Chapter Seven: The First Step

"You look stunning, Ginny," Hermione sighed as she gazed at her friend.

With her red hair softly curled and left hanging down her front, and her teal ruched gown that was detailed with layers of shiny, lightly coloured sequins and a trailing mermaid tail made of an aqua tulle, Ginny Weasely truly looked like a mermaid. Or, well, the Muggle version of a mermaid, for the actual magical mermaid looked vastly different.

Ginny turned away from her standard Hogwarts vanity, and threw her brush playfully at Hermione, who with a flick of her wand transformed it into a small bird that began to fly eagerly around the room.

"So do you," Ginny stated matter-of-factly. "You look absolutely beautiful. Fairy-tale like, even. Or-"

"Stop, stop!" Hermione protested, blushing. "I'm not even remotely close to beautiful, but thank you for your input. What?" she added, when she saw how Ginny was scowling at her.

"Don't be silly, of course you are." She quickly snatched Hermione's arm and pulled her over to the vanity, where they gazed at Hermione's reflection.

"I look normal," Hermione said indifferently.

Ginny made a hissing noise between her teeth.

"Don't make me hex you," she mocked, and lightly held Hermione's chin, turning her back to her own reflection.

"Look at yourself."

Hermione looked.

She looked at her dress first, her beautiful white dress. It was made of soft chiffon that flowed freely around her. The sweetheart neckline exposed a bit more cleavage than she was used to, the built-in corset crushed her breasts to her chest, but she had spent several minutes adjusting that so she wouldn't be revealing anything more than necessary. The dress had long, peasant style sheer sleeves that went up to her wrists.

A brilliant, deep scarlet, the cloak was made of a fine silk, and the inside was lined with a warmer fabric so she wouldn't get cold. The hood was large, enough to cover not on her head but about half of her face, and a fat red ribbon securely held the cloak in place just above the hollow of her throat. Her hair was swept away from her face and artfully clasped at the back of her head, where her beautiful curls fell down her back. Seeing as it was a Masquerade ball, Hermione had taken one little moment of vanity to spell her hair black for the evening. Her mask was made of an ivory-painted wire that had been formed into beautiful, tiny little intricate designs that adorned her face, but did not really hide it.

Hermione couldn't really recognize herself, but she supposed it all had to do with the cloak and her mask. She had to admit she looked quite agreeable, but she could not see herself as beautiful.

"You're like Snow White, but with brains," Ginny said softly.

Hermione raised her brow at the redhead. "How do you know who Snow White is?"

"I nicked your copy of the Grimm fairytales over the summer," Ginny replied archly. "Dad found me reading it, and we did some research in our spare time."

Hermione laughed. "If you'd asked I'd have let you have it."

"All the same, Harry is one lucky boy," Ginny teased as she applied some lip gloss.

"What about your date?" Hermione asked, fighting to conceal the blush on her cheeks.

"I haven't got one," Ginny grinned. "Having a date at these sorts of events is ever so dull; you're tied to that one person for the entire night and can rarely dance with anyone else. I don't need some boy to make my night; I can have fun by myself."

"Having a date isn't all that dreadful," Hermione countered. "Not if you like the person."

"It's different for you and Harry," Ginny waved her hand dismissively. "You're both dead gone on each other, but it's not that easy for the rest of us."

"Ginny…" Hermione trailed off, she didn't know what to say. Was Ginny jealous?

As if she had read her mind, Ginny talked on.

"I'm not jealous," she said, "Harry is like a brother to me. I only envy the type of relationship you both have. I just wish I could find something like that."

"I'm confident you will," Hermione said. "To be honest, sometimes I wonder whether I really do love Harry," she confessed quietly.

Ginny appeared scandalized.

"Why?" she breathed.

Hermione let out a small desperate moan. "It's just-we're so young! Not even out of school yet, and things between us are getting serious and I'm not ready for that yet and I'm scared I might be confusing my feelings for him as love since we've been through so much and he's always been like a brother to me, maybe more and it's the first relationship I've ever been in!" she paused to gasp for breath. "What if it's not meant to be?" she asked softly. "What if it's all in our heads?"

Ginny sat down on the bed beside Hermione, drawing her hands into her lap.

"No one's pressuring you two to be together, Hermione," she said slowly. "Much less to be married or do anything you're not comfortable with. If it doesn't work out, then there's nothing you can do about it. Merlin knows you two love each other enough to never stop being friends."

She placed a small kiss on the other witches' flushed forehead, who gave her a grateful hug.

Abruptly, the redhead stood up, whisking away to the vanity.

"We've got ten minutes," she barked. "I'll be doing your makeup."

Hermione groaned.

They had truly outdone themselves.

The Great Hall was nearly unrecognizable in its newfound splendor. It was almost as though he'd been transported into one of his great-grandfather's old photographs (from the years he had lived in Wizarding Paris) of an opulent opera theatre; all was golden and polished and bright. The floors were white marble, the gleaming walls adorned with ornate mirrors and gilded candlesticks and torches. The tables and chairs were beautifully decorated with blood-red and golden orange leaves artfully arranged in brass vases.

Professor Flitwick had volunteered to oversee the food table to make sure nothing would be tampered with. Though the table was a little taller than him he used this to his advantage. Now and then someone might linger too close or too long by the punch and they would be startled by his suspicious cry of, "Ah-ha!"

Draco recognized so many faces but none recognized him. He saw Pansy with Blaise, who gave him a discreet nod of the head, and saw Weasley walking by with a heavy plate of food in each hand, probably searching for a good table where he could sit and gorge himself.

Adide from that it truly was as if he'd been sent back in time to one of the ancient yet still active opera houses he had once visited on a trip with his parents. If he listened hard and shut his eyes, he could still hear the echoing laughs and voices of those who had once been there.

He stood in the back, in the shadow of one of the many pillars that were scattered about the hall, waiting.

He couldn't help but revel in the pride he felt at the thought that his beloved was the brains behind this. The students that had arrived so far simply gaped at their surroundings as they adjusted their masks.

He shifted on his feet, ever so patient.

Getting in had been easy. Child's play, even. The harder part would be going about unnoticed and departing from this heavily- protected castle.

He wasn't exactly hiding, but one would have to look very closely in order to see him properly. And if anyone were to see him, they wouldn't be able to see past his grinning wolf mask.

To be honest, he couldn't tell whether the mask was grinning or snarling, by the way the ends of its mouth pulled up to its eyes on both sides of its face, revealing sharp, gleaming teeth. Whether it was grinning or snarling, however, the mask had the desired effect on those who had dared to look at it. Those who did didn't even look at him, so caught were they in the masks' unsettling expression, in its eerie yellow eyes, and they would look away as quickly as their eyes had landed on him. That was just the way he wanted it. It wouldn't do to be discovered here. If anyone found out his identity, all his efforts for his big surprise would be ruined.

He wore charcoal grey robes over an all-black suit, and had donned specially made gloves with real wolves' claws attached onto each finger of both hands.

He had made sure his costume covered enough of him so he would not be recognized. His hood covered his hair, and his mask and cloak concealed the paleness of his eyes and skin.

The minutes crawled past and more and more students began to arrive, each pair or the single ones would march proudly down the stairs, displaying their finery and reveling in the exquisite beauty of the transformed Great Hall. He stood and watched, his eyes never once straying from that grand staircase as the spaces filled around him. He was aware of a few pairs of eyes on himself, but knew the attention was focused on his mask, so he stood his ground and kept watching. Waiting. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, but he knew he would stay there for as long as it would take.

"You remember what to do," Professor McGonagall said curtly to Hermione, who nodded and stood beside Neville at the entrance doors.

"Ready?" she asked, smiling softly at him.

"Is this absolutely necessary?" Neville asked, straightening his feathered mask. Though he had (begrudgingly) accompanied Hermione to the costume shop in Hodsmeade and had tried on a costume or two, he had ultimately decided to wear his best black robes and a standard feathered mask, much to Hermione's chagrin. Luna didn't seem to mind at all, however. If anything, her overly elaborate costume made up for Neville's lack of one, so grand and overdone and so Luna-ish it was.

"Yes, it is," Hermione sighed. "Don't make it out to be such a bad thing, now. At least you didn't have to dance with Malfoy."

He started and watched her carefully after this last sentence. This was the first time she had mentioned the abominable Slytherin without him bringing it up first, and he was surprised at how calm she looked.

"He didn't seem all that bad a dancer," he commented as innocently as he could.

Hermione snorted.

"Of course he was a good dancer," she said bitterly. "He was trained by some famous French dancer. 'Malfoys always have the best,'" she mocked, and abruptly fell silent, though it had been clear she was going to say something else on the matter.

He saw the frown on her face and her lips were parted; although he didn't know it, she was repeating to herself what she had just said-what she had only just remembered he had said.

How could she have forgotten he had said that? The way he had looked at her then-though she had ignored his gaze, there was no denying the hungry, possessive look in his eyes, or the way his grip on her waist had tightened then, and he had pulled her closer so that their bodies pressed together.

She shook her head, blinking several times to rid herself of the memory. No. She couldn't let herself dwell on this. He was gone, and she was safe here.

Safe.

He would be caught and brought to justice, and she would be fine.

"Hermione?"

Neville's concerned voice brought her back to the present, and her eyes flew up to meet his.

"Are you okay?" he asked, feeling her forehead. "You were out of it for a minute."

"I'm fine," Hermione said, but her mouth was so dry her voice had not carried past her lips.

Licking her lips, she tried again.

"I'm fine," she said.

The enchanted ceiling had darkened considerably; dark clouds hung closely above everyone's heads, and a full, eerily glowing moon peeked out at them from behind them.

It was time.

The Headmistress stepped up from her perch on the grand staircase, and began to go on about one thing or wasn't listening to her at all, didn't need to, really, his ears were trained for two words only.

"…and your Head Girl, Miss Hermione Granger," said the old woman, and his eyes sharpened their focus as the doors opened and two figures stepped through and began to make their way down the steps.

He could easily tell it was Longbottom behind that mask, that loping gait was enough to give him away.

His eyes swiveled to the side and he let out a quiet purr when he saw her.

He took in her outfit, and grinned beneath his mask, running his tongue over his teeth.

Their costumes matched. He was elated. This must mean something.

He had gone out on a limb when he'd gotten the costume and sent the note with that seal. It certainly was fitting enough- he was the ravenous wolf come to seize his innocent little lamb, but this was just as good, or even better.

No doubt Saint Potter was dressed as the noble Huntsman who aided Little Darling Red in her escape from the Big Bad Wolf.

But there would be no escape here for Little Red. Her huntsman would not suspect a thing.

This was only the first step to her capture.

He raised his eyes to drink her in again. She looked divine-mouthwatering, even. She was smiling and had her arm linked with Longbottom's. They stood quite close, he was aware of the aura of intimacy that surrounded them, and he did not like it at all. His eyes narrowed and a slight sneer formed on his lips as he watched them take their place at the center of the floor, waiting for the music to begin.

When they began to dance, he noticed with a smug satisfaction that by far, he was the better dancer. Longbottom was by no means a disgrace, but he was lacking in elegance and posture. This observation took him all of two seconds before he attached his eyes back on the hooded beauty; only for this dance she had lowered said hood. Her curls were free now and flowed around her as she and her partner waltzed. It had grown longer, but what caught him off guard was the colour.

Her once honey-brown tresses were now a midnight black.

What is this? He thought angrily, clenching his fists.

He could not deny that she did look beautiful with the different colour, but it was not like her. Brown was her natural colour and brown it would stay, as soon as he had her. She and Longbottom were whispering to each other and he noticed with rising irritation that she was leaning into him, and his arms were wrapped snugly about her waist and how easily their hands met in the air. There was a light applause as other couples began to break into the dance floor, but he paid them no mind. He only had eyes for her.

He hadn't known what to expect when he came here. He had spent hours thinking, wondering about her. Would she be a sorry, frightened mess? Afraid to step into shadows, the mere mention of his name would make her jump? No, that didn't seem quite right. Maybe for a while, but she was strong after all, and seeing as she had her two imbeciles still with her, they would see to her pulling through.

But he hadn't been expecting this.

She seemed fine. Absolutely fine. Her face expressed not a flicker of pain or some deeply hidden fear and guilt. She looked beautiful and carefree and she was just doting on that sniveling Longbottom, her eyes shining like stars as she spoke to him, how she tweaked his nose playfully and laughed when he muttered something into her ear, her beautiful laugh ringing in his ears. He closed his eyes when he heard it, and replayed it in his mind several times. It had been so very long since he had last heard it.

The music ended then, and he watched as she curtsied to her partner, who bowed deeply, earning a giggle from her, which enraged him. The witch gave him a kiss on the cheek and the wizard teasingly pulled on a curl. What were those two playing at? He glared at Longbottom as he walked away and blended into the throng around them. They seemed much too close to be simply friends; everything he had seen attested them being more than that, and it made him see red. But what about Potter?

As if on cue, Potter strode up then and took her hand, kissing it lightly. He watched closely as she smiled at him and they began to dance to the song that had just begun to play. Potter looked every bit the rustic Huntsman as he led her into another waltz, mumbling things into the crook of her neck as she looked up at him. She smiled every now and then, but there were no lovely giggles or playful tweaks of the nose. He tipped his head and watched them as they moved around on the dance floor. She didn't seem all that into the dance, to be honest. The shine in her eyes had dulled, and her smiles were less genuine. Though he did pick up on how tightly she held his hand and how her fingers dug into his shoulder, the tips going white from the pressure. What was going on?

The dance ended, and Potter leaned down and gave her a chaste kiss on her lips, which had him snarling from where he stood. She sighed into the kiss and he deepened it for a moment before pulling away, smiling wolfishly at her. She blushed and began to pull away but he gently brought her back and placed another kiss on her lips, the loud smack it produced made her blush even harder.

And he stood there in the shadows, aroused, jelous, rage building inside him by the second.

The ball went on in this manner-him lurking in the backdrop, watching her.

She spent most of the night with Potter, but occasionally Longbottom or Weasely or some other dunce would come along and whisk her away for their share of the Gryffindor Princess. He made sure to move around and in a specific manner so as not to draw too much attention to himself as he followed her around the ballroom.

He'd come very nearly close to approaching her, after she'd finished a conversation with the female Weasely and had gone over to the refreshment table to serve herself some punch. The table was deserted, for nearly everyone was dancing by now. He'd thanked Salazaar, and was about to move in when that blasted Lovegood girl appeared out of nowhere and attached herself to Granger's side.

On the rare occasion he had not been watching Granger, he'd seen Lovegood and Longbottom together frequently throughout the night. He wondered if they were in a relationship. Did Lovegood know how Granger was almost throwing herself at Longbottom? Anger and jealousy rose up in his chest, clawing at his insides, and he found he was furious with himself for not having stationed a spy in the school while he was gone to watch Granger. What if she'd broken things with Potter after he'd left, and started something with Longbottom? Clearly, though, she and Potter must have got back together at one point, but that did not answer his question on why Longbottom and Granger were being so damned friendly towards one another.

Damn it all, Granger was his, and no one could ever pretend or even attempt to steal her heart, for it was his for the taking.

He wondered if she had fucked Potter or Longbottom.

This thought brought up images in his mind of her lying beneath some idiot Gryffindor, panting and moaning with lust, and the small glass he'd been holding shattered in his grip, dripping punch onto his expensive clothing.

So Granger was playing the whore now, was she?

She'd given what was rightfully his to some other undeserving ass?

Well.

Well.

He eyed her, standing with her idiot Gryffindors, Potter's arm about her waist and Longbottom's hand on her delicate shoulder, with Weasely pouring her more punch, and released the bloodied glass shards he still held in his hand, watching as they clinked onto the floor, spattering tiny droplets of blood around his feet.

The night was almost over, and he was burning with anticipation. He needed to make his move.

Hermione looked happily around the ballroom, drinking in the evening's success. She waved to Ginny, who winked at her from where she stood with Terry Boot, and smiled at Luna, who talking animatedly to two other Ravenclaws Hermione did not recognize. Hermione supposed she was telling them all about her costume. Luna had come dressed up as a Wrydinger, some sort of variation of the Blast-Ended Skrewt, only less vicious, apparently. She loved seeing how everyone else had come dressed up; Lavender Brown was a unicorn, Seamus Finnegan had come dressed entirely in green and had developed some sort of charm that made a golden dust trail appear behind him whenever he moved. Millicent Bulstrode had come dressed as a swan; in Hermione's opinion, she looked perfectly lovely, and sadly she wondered why no one had asked her to dance yet.

She caught a glimpse of a fox mask as she swept her eyes back, but when she looked again, it was gone. A funny little jolt shot through her nerves and she found her hands were sweaty. Hmm. Suddenly she remembered what she'd been meaning to bring up to Harry.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him away from their small group. Harry stumbled a bit, but righted himself immediately and raised his brows at her.

"You didn't have to request for me to save you the last dance, you know," she said, "I would have done it even if you hadn't asked."

Harry tilted his head.

"Request? What are you talking about?" he asked.

"The note," Hermione explained. "Someone sent me a note that said to save them the last dance, only it wasn't signed or anything, so I assumed it was from you."
He shook his head, rubbing at a spot below his ear. "Hermione, I didn't send you a note."

Hermione frowned. "Then who could it have been from?"

"Perhaps you've a secret admirer," Harry teased, smiling.

"Oh, don't," she said, laughing.

He pulled her closer to him, kissing her on the lips.

"I dare say there's quite a few blokes out there tonight who've had their eyes on you all night," he whispered, smiling.

Hermione gulped at his words, blushing. But she placed her palms on his cheeks and stared into his bright eyes, smiling softly.

"You're the only one that matters," she whispered back.

His face split into a grin and before she knew it, he had caught her about the waist and was twirling her in the air, causing shrieks and bubbly laughter to spill past her lips.

"Don't you ever do that again," she gasped once he put her back down.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said quickly. "Please forgive me."

"It's all right," Hermione admonished. "But maybe next time, a warning beforehand would be nice." She swatted him playfully on the arm.

He laughed.

It was nearly midnight.

It was time.

He made his way towards them, striding confidently.

He nodded to Potter, and stepped in front of her. She regarded him with curious eyes; she flinched at the mask, and then he saw something click in her mind.

"You're the one who sent me the note," she said.

He nodded.

"Do I know you?"

Another nod.

He held out his hand. She eyed his unique gloves warily and hesitated. Potter nudged her, biting his lip to hold back a grin.

"How fitting," he said pleasantly. "Our costumes all match." Turning to Hermione, he gave her another kiss. "Go on," he whispered quietly. "I'll be watching."

She leaned into his touch for a second, and then, straightening her mask, she took the offered hand, staring into the masks' eyes brazenly.

Though Harry had promised he'd be watching, she was dismayed to see once she and her mysterious partner had found a (rather secluded) spot on the dance floor; Harry was nowhere to be seen.

She tried peering through the mask, to get a better look at her partner's eyes, but her efforts proved fruitless. His eyes were carefully hidden by the frightening mask. Though she tried not to look at it too much, she found herself drawn to it.

"Don't look so frightened," came his voice, and she jumped, because she had not expected him to speak, and because his voice seemed so very familiar, yet she could not place to whom it belonged.

"With a mask like that, it's hard not to be," she muttered, cheeks flaming.

"Rest assured, Little Red, I will not eat you," came his voice, both light and serious at the same time. "At least, not yet."

She frowned, and suppressed the shiver that ran up her spine. He held onto her tightly, with only a whisper of space in between their bodies.

"But you see," she said, "I'm not on the menu tonight."

"Are you so sure?" he countered. "You look absolutely mouth watering, and I haven't had a decent meal in quite a while," he breathed into her ear, his lips barely brushing against her skin.

She pushed at his chest. "Now you're being inappropriate. Let me go," she demanded, trying to pull away, but he caught her and placed a calming hand on her arm. She paused, glaring at the stranger.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was merely trying to pay you a compliment."

"You really could have phrased it better," she hissed.

He pulled the reluctant witch back to him and they stepped back into the dance. Hermione felt uneasy with what had just happened and more so due to the fact that she had just realized that they were in a secluded corner of the room, hidden in shadows. A shiver ran down her spine.

It was nearly midnight.

"I should go," she said, pulling out of his reach.

"Don't go." She was surprised at the tone of his voice-it sounded so much harsher than it had a moment before.

"Why not?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"The dance isn't over," was his simple reply.

"Well, in a few seconds, it will be, and then the unmasking will take place. I'd like to be with my boyfriend by the time that comes, if you don't mind."

"I do mind," he said, stepping forward. "Don't you want to know who I am?"

"Not exactly," Hermione took a step backwards.

"It's almost time," he said quietly. "Unmask me, and then I'll let you go."

Looking at him, she tried to come to a decision. Sure, it would be easier to just walk away and put this odd incident out of her mind, but she couldn't deny the burning curiosity inside of her that demanded to know who this man was. It was part of her nature, she had to know everything.

So she walked forward carefully; the others were already counting down the final seconds until midnight, each number yelled out in unison crashed in her ears.

"Five!"

She raised her hands and he leaned forward, bending down slightly so she could reach better.

"Four!"

Her fingers found the ribbon that held the mask in place, and slowly unraveled them.

"Three!"

It was coming off now, she didn't know why her hands were shaking, or why there was a small voice inside her head commanding her to stop at once, and run away.

Run away.

"Two!"

Run away!

She pulled it off entirely as the crowd shouted "One!" She faintly heard their cheers and the music start up again, but none of that really registered in her mind, for she was staring at a ghost.

Handsome face, strong, chiseled jaw, arrogant smirk, light hair, and those eyes.

Automatically she stumbled back a few steps in her alarm, and he followed, his grin growing wider, almost to the point where it resembled the grin on his masks' face.

Not possible, she thought. He left, he disappeared, he can't be here.

All these thoughts raced through her mind, and questions popped up faster than lightning, crowding her mind, but only one word left her mouth.

Not a word, really, a name.

"Cormac?"