-- Author's Note: Although an avid fan of the Harry/Ginny pairing, I've had the hardest time writing it into this story (for anyone who doesn't know Much Ado About Nothing, Benedick's friend and Beatrice's cousin are in love, also, which leads to the drama and angst, as you will see), which is why this chapter has taken me longer than I first anticipated.
Anyway; thanks to Finding Beauty, as always, and Josh (who recently got himself a nice pen name, Expected Chaos) -- both for beta reading my stuff and putting up with my bitching about writer's block.
Love was a strange word for a confusing emotion that left one with an indescribable feeling in the pit of their stomach, the center of their chest, and the entire expanse of their mind. Love was contagious; a deadly pathogen with unmistakable symptoms only cured by the infected falling head-over-heels into oblivion to oblige the urge lodged in the core of his or her being. It was more than simply the sting of Cupid's arrow, as it had been eloquently described in the past, but the burning of every fiber contained within the human body -- absolute anguish and absolute bliss at the exact same time, the searing pain of the powerful emotion being the most thrilling kiss of heaven, all wrapped into a single package. Impossible to ignore, implausible to suppress, and entirely too overwhelming to be stifled, love was something that the bold of heart, strong of mind, and shrewdly skilled all surrendered to when the time came. Unrelenting, it was older and mightier than the very ties of the earth and with more strength in a single moment than all the armies of all the world combined.
For seventeen-year-old Harry Potter, it was as if his lightning-shaped scar had come alive as a storm, which either racked his body with bolts of electricity shooting straight into his heart or sprinkled him with the warm caress of a gentle summer rain. Altogether, agonizingly seraphic.
The very first time the twinge of this entirely new emotion struck him was when the Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor announced during Transfiguration one early October afternoon that there was to be a new celebration for Halloween -- a Masquerade Ball. The first thought that sprung to his mind at the mention of this happened to be a red-haired, slightly freckled sixteen-year-old girl who had tiptoed around her fancying him since before she had come to Hogwarts. It caught him by surprise, actually, as he had never thought of Ginny Weasley in such a way before -- but, since that very moment, he had been unable to think of anyone but.
"The point of this Masquerade Ball," Headmaster Dumbledore explained over dinner that evening (for which everyone attended promptly at seven o'clock to receive the announcement), "is to shrug off the typical confines -- and cliques -- of Houses and intermingle with those from others. Therefore, as part of the evening of fun, I will insist that everyone -- Professors included -- mask themselves according to masquerade traditions and neglect to bring with them a dancing companion. There will be prizes awarded for costumes -- which may be received from Gladrags, in Hogsmeade -- and various games."
The Headmaster had sounded absolutely delighted at the prospect of prizes and games, quite unaware that at the mention of neglecting dancing companions much of the excitement of the Great Hall had been quieted, as if an invisible quilt had muffled the rising enthusiasm. Harry, who was quite shocked by this announcement (whereas, years before, he would have relished in the idea of not having to lasso a girl just to ask her to a ball), sat rather sulkily at the Gryffindor table afterwards, picking with disinterest at the boiled potatoes upon his gilded plate.
"Well," Hermione finally spoke up, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the their end of the table, while attempting to sound as if she wasn't taken aback by the news, either. "That's good, isn't it? No more of this off-centered nose nonsense."
At the mention of Eloise Midgen, to who Ron was absolutely adverse to asking to the Yule Ball years before due to her off-centered nose, the red-haired boy's ears flushed a bright pink. He, however, declined to make a retort to the statement, the news of Viktor Krum's engagement and Hermione's heart belonging to another still fresh within his mind, no doubt.
Harry noticed that the two were just about as downtrodden (if not more) as he over the news. "It makes things easier," he noted, mustering a vague sort of ardor in his tone, eyes flickering down the table towards the object of his sudden interest. "I guess there's a reason for it, though. I don't think they'd go so far as to make us dance with Slytherins if we didn't want to, you know?"
But, neither of his two best friends replied. Perhaps the thought of being forced to do what Harry had suggested (though it was very far removed from the realm of possibility) had disgusted them to the point that words could not convey their emotions -- certainly, it caused them to drop their forks in dismay.
The very next Hogsmeade weekend, every student from third year and beyond (first and second year students being unable to attend the Masquerade) went happily to retrieve their costumes from Gladrags, which was swamped with customers well before noon and not cleared until sometime right before five in the evening. Harry, much surprised, found that many of the costumes sold at Gladrags were simply glorified dress robes with beautifully crafted masks -- nothing at all like the costumes Dudley used to wear on Halloween, to prance around Privet Drive as a devil or vampire in order to obtain sacks full of candy. Which was a good thing, he quickly accepted, as he had no mind to push and shove his way through the store in order to browse endlessly for a perfect costume. Instead, he quickly obtained a set of dark vermilion dress robes (which were, to his liking, offset with golden thread-work around the cuffs) and a mask, finely constructed into the face belonging to a lion and painted to look like tarnished gold.
Briskly purchasing the piece of attire and accessory, Harry quickened to escape the madness of the store and push his way out of the door onto the main street. Once outside in the fresh, crisp air of mid-autumn, he plundered through the Gladrags bag to retrieve the mask and view it in the white sunlight of the particularly overcast day.
"That's a beautiful mask, Harry," he heard the distinctly southern, but distinctly feminine, voice of a Weasley from over his shoulder. "Very Gryffindor, especially for Captain of the team."
"Yeah, I was thinking along those lines," came a rather bold lie, as he had just grabbed whatever had remotely interested him and matched the dress robes. "You like it?" Harry turned to inquire, noting a similar bag from Gladrags in Ginny's hand.
Shifting the bag, which was bulging with her own dress robes (which, proudly, were brand new, as she had been recently given a large, monetary birthday present from Fred and George, who were by then successful entrepreneurs), Ginny gave a vigorous nod. "It's very, um, you," she commented, her cheeks soon coloring to the point that her freckles were nearly hidden.
"What's your costume?" Harry inquired, his attention caught by the nearly overflowing bag.
"Nothing special," her reply was quickly given, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over her in order to tint her ears the same scarlet color as her cheeks.
Harry intended to ask again in vain attempt to coerce the information playfully from her, but as soon as he opened his mouth, something else entirely came out. "Do you want to go to get some butterbeer?"
This, apparently, took Ginny by complete surprise and did nothing to curb the tinge rising to her entire face.
"We still have a little while before curfew," Harry insisted, not at all knowing what he was saying and feeling as if he was talking completely out of his head. Still, there was no use in stopping by the time he actually realized he had invited Ginny to the student-friendly pub and insisted upon it by bringing up the He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-influenced curfew.
A simple nod of her russet-framed head was given to accept the pursued offer, at which time the two turned towards the Three Broomsticks, though not at all walking at a pace those fully interested in the warmed drink would be.
"Interesting," Parvati intoned, exiting Gladrags with her twin sister, Padma, and noting the fact that Harry was apparently idling down the sidewalk hand-in-hand with Ron's younger sister.
"What's interesting about that?" Padma inquired after a moment's glance towards the two in question, her head by that time nearly completely stuck into the Gladrags' bag in her hands.
Parvati cast a rather annoyed look towards her twin, before returning her attention to where it had previously wandered. "Just proves love's about as contagious as the measles."
The Slytherin common room was such a hive of unnecessary activity several nights prior to Halloween that many of the older (and subsequently wiser and more cunning) students of the serpentine house began to complain, though rather in the shadowed corners of the room, away from the frantic jabber of the ignorant children who had yet to learn that it was unbecoming of a Slytherin to do such inane things. Although Draco would heartily admit to having a go at the golden trio of Gryffindor from time to time, he would never admit to having done so without tact, wit, and -- above all -- a stance on higher ground. Never, in his entire life, would he be found pledging guilt to blundering through an insult, much as these children were blundering through preparations. It was simply not done, especially by those who knew better through maturity and prestige.
"Did you see it?" Draco inquired sneeringly towards his group of companions (in an effort to steer their conversing away from the annoyance placed upon them by younger housemates), most of who stupidly followed his previous gaze towards the rest of the common room, looking around for something to laugh at within their own house. "No," he snapped, having expected such ignorance from Crabbe and Goyle, but none others. "At Hogsmeade. Did you see it?"
Pansy Parkinson, who was almost practically sitting in his lap, despite the fact that the Head Boy was lounging upon one of the deep green couches which littered the common room, exclaimed as soon as the wheels of her head had turned the correct number of times. "Oh! That. It was disgusting." Though, in the end, she sounded much the way she looked -- grossly incomprehensive of the situation.
"It was," Draco agreed, lip twitching slightly in annoyance at the wait he had been forced to endure while she worked out what he was speaking of, which he doubted she had fully accomplished at all, even. Nevertheless, he continued, wanting on with the conversation and not to dally on the limited ability of use of whatever was within Pansy's skull. "Can you believe it? First, Weasel and Granger start making eyes at each other, more obvious than ever. Now? Potter and Weasel's sister." The last name was spat out with such force he nearly did spit, face contorting with disgust.
Blaise Zabini brushed her flowing scarlet hair from her face, looking up to Draco from where she sat on the floor, leaning against an armchair opposite the couch upon which he relaxed, much like a feline. "Something needs to be done, don't you think?" she inquired quietly, apparently the only one with any understanding of what he was saying or getting at.
Doing something -- with the prospect of throwing a hitch into whatever plans Potter had -- was such an alluring prospect that he sat up from laying his head across the back of the leather-covered couch and staring at the ceiling to turn his full attention to Blaise. "Is there a plan forming in that beautifully shaped head of yours?" he inquired, far too excited over the sheer idea of an idea (since it was so rare in the company of minions he held) that he failed to comply with the general rule to play along with Pansy's façade. Apparently, she had gotten the thought into her ridiculously dog-like head that he liked her -- dare he even mention the word love -- and he generally obliged her with cordial conversation ... just because she was quite adept at doing things he asked of her.
This question caused Pansy's face (indeed, very reminiscent of a pug) to contort into a look of severe loathing, which was thrown towards the overly attractive redhead.
"I was simply thinking about that poor Weasley girl," though the words spilling from her freshly painted, blood-red lips sounded sincere, it was quite apparent by the sneer upon her face that they were not. Draco leaned forward further, sensing adeptly the sort of plan brewing behind the pallor of the woman before him, though he was made to wait with bated breath for her to continue, left simply with the continuation, "She bought robes similar to my own."
Crabbe and Goyle, standing against the wall with arms folded over broad chests, looked at each other in confusion for a moment, both wondering if that meant anything at all.
"Is that so?" He leaned away abruptly, settling back against the comfortable sofa to ponder over this piece of information and allow his train of thought to run parallel with the only person in the group who threatened readily to outwit him. He loved that, if only from Blaise.
Silence descended over the small group, only broken vaguely by Pansy's uncomfortable shifting upon the couch and Goyle's stomach rumbling from the overeating of treats from that night's dessert.
Finally, Draco's face broke with a grin -- rather sinister, his own pride partially coloring it, as well -- and he sat up once more upon the sofa. "What a perfectly evil plan, Blaise," he commended her by turning the grin in her direction. "All that's left now is to see that it's prepared and followed through with."
Seeing he was quite pleased, Blaise rose from the floor and shot the sulking Pansy a virtually filthy look, before settling herself lightly upon Draco's lap. Leaning closer, rouged lips began to whisper just as his earlobe. Whatever it was, it caused him to laugh -- not jovially, but in a low, baleful chuckle of delectation.