So take off the mask
So I can see your face
Who do you love?
It was the sort of party that Hermione had never imagined she would be invited to. A glossy invitation with a custom wax seal, and glitter that fell out as soon as she opened the envelope. Her name, written in swirling script across the paper, a font that she felt was far too elegant for someone like her.
Perhaps it was a mistake, was her initial thought. But no, the enchanted picture of the family hosting proclaimed her name, waving at her with delicate, gloved hands, beckoning for her to join the festivities.
A masquerade in the mansion of a pureblood family, and she was invited.
It had to be a trap, she was almost sure of it. She was not of their caliber- she was a Mudblood, as they often spat at her. She held the crisp parchment in her hands as though it was glass, running her finger over her name as though one swipe might erase it completely. The owl that had delivered it perched itself on her shoulder, hooting urgently in her ear.
Slowly, carefully, Hermione reached for the quill, dipping it into the ink before scripting out her reply. An affirmative. Yes, she would come. She would attend a masquerade ball at Malfoy Manor.
Only once the letter had already been tied to the leg of the owl, and the noble bird had soared away did she realize what she had done.
The most peculiar thing of all was that she did not completely regret it.
Hermione stood in front of the mirror, gazing at her reflection as though it was a stranger. Her hair, normally so unruly, had been smoothed out, flattened pin-straight and then curled softly into ringlets that cascaded down her shoulders. Her dress, a second hand gown but gorgeous nonetheless, was an indigo blue garment with a full skirt and intricate beadwork along the bodice. Glamorous and poised, the girl in the mirror was not her.
That is, until her gaze moved up to her face, which was bare, a raw, stark representation of the truth. But not for long. Her hands, clad in satin silver gloves, reached for the last piece. A mask lined with crystals, a glittering silver and white display that shone like the stars themselves. She placed it over her face, tying its ribbon behind her head and then looking back at herself.
Only her eyes remained unshrouded, only they revealed the truth.
She reminded herself that was a good thing. For in the den of wolves she would be parading into, the truth could get her eaten alive.
The manor had been decked out spectacularly for the occasion, balustrades hung with ribbon, twinkling lights adorning each window. It was like a gilded cage, Hermione decided. They had made their house of horrors look almost pretty.
She was not entirely sure why, but she made sure her mask was firmly in place as she stepped inside.
The hall was alive with activity, a quartet playing in the corner, the scent of food and the sound of voices and glasses clinked together creating the ambiance. If she did not think too hard about it- which was a rather hard thing for her to do- she could almost forget where she was and to whom all of this belonged to. And as she stepped onto the floor in time with the music, a gentleman's hand taking her own, she let herself.
He moved with the grace of an acrobat, his movements poised and practiced, and as fluid as water. His own mask was a dark obsidian, his eyes, which were achingly familiar, a stark light against the inky blackness of it.
They were a heather grey, like the clouds that gathered before a storm. Both gentle and treacherous at the same time. His hands were gloved as well, she realized as one of them was placed on her hip, the other, fingers laced through her own. She realized with a sudden start that he had done as she had- shrouded all but his eyes from revealing the truth.
But that was what Hermione sought now, a whirl of skirts and crinolines swept across the floor, trying to figure out who her elusive partner was.
It was only when their eyes met that she realized he was doing the same.
"Might I ask who I had the pleasure of dancing with?" he asked.
The music had since stopped, and now only the polite sounds of conversation filled the air.
Hermione was not so eager to reveal herself. She was still in the wolves' den, however prettily they had chosen to adorn it. "I could ask the same of you," was her careful reply.
He laughed, a sound that once again struck that familiarity in her. "It seems we are both at a standstill, then."
Neither of them moved.
It would be so easy, Hermione marveled, to reach behind her head, undo the ribbon, and take off the mask.
Her hands twitched, moving up of their own accord, but she simply tucked a wayward curl back into place before folding them demurely once more.
It was not easy, she decided. The action itself might have been, but the idea was a complex thing indeed.
His stone grey eyes took on a look of melancholy. He did not push. "Alright," he said, before, in one languid movement, taking off his own mask.
Draco Malfoy leaned towards her, so close she could feel his breath on her ear as he whispered, "whenever you're ready, I am here."
Hermione left the ball early, bidding a harried farewell before leaving. Her heart was racing, her thoughts burned out to nothing but a low flame. She had danced with the monster himself, and some part of her, the same part that had written her affirmation to attend, was not entirely repulsed.
As soon as she was out the door, the mask was off, and it was as though she had been holding her breath all the while it had been on.
She could not help but look over her shoulder as she left, at the beautiful house, at the cage, now unlocked.
Hermione could have sworn she saw pair of grey eyes were at the window, though they were gone so quickly they could have been a flicker of the candle. Shining brightly for the briefest of moment before they disappeared, there and then gone.