Hermione stood at the top of the staircase, looking down at the crowd below her.
Her wings lightly caressed her face and a white feather fell at her feet, landing softly against the heels of her silver shoes. Her hair fell in a dark cascade against her back, the pure white of her dress making her locks shine.
She lifted a hand to her mask and pulled the unadorned disguiser further over her face.
Her lips, red and full, were the only visible part of her face.
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.
Lifting her long skirt above her feet, she walked slowly down the stairs, careful not to fall in her soft shoes.
She reached the foot of the stairs and looked around again, trying to find her two best friends amidst the masked crowd.
Music played an elusive tune in the background, hushed voices weaving through the sound and the echo of slowly dancing feet filled her ears.
A hand was placed on her shoulder and she whirled around, expecting to see a masked Ron or Harry. Her eyes widened behind her mask as she saw the boy-man before her.
He lowered his head, bowing before her as he reached for her hand.
She gave it to him and he kissed the back of her hand gently, before rising to look at her.
Hermione stared at him, the mask offering her a safety she did not usually have.
He wore tights, a fact that she noted with a small smile, and a detailed shirt.
An old fashioned cap was pulled over his hair and a sword at his side.
He smiled down at her, unbearably pink lips widening on pale skin beneath a wrought silver mask.
She smiled at him and he took her hand again.
His voice was low when he spoke, so that she had to lean forward to catch his words.
"Juliet, I presume?"
She smiled and nodded, wondering at how he could know so easily.
"And you are…hmm…not a brigand…"
He smiled an impossible smile, held her hand to his chest.
"Do you not know your Romeo?"
Hermione's mouth widened into an 'O' of surprise and she gasped.
"Of course! Romeo!"
He smiled again and caressed her hand gently.
"Ah, sweet Juliet! Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."
Hermione blushed, her pale skin turning pink behind her mask.
He noticed, even as she tried to hide, and grinned a little.
"May I dance with you, Juliet?"
"Perchance, Romeo, a dance?"
His mouth quirked on one side and he led her to the floor.
A new song began to swell and she took his proffered hand, letting the other rest lightly on his shoulder.
He placed his hand on her waist and they danced slowly around the room.
Hermione noticed that, as the song began to end, he had been leading her slowly towards a curtained area where the drinks were laid out.
As the song ended, he pulled her through the heavy curtain and stood silently watching her.
Softly, he whispered; "If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."
Hermione blinked up at him, too surprised even to blush.
Was he asking to kiss her? And using lines from Romeo and Juliet?
Was he really that good, or had he merely memorised a few lines?
She would have to test him.
Hermione looked up at him through dark lowered lashes, her mask throwing deep shadows along her lips, turning them into mere silhouettes.
" Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."
He smiled at this, and, obviously not one to give up so easily, said in a soft voice; "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?"
Hermione's mouth quirked and she remembered this exact scene from Romeo and Juliet. It was how she had always imagined it.
Shy girl, handsome, persistent boy-man.
With a wonderful mouth and lovely words to be laid upon her brow.
She said the next line with a smirk.
"Aye, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer."
He sighed, but he was still smiling.
"Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair."
Hermione smiled at the ground at this. She had always loved that line. Such a beautifully worded proposition – if proposition was the right word.
He leant in to kiss her, but she took a step back, her hand still in his.
"Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake."
He laughed quietly.
"Intelligent and beautiful. Oh dear heart, cease your beating, or I shall die!"
She smiled up at him.
"Would you not die if your heart stopped beating?"
He scrunched his nose tenderly and kissed her swiftly on the chin before she could react.
"So fast!" he reprimanded her. "So fast and I shall die! Slow down a little and I will not faint from sheer exhaustion."
She put a hand to her lips and sighed. He was beautiful, and she had not yet seen his face.
He gazed at her for a second longer and then said; "Now…did we not have lines? Ah yes… Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged."
He leaned into her and kissed her softly on the lips.
She kissed him back tenderly, and, after a moment, pulled away with a sigh of regret.
"Then have my lips the sin that they have took."
He exhaled again and leaned her against the wall gently.
In a sighing voice he said; "Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again."
She kissed him properly this time, her tongue sweeping across his lips and her teeth gently nipping at him as he drew away for breath.
He stood and looked at her, his hand to his mouth.
"You kiss by the book." She said softly.
He smiled.
"Who are you?" she asked, a hand on his shoulder.
His smile faded slightly and he pulled his cap from his head with a sigh.
Blonde hair fell around his face, but still she could not recognise him.
"Still, I know not!"
He sighed again, and the silver mask slipped from his face to join the cap in his hand.
Hermione looked at him sadly.
"My only love sprung from my only hate. Too early seen unknown, and known too late. Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a loathed enemy."
Draco lowered his head.
She swept her mask away from her face, and watched his eyes for any surprise.
None came.
"Do you not see mine face, enemy? Mine face is loathed to you, enemy, love, immortal Capulet."
Draco looked up at her, and, surprising her, raised his finger to her cheek.
"Being held a foe, he may not have access to breathe such vows as lovers use to swear; and she, as much in love? Her means much less to meet her new-beloved any where: but passion lends them power, time means, to meet tempering extremities with extreme sweet. Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out."
He turned away from her, his hand running through his hair.
She leaned forward and pushed a stray lock back into place. Her voice was torn when she spoke.
"Ay me! How to love an enemy? For were I to do as my heart bids, the very heavens would fall."
His forehead creased.
"I knew you, love, when I first saw. The white dress, the angel's wings. Each curve of your face and your sweet voice. Had I but heard it…a hundred, a hundred thousand times? But still I knew the sound. Small mask, to hide thine eyes. Would it hide your lips, your voice, your hair, even the line of your neck? No, still I knew, and still knowing, must approach you. Knowing that if you knew me for who I was, you would turn and run. No, better to mask feelings behind poisoned words and sharpened eyes. Better to look but not to touch. Never to come close…but tonight. How could I stay away from you, angel? But goodnight. I will not bother you much longer."
He turned to leave once more, but she caught his sleeve before he could part the curtains.
"Do you wish to leave? When I would kiss you again?"
He looked at her, confused.
"What do you mean?"
She sighed and pulled him towards her.
"Kisses, sweet love. One night, perhaps, is all we have, but masks may be worn on many days."
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled herself up to meet his lips.
"Did you really know it was me?"
He blinked slowly, almost owlishly, down at her.
"Yes. I knew."
For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.