshed, with any of it. And while I doubt he told my mother all of the grizzly details when he got home at night, she's not an idiot. She had to have known. And given that they both pined for this war to happen before it actually did, she must've been fine with it too. Although that time none of it was taking place in our dining room, I suppose."

If he noticed Marilyn's look of dismay - the one she shot at him before she could control herself - he gave no indication of it.

"Your father's arrest probably forced some perspective in there. Probably showed them how easily he could turn on his loyal followers."

It took a fair bit of effort for her to keep any judgement out of her voice at that - because of course old Lucius would only lose stomach for the bloodlust when he realised it might smack him right in the face one day. But Draco was not Lucius, and what would being a prick about it fix? Especially when he was sitting before her looking like an errant breeze might crack him open.

"I don't have the stomach for it," he said quietly "For any of it. It's not like in the novels. There's nothing glorious or rightful about it, it's just…it's horrible. All of it. Constantly. Whether it's a change of heart on their part or not, I don't think I'd ever have been able to enjoy it. I suppose I sound laughable. Oh no, I got what I spent most of my life wishing for, how terrible."

Marilyn sighed quietly. She hoped he was trying to laugh away everything he'd just said out of a general discomfort with admitting rather than because he was scared she'd do so if he didn't get there first.

"You don't sound laughable at all," she replied quietly "Not to me. I don't blame you for anything that's happened to you, you know. I'm just sorry that it has. You're better than all of it."

She imagined that if she'd actually loved her mother, and her mother had been a good one - save for the minor detail of raising her into a cult - she'd be in a very similar boat to the one he was in now.

"Am I?" he scoffed. "How long did I spend denouncing Hogwarts as a great, crumbling dump? Then, when I watched my aunt shatter the Great Hall's windows…"

It was then that it seemed he really had reached his limit as far as the sharing was concerned, bowing his head and clenching his jaw. He didn't have to finish the sentence for her to understand what he was saying, though. Marilyn took his hand in hers.

"Draco…if this is too dangerous for you…"

"What, I should ask him for a leave of absence?" he scoffed.

"Not that. I know there's no choice in that. But there is one in this," at that, she squeezed his hand to emphasise her point. "If this is too dangerous for you, if you think you might get caught – if there's even a slither of a shadow of a chance that you will, if it's pushing the burden placed upon you to impossible heights…you should stop. I wouldn't take it personally if you did. I'd want you to stop. I can't..."

I can't have your name added to the list of people who've died for me.

Maybe it made her selfish that it was difficult to say. The solitude, the paranoia, the unending danger, were all already chipping away at her, and if it turned out that this would be her last bit of company until the war was over, or…or until something else happened, then it would be a difficult pill to swallow. But she'd swallow it ten times over if it would save his life, or make all of this a bit easier for him. He Who Must Not Be Named was hardly shacking up in her tent, after all.

"No."

"Draco-"

"No, Marilyn," he repeated – far more strongly than the first time. "That's the end of it. No. I don't have any evidence of us that could possibly be incriminating, nobody suspects a thing, nobody will suspect a thing. I'm not ending this."

She said nothing. Mostly because she wanted to argue (despite how much she didn't want to at the same time), and she knew it would just devolve into an argument. And whatever else she did or did not want, she didn't want to spend this time arguing with him. When he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper, eyes downcast, hand gripping hers, she was glad she hadn't pressed the matter.

"This is the only thing I can do that doesn't feel wrong."

The weight of the confession was not lost on her – and all she could do to reciprocate it was lean closer, and press her head against his.


A/N: Once again, I need to apologise for this one taking so long. This story is getting tricky to write now that we're reaching some very tense times – I'd rather take longer to write the chapter and have it be good, than force the matter and end up posting something shit. Thank you guys for your patience! I'm very grateful.

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