It was amazing.
Fifty years had passed since the end of the Second Wizarding War and, in celebration, a ball was being held. Benjamin Weasley stood in the entrance to the Great Hall, mouth agape behind his mask, as he stared in wonder at the spectacular arrangements.
The whole room was lit by the light of a hundred glittering crystal chandeliers which floated high above the heads of the revellers below. White rose petals floated down like snow from the enchanted ceiling, though they vanished just before they touched the ground. All along the walls stood slim tables stacked high with delicious-looking treats he had never seen before, even at the Christmas banquet. Cupcakes with wings fluttered like butterflies onto the plates of passers-by, singing soufflés serenaded all within earshot before being swallowed, and in the centre of it all a great fountain of punch erupted endlessly from the mouth of a giant ice dragon.
The most amazing thing by far, though, above the feast and the decorations and the ice dragon sculpture, was the people. Everywhere he looked, his eyes met with elegant dress robes and beautiful gowns which glittered before him in a brilliant, shifting sea of styles and colours. But it was not the dresses that caught his attention, so much as the masks that adorned their faces. In gold and green, red and silver, made from jewels, feathers, ribbons, lace, flowers, enchanted flames and more, was a stunning collection of carefully crafted masks, each completely different from the last, but each representing the same thing: that tonight, for this one night, they were one. Just for today, they would forget all of their differences, and unite to celebrate together.
It was going to be a night to remember.
Could things possibly get any worse?
Lyra stood towards the edge of the Great Hall, watching as girls in poofy gowns and boys in gaudy dress robes swayed to the dreary music. Off to her right, on a platform suspended some ten feet off the ground, the band hammered out yet another terrible pop song – no doubt pandering to the masses. These people had no class at all.
Batting away a particularly persistent flying cupcake, she scanned the crowd once again, hoping for a familiar figure – Scarlet's dark curls, of Penny's slim frame. Even Weasley ginger would do, but everywhere she looked, all she saw were those dratted masks.
Sighing, she fidgeted with her own mask, and resigned herself to a night of complete and utter boredom.
Benjamin watched as a girl with a dress the colour of a midsummer night's sky whirled past, her dancing partner spinning her in endless looping circles about the room. Letting his gaze wander, he followed another pair sipping punch from silver goblets as they bent their heads together conspiratorially. From there, his eyes slipped over to a figure standing just behind, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.
At the opposite side of the room, looking like a lone dove against the suddenly dreary-seeming backdrop of the Great Hall, was Lyra Malfoy. He knew her instantly by the way she held herself, and couldn't help the smile that touched his lips as he watched her. She was sulking. Again. Standing a little off from the dance floor, she loitered near one of the long tables, batting irritably at any cupcake that dared fly too near.
And she looked beautiful.
No doubt a word from those pretty lips would break the spell, sour thing that she was, but still. Dressed from head to toe in feathers of pure white that flowed from her figure like gossamer silk to pool on the floor around her, she looked like an angel.
But, Lyra Malfoy was not an angel.
Without thinking, he immediately began to weave his way through the crowds, all the while keeping his eyes locked onto her slight frame. Pausing just short of reaching her, he quickly charmed his voice and straightened out of his usual casual slouch, before striding decidedly up to her.
"My lady," he addressed her, voice coming out in a deep timbre. "How beautiful you look tonight."
There was a pause before she spoke.
"And on any other night, sir?"
He couldn't help but roll his eyes, at that. Only Lyra Malfoy could be suspicious of a simple compliment. He smiled, too, though, that she had addressed him formally in turn. So, she may play this game, yet.
"I have no doubt you are an angel, every night."
She scoffed.
"An angel, sir? Hardly. If that is what you seek, I suggest you keep walking, for there are no angels here."
"Ah, quite so. I stand corrected, for I doubt any angel would quip so quick."
"Then you know me, sir?"
He smiled, then, to know that she had not identified him yet. This promised to be fun.
"Are we not all but strangers in masks, tonight?" he asked, though knowing that she would not easily settle for such obvious avoidance, he quickly dropped into a low bow.
"My lady, would you do me the honour?" he asked, offering his hand, and hoping she was bored enough not to end his fun yet.
There was a pause, as she hesitated… before she slipped her hand into his.
Beneath his mask, a small, sly smile split into an open grin.