I am so incredibly sorry that it took me so long to get this out. I won't get into the time issues, but I had life and school to deal with as well as the fact that I am currently out of material for now, so this is written from scratch and the proofreading . . . I'm sure there are still mistakes in there. In any case, read and review; you know the drill by now! Thanks and love! (I'll try to get the next chapter out a bit faster, though.)

Blackbird Fly

Eleven

Isolde crept out into the common room, completely ready for the coming Masquerade as she and Helene had spent the last five hours or so doing their toilette, which included but was not limited to: showering (separately, of course), moisturizing, shaving whatever needed shaving, hair, make-up, nails, getting dressed, wolfing down a quick dinner. Girl time really was quite exhausting, even though her classes were all obnoxiously easy (no professor was foolish enough to actually teach on a day like today) and she had taken a lovely cat nap before Helene had dropped by at half after two.

Either way, it time for the final step of her plan; her intention was to sneak Helene out of the dungeons so that she could make a dramatic entrance down the Grand Staircase and look like a queen while Severus watched, awed by her beauty. Merlin, she really was quite a romantic.

She heard Helene hiss at her to snap her back to Earth, and Isolde motioned to her to cross the common room, hustling her out through the wall and up a secret passage Helene had showed her not too long ago, forgetting that Helene should have no knowledge of such a thing. They hurried past puzzled glances up to the Entrance Hall and into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, equally grateful for the Cushioning Charms they had applied to their shoes.

"Who's there?" Myrtle called, sitting on her favorite U-bend as the girls walked in, still trying to find the mistakes in their costumes while complimenting the other.

"Hullo, Myrtle! I am hoping you will come to the Ball this evening. Will you be there?" Isolde asked chummily. Hermione looked at her in surprise, a clutch purse she had borrowed from Isolde gaping open as she dug through it with gloved hands (also borrowed—thank Merlin her friend had good taste!), searching for her lipstick and checking that her little surprise was in order. "I've been coming here since third year; Myrtle and I are great friends now, aren't we? Ever since I walked in crying after . . . well, it doesn't matter now. But we got to talking, and we have a great deal in common."

Myrtle sniffed. "You're going to go off and live your life though, after this year. Who will I talk to then?" She began to bawl heartily, far louder than Hermione had ever heard her do in the future, but Isolde calmed her down by making contact with a ghostly shoulder until the girl calmed down.

Hermione looked at her curiously, surprised that Isolde would commit what she believed to be such an incredible breach of etiquette, but Isolde murmured to her, "It calms her down. My touch makes her a bit warmer, and I can pass her some good thoughts to cheer her up."

Myrtle sniffed again, picking her face up out of her hands and smiling shyly at them. "You promise I'll see you then?"

"Of course, Myrtle—why would I lie to one of my best friends?"

The ghost was apparently satisfied with her response, zooming down her toilet and, ostensibly, out to the Masquerade. Isolde waved good-bye as Myrtle left, sighing a little as she dragged Hermione to the mirror, the two of them primping a little before Isolde deemed them fashionably late, Hermione chomping at the bit to go so as not to be late.

Once it was around fifteen minutes past the start of the Ball (Isolde was amazed that Helene knew the time without a clock), Hermione had, with excessive force, dragged Isolde down to the first floor, nails digging into the girl's pale arm.

It was time. He had been waiting for fifteen minutes, unsurprised by his date's late arrival, as he knew Isolde wanted her to make a dramatic entrance. Severus scoffed at his dear friend's romanticism, but he loved her nonetheless. Sighing at the thought of Helene, he began to pace the Entrance Hall, tracing a somber path from the jewel-filled hourglasses to the left banister of the marble stairs. At the slightest noise, he would turn to face the stairs, hope filling his dark features before it flooded out of him as he was greeted by thin air or someone who wasn't her.

By his twelfth—or was it eleventh—turn back to the hourglasses (Ravenclaw had the lead in House Points), Severus was greeted by the sight of another boy, dressed in a red costume with devil horns adorning downy black hair casually resting against Gryffindor's hourglass. Inclining his head, he greeted the other, who responded in kind. Severus then stood with him (though he stood at perfect attention) next to the Slytherin hourglass, watching the other boy as best he could out of the corner of his eye (the mask cut off a great deal of his peripheral vision, irritating him greatly) as the other boy leaned elegantly against the Gryffindor hourglass, shoulders hunched and back slumped.

As he was about to ask the name of his fellow, Severus heard a soft foot-fall on the marble stair and a delicate clearing of the throat.

Helene was slowly descending the stairs, one corner of her long dress held in her black-gloved hand as the other traced down the banister, clutch wrapped around her wrist. She smiled at him as he swept toward her, a rose held limply in his pale hand. Using his wand, he cut and Vanished the stem, tucking the flower behind her ear, brushing errant curls as he did so.

The hair he touched was a red-streaked jet black, and the black mask made her eyes deep and dark; smiling red lips stood out against creamy skin. The dress she wore had a tight black corset-like bodice, accented by puffed red-patterned sleeves and a belled skirt in a matching fabric. Her sleeves were long, tapering to a point as they reached her hand; Severus carefully removed the gloves from each hand, laying a kiss on her fingertips as he did so, returning the gloves to her so that she could put them in her clutch.

Isolde watched from the first floor, ducking behind a corner when she thought that he had seen her watching, though the fond smile on her face grew as Helene slipped an arm through Severus's, their fingers winding together as they walked to the Great Hall. The large wooden doors closed behind them as Isolde slipped out of her hiding spot, walking carefully down the stairs so as not to fall in the slightly higher-than-comfortable shoes.

She heard a light chuckle as she took her tentative steps, scowling as she reached the bottom of the stairs and ready to give someone a good tell-off. The boy who had laughed was making his way to her, loping gracefully across the tiled floor.

Isolde opened her mouth to tell him off, but he had clasped her hand and gave it a feathery kiss, his grey eyes meeting hers. The boy stepped closer, twirling a strand of her hair between his fingers; she had charmed it white for the occasion.

"You look beautiful, you know," he said lightly, as though he hadn't noticed the rosy flush of her cheeks or her shortness of breath.

"And you look like a stranger. Who are you?"

"Let's leave that as something for you to find out, shall we?" he asked, taking her arm and leading her to the doors.

He laid a hand on the small of her back, kissing her cheek as he did so. In that same moment, Isolde decided to throw caution to the winds—to trust the familiar stranger to be the one guy in the world who wouldn't turn out to be a jerk. In silent acquiescence, she tilted her head to his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed as they took tiny steps towards the Great Hall, their interest diverted from the Ball to one another, to learn each other in whatever way they could; Isolde promised herself that she wouldn't screw this up.

Nearly Headless Nick swooped up behind them, breaking the spell they held over each other and chastising them into the Ball with short, "Into the ball! In! That's where I'd be if I were alive and able to dance with such a lovely, young thing like her—not up to any crazy shenanigans, eh, Mr.—"

The boy hushed him before he could continue, assuring the ghost that he would be dancing every dance with his "lovely, young thing" and leading her into the Ball.

The students were still milling about aimlessly as Hermione and Severus entered the Hall, as the Ball wouldn't open until a little after half-past with a Head dance. The band that had been hired was still setting up, leaving the students and the in-costume professors to fully admire everyone else's costume in the dim light, Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkling with mirth when he saw Remus Lupin in his mask and nightdress as the wolf from "Little Red Riding Hood." He himself was dressed in a bright yellow jumpsuit with belled sleeves and flared bottoms as a Lemon Drop, his hair and beard charmed a bright yellow with a plastic-wrapped pointy hat on his head, and he had plenty for everyone, tossing them to whoever caught his eye.

Severus and Hermione barely noticed the rest of their classmates, each one too busy running careful eyes over the other, admiring the figure they cut in their respective costumes; they were flattering on both of them, and Hermione had been remembering the bat-like Professor Snape of her day. If he knew how incredible he looks, he would take the vampire references as compliments . . . They chose a table in the back corner that was unoccupied by snogging couples, pulling chairs together so that they wouldn't lose contact.

It wasn't long before Professor Dumbledore made his way to the podium, still tossing out Lemon Drops to the people on the floor of the Great Hall. The band played a tuning note before he spoke, motioning to everyone to be quiet.

"If I could please have quiet, the Ball can begin with the Head Boy and Girls' dance—"

He was cut off as a black-haired Devil and a white-haired Angel entered the Hall, a flash of light behind them as the doors opened and closed quickly; they had obviously been hoping to sneak in, but the attempt was thwarted by the sudden brightness and the closing of the door behind them. The crowd went silent as Professor Dumbledore peered through the glasses perched on his nose, smiling as he saw the faces of the two late-comers.

She wore a long dress of grey silk and tattered lace, angelic wings sprouting from her back and the grey lace swaying as she walked. Her white hair cascaded down her back, adorned by a halo of grey roses, her face hidden by a lacy mask, though her eyes glinted with excitement as she turned to look at the confident boy next to her, hands clasped around his arm. She smiled shyly, looking around at the staring audience that they had unintentionally accumulated, though the boy seemed perfectly used to it. The Angel whispered in his ear and he smirked, drawing her closer to him and pulling the red cape around her as they walked, revealing a tight red vest and tailored black trousers. His other hand went around the other side of her body, his hands joined over her stomach. The Devil caught Professor Dumbledore's eye, nodding inconspicuously, telling him to open the Ball and motioning to the open-mouthed Lily and James to take the center of the dance floor.

"Yes, yes—very good then. Are we all here? Wonderful! Let the Halloween Masquerade begin!"

Severus scowled as Lily and James circled the dance floor, though it was amusing to see the short witch try to hold onto him, as he was even taller than normal in his stilettos. He was also a bit disgusted by the sight of James's pale, lightly freckled shins—that was something he could have lived without. His brow arched when he noticed that James had apparently stuffed his chest with tissue or the like, based on the two mysterious, slightly asymmetrical lumps on his chest. Helene stroked his hand with her thumb, laying her head on his shoulder as she watched the Head Boy and Girl dance.

He was wistful as he watched them, remembering the way he had once longed for her soft words . . .

"You loved her once." It wasn't a question. Severus hung his head, sighing as he raised his eyes to meet hers.

"A long time ago," he breathed softly. "A very long time ago, and I've left that behind. I've left her behind."

"When?" She sounded skeptical.

"When I knew I cared for you." It was the closest thing to "I love you" as he would get for the moment, terrified of scaring her away from him. "You know that, Helene."

"Yes, I do." She pressed her lips to his cheek, smiling as she did so.

The dance ended with half-hearted applause from the two of them as Severus began to scan the crowd for Isolde. "Do you know where Zelda is?" he asked finally, unable to find her in the mass of people.

"She came in late—the Angel with the Devil."

"What?"

"You saw her; you were scowling at the two of them. I could see you out of the corner of my eye." Hermione simply couldn't keep the smugness out of her tone. "She and her . . . erm . . . date are coming over here right now, actually."

Devil (as Severus had decided to call him for lack of a better name) pulled out a chair at the opposite side of the table, taking the seat next to her for his own, greeting both Hermione and Severus with a nod and a smile. Severus nodded back as Hermione murmured basic courtesies, stopping just shy of, "Lovely weather we're having, eh?" (It was a bit redundant with them being inside the Great Hall and having a charmed ceiling showing a fierce storm that they all knew wasn't happening.)

None of them really knew what to say and a hush fell over the table, pleasant conversation muted by the mutual distrust they held for one another in some way or another.

Isolde didn't trust Severus to "permit" her to see the Devil in any capacity and she couldn't trust Helene to back her up if she needed it. She couldn't even say that she knew the Devil well enough to trust him, although there was something that just felt so . . . just "so" about being with him and he felt familiar enough.

Helene didn't trust Severus's volatile temper, Isolde's trust in strangers nor the smirking Devil across from her.

Severus didn't trust Helene to take his side if things came to a head (no matter how much they

. . . cared for one another), nor did he put his faith in Isolde's . . . taste in companionship. He certainly didn't know what to think of the Devil.

And the Devil . . . he only had Isolde and she didn't even know who she was.

It certainly would be an interesting night.