-- Author's Note: This chapter does contain some things that could be considered graphic by some people, just as fair warning. Also, the name Madcoil comes from the comic book Elf Quest, in which a horrific monster is created when a snake and long-tooth cat battle to the death in a pit of foul magic. Obvious imagery is implied there, which is why I had to use it. Elf Quest was created by Wendy and Richard Pini (who are Gods, much like J.K. Rowling) and is copyrighted by Warp Graphics; no infringement was intended.
"I just couldn't do it," came Ron's sullen explanation as he straightened out his deep navy dress robes for the fiftieth time, speaking more to his shoes than to his roommates.
Neville, who was the only one of the Gryffindor seventh years not in on the plot, gave Ron a sympathetic look as he straightened his own, vaguely wrinkled, robes. "Don't worry, Ron. It took me forever to get up the courage to ask her to the Yule Ball. I was devastated when I found out she already had a date. But with this one, you don't even need a dancing partner before hand."
It was the first time in his life that Neville Longbottom had ever succeeded in making sense. From his statement sprung one of Harry's, "He's right," he said, not at all bothering to mask his astonishment. "You don't need to ask her to go with you, just ask her to dance."
"That's your plan," Ron muttered, his mood turning even more sour as he remembered the conversation he had had with Harry a few days before. The git wanted to dance with his sister at the Masquerade Ball. Why, if Ron hadn't been so distraught with his own worries, he might have just hauled off and broken Harry's nose. He might have been the Boy Who Lived, but he wasn't about to be the Boy Who Put the Moves on Ginny Weasley Without Getting a Broken Nose from Her Older Brother. Yet, somehow, he couldn't muster the strength to clench a fist. Still, he would be watching and at the first sign of any moves being put on his baby sister, Harry would have to deal with . . . well, whatever Ron could get from his wand.
"I thought for sure when you came in with that rose, you had a plan of your own," Dean interrupted, struggling with the clasps of his robe for a moment, before forgetting it and settling upon his bed with a sigh of frustration. "Look, mate, just go and ask her to dance. She's crazy about you."
"I did have a plan," Ron muttered, which was seemingly the only thing he could do. "I'm just not so sure about it now."
Harry pulled at the sleeves of his vermilion dress robes with a sigh, also of frustration, though over Ron and not his attire. Though, secretly, he suspected Dean was frustrated over the same, exact thing. "Go on with it, mate. Dean's right -- she's absolutely crazy about you and if you can't see that . . . then, well, you're better off not even trying."
He couldn't see it, though, but he couldn't see how he was better off not trying, either. Perhaps he was just too blinded by his own fears and disquiet that it was impossible to see anything else other than that. He should just take Ginny's advice wholeheartedly, then, and listen to that insane feeling in his chest and carp the denim -- or . . . whatever.
Moving over to the table beside his bed, Ron gingerly picked up the long-stem, white-petaled rose Professor Sprout had given him -- once he had spilled his entire plan out, along with all his hopes and dreams and fears and desires. He had been on the verge of confessing that he wanted to marry Hermione and be the father of her children before Sprout finally took pity on his poor love-sick soul and gave him the most beautiful flower of the bunch. She had then offered him tea, as well (perhaps thinking he needed something to calm him down after the ordeal), but he had been so embarrassed that he couldn't even speak, let alone stay for tea. He would never be able to go to Herbology again. "Ginny said her dress robes were indigo," he commented more to himself than anyone else in the dormitory, shaking the recent memory from his head.
Neville opened his mouth, perhaps to ask what in the world indigo was, but was silenced by a raised hand from Seamus (who was not surprisingly decked in green).
Removing his wand from the inside of his robes, Ron cast a simple coloring charm on the rose, transforming it from a stark white to the color of a late spring twilight. "All right. So, all I have to do is give it to her. And, then, she'll be all . . . well, mushy, like girls get. And, then, at the Ball, I'll ask her to dance. Right?"
"Right," Harry replied, several similar responses chiming in with reassuring nods of heads. "It's almost half past, Ron, we better get going. Ginny said she wanted some pictures before we left, too. Your mum apparently put her on picture duty, after not getting any from the Yule Ball for her scrap books."
"Brilliant," he sarcastically muttered, following the rest of them out of their dormitory while placing the rose carefully within his robes. Once in the common room below, which was fairly crowded with many of the older students who had chosen not to arrive at the entrance of the Great Hall too early, Ron began to use his many inches of height to his advantage, scanning over the tops of heads for Hermione and Ginny. "There they are," he announced to his companions, beginning to weave through the crowd toward the two of them.
There was a torrent of overly formal greetings (which must have been due to the overly formal attire), before the group settled down and began to converse casually as they waited for Lavender and Parvati to show up (both whom Dean and Seamus respectively intended to ask to the dance floor and never allow them to leave). While the conversation turned to pictures, the job of taking Ginny had handed over to her classmate Colin Creevey, Ron stuck away from the group and pulled Hermione gently by the elbow over with him.
For a moment, there was nothing that came to his mind to say, aside from some vague sound of awe at her appearance. She was stunningly beautiful -- not to say that she wasn't beautiful every day he had ever seen her, but more stunningly so in the dazzling dress robes, ornate hair style, and touches of makeup. "I, um, er," he attempted after a moment of gaping, but found that no words seemed fitting enough. Instead, he merely brushed a hand inside his robes and withdrew the charmed rose to show her.
"Ron!" she exclaimed, almost causing him to shrink away in fear that she might have been angry. Instead, however, she took the rose lightly from his hand, then threw her arms around him in a hug which drew quite a bit of attention from those around them. "It's beautiful! Did you get it from Professor Sprout? -- You didn't steal it, did you?"
"Yes, I did. -- No! I didn't do that. I just . . . I just told her that I wanted to give one to you for the Masquerade and you were too busy to get it yourself." This, of course, was a lie, but he didn't want to go so far as to tell her that he was groveling on his hands and knees in front of their Herbology teacher and professing his love to the heavens just to obtain that single rose. Stealing it would have been a better idea, he realized, upon reflecting.
Eventually, she reluctantly discontinued the embrace and went to straightening her robes, before giving him a very appreciative smile. "That's so sweet of you, Ron. Thank you." As she went about examining the rose (and more or less attempting to figure out how and where to attach it to her robes), Ginny flashed Ron a grin.
"All right, everyone. Pictures! Then we'll head down to the Great Hall. Just a few, though, since we don't want to be late," Ginny announced, once Parvati and Lavender had arrived, gathering the group around and positioning them accordingly -- while also reminding just about every one of Molly Weasley, in the process.
By the time the pictures were underway, Hermione had bewitched the rose into a corsage and fastened it about her right wrist, positively glowing over the unexpected gift. Obviously, the sudden bout of frustration which had driven her into the girl's dormitory (and alarmed her roommates) earlier in the day had vanished completely. Colin Creevey, who was far less annoying by the time he had grown into his sixth year at Hogwarts, took several pictures with a Wizarding camera (then some with his own Muggle camera) before Ginny announced that she was satisfied. After which, the group and whatever stragglers had stayed behind in the Gryffindor common room donned their masks and headed through the portrait hole with the Great Hall as their destination.
The Great Hall, the doors of which were open by the time the remaining Gryffindors made their way into the adjoining entrance hall, was decorated in a similar fashion as it had been in the years past -- though, many subtle changes and additions had been made for that particular evening of events. The many fluttering black bats still clung to the translucent ceiling far above, from which orange and black streamers of thin paper were draped in a crisscrossed fashion dangerously close to the typical floating candles found hovering near the bewitched stone. The usual twelve jack-o'-lanterns had been carved in varying fashions this year and positioned about the room, lit by large, black flames. Upon a raised stage where the teacher's dining table usually sat, there was a band of skeletons, dressed in tattered and torn black robes (resembling a dead form of the Weird Sisters, actually), already set at playing rather enchanting music -- for skeletons, that is. There was an assorted number of round tables, large enough to seat twelve, scattered around the room in place of the usual house tables, a skeletal waiter (obvious by the white linen draped over an arm and the menus in hand) stood ready to take orders.
One of the tables was enough to seat the group from Gryffindor, though they found it difficult at once to place orders with the waiter, who could obviously not speak. Thus, asking about the things listed on the menu was a moot point, leaving them the only option of sticking with what they knew best. It was general consensus that butterbeer would be the drink of the night all around the table, so that much, at least, was set. Much to everyone's surprise, the dinner turned out to be superb, if they weren't still quite taken aback by being served by a bewitched skeleton which they could only hope was fake.
Dining concluded quickly, due to the rapid and efficient service as well as everyone's excitement to get on with the Masquerade -- never mind the fact that it was quite a challenge to dine while wearing full masks, as some no doubt discovered. Once those in attendance had stood, Headmaster Dumbledore (recognizable by the length of white hair and beard protruding from what appeared to be a mask resembling Fawkes' face) pushed the tables and chairs back along the walls with a wave of his hand and, with the wave of another, extinguished the floating candles above to leave the Great Hall lit only by the eerie, purple glow from the twelve carved pumpkins with black flames dancing within their mouths.
"At this time, we will start the festivities of the night with a round of dancing. It will, however, be ladies choice," the elderly wizard announced, obviously beaming behind his phoenix mask. "With that said, ladies, please carry on with your selecting."
There was an awkward moment of absolute silence within the hall, before the skeletal band struck up a deliberate, tragic tune perfect for slow dancing, inspiring those gathered to pair off. Harry immediately found himself being led to the dance floor by Ginny, who looked absolutely divine in her elegant, chartreuse dress robes, dancing there for several moments until he noticed a masked, but nonetheless dazzled, Ron waltz up beside him with a corsaged girl in his arms. "Finally," he heard Ginny murmur into his ear.
The Masquerade went on like that for quite a while, dancing interrupted on and off for various games -- such as bobbing for apples (the only time during the night some became unmasked) -- and various ways to get dancing partners to change (one whereupon a Professor held a bundle of multicolored strings, asking the girls to grasp a string at the bottom and the boys a string on the top, pairing whichever two grasped the same ribbon). Several of the devices used to pair off dancing partners went well, especially when Goyle was somehow paired with Crabbe (both of which were unable to miss, even masked), which resulted in quite a deal of laughter, mostly from the Gryffindors.
Nearing the end of the ball, as it was beginning to reach midnight, the girls were once again given the option to choose partners. Although Harry was quite sure Ginny would be able to find him, he soon found himself being tugged onto the dance floor by a rather tall and forceful girl he didn't readily recognize. Only when he found himself dancing (with her in the lead), did he recognize the blond hair of Pansy Parkinson. Casting a desperate look around, he found no chartreuse-clad, red-haired girl to rescue him -- where had Ginny gone?
"I wouldn't usually dance with someone like you, Potter," Pansy sneered at him, only wearing a half-mask to hide half her dog-like face. "But, there's something I need to show you when this song's over."
"Yeah?" Harry replied, anger coloring his tone. He suddenly felt very dirty, just knowing that he was holding her hand and had his other about her waist. "What do you have that I would ever want to see?"
Pansy sneered again, before replying, "It's not what I have, but what Malfoy's having. And I'm only letting you in on it, because I'm sick. He bitches and insults, then goes for it at the drop of a hat. It's absolutely disgusting and you ought to know."
What in the world is she talking about? Harry wanted to scream, a look of sheer confusion playing upon his face from behind the mask in the shape of a lion. "What the hell is it, Pansy?" he finally demanded when she didn't come out and tell him then and there.
"It's this way," she whispered as the cryptic skeletal music ended, grasping his hand in an iron fist and pulling him quickly off towards the exit of the Great Hall, around which many people were playing at being wallflowers -- including someone Harry recognized as Professor Lupin (due to the shabbiness of his robes), who he noted was conversing to a person not readily identifiable, shrouded in black and sporting leather pants.
"What is this way?" he demanded, becoming rather annoyed that the fruit of so much torment from the Slytherins was dragging him around like a rag-doll.
"Them," Pansy hissed, sounding as if he were the densest person in the world for not already knowing. "I saw them sneak off together while everyone was distracted by his stupid minions sharing a dance. I followed them and . . . well, I thought you ought to know."
Ought to know what? His mind demanded, though he was shushed suddenly from asking anymore questions as he was pulled in the general direction of the Slytherin's dungeon common room. However, he was halted abruptly in a dark corridor, barely lit by the torches sparsely lining the walls.
"We're getting close. Just keep your mouth shut and look," she demanded, pulling him onward a little more, towards a corner which she readily peeked around once reaching it. After obviously finding what she intended, Pansy stepped back and motioned for Harry to take a look as well.
As he peered around the stone corner, what he saw was such a shock to the senses that, at first, he thought he had come face to face with a Basilisk and died instantaneously. Instead, and to his absolute horror, he continued to breath and watch and listen as the scene unfolded before his very eyes.
Down the corridor, nestled in the corner, was Draco Malfoy, his back to the wall and his lips to the neck of a writhing redhead dressed in flowing chartreuse robes. One pallid, serpentine hand had snaked through the shimmering flow of scarlet tresses, while the other was obviously fumbling with something below his own midsection. Before long, the folds of jade velvet were pulled over milky thighs and the entire feminine form was hoisted into the air momentarily, her feet inches from the floor from that moment on, at which time moans of obvious pleasure poured from both.
It was just enough to freeze his entire being, watching that scene. However, upon hearing the drawling accent of his most hated foe groaning out the name of the single most girl he had ever felt so much for . . . it was quite enough to drive him utterly mad, melting the ice that had formed over his heart in that one moment and sending a flare of passion through him that could rival with any volcanic eruption. Surging forward, the only thought flashing through his mind being to silence that icy, malicious voice from crying out her name.
Yet, he went no where, only vaguely aware of the arms clamped around his, the surprisingly strong grip of Pansy Parkinson holding him back from doing everything in his power -- killing, even, it occurred to him -- to quiet Malfoy's terrible moans of ecstasy. As much as he struggled, as much as he fought, she simply would not let loose her hold on him, leaving bloody gouges in his skin from her lengthy nails and bruises on his upper arms from her manly grip.
Then, he somehow noted that they had began to back away from the corner and the scene (though it kept playing again and again before his eyes), only the echoes of their actions reaching his ears, which were otherwise deafened to all other noise. Finally, when the last cries of velleity had died into quiet echoes, Harry came to find himself on the steps leading down to the dungeon, quite a distance away from the horrific scene. Slowly, Pansy allowed him to slip from her grasp, at which time he merely let himself slump to the stone floor.
The very first thought that came to his mind was that he was about to become violently ill, surely about to vomit the contents of his stomach upon the cold, hard floor. Somehow, he refrained from doing so, but was no less inclined to rest his head on the aforementioned, ignoring the chill of it against his cheek. Heart and mind were racing, aching, questioning. Why?
Hearing the steps of Pansy distance herself from his slumped form, Harry let out a sigh of relief -- not only was she revolted by what she had witnessed, but also so embarrassed that the single person she had clung to since their first year at Hogwarts had been doing that behind her back, she had no stomach or audacity to insult him over it. However, a part of him had wished she had . . . wished she had given him the excuse to use the wand his right hand was still tightly gripping from the surge of anguish and -- dare he think -- insanity that had nearly driven him to kill Malfoy.
It was quite some time before Harry managed to weakly push himself from the steps, feeling as if he actually had emptied the contents of his stomach from the trembling of the muscles in his arms. He could barely lift his head enough to push the mask from it, dumping the gilded accessory carelessly to the floor afterwards. Tears stung at his eyes after the initial shock had worn off, a great grief settling within him, along with the searing emotions of betrayal and contempt.
Just days before, they had shared their very first kiss. Now, his lips felt tainted, as though hers had been laced with a poison which leisurely worked at killing him and had only, at that very moment of realization, succeeded. No longer sweet, innocent, and beautiful before his eyes, Harry saw her -- Virginia Weasley -- as something just above a common whore. Purity, which had been almost all that he had seen within her, had vanished and had been replaced by something he could only describe as filthy, immoral, adulterated lust; that which could only drive someone as her, as he had known her at least, into the grasp of a person such as Draco Malfoy.
Thoughts swirled within his mind, causing his vision to swirl with them, until all that he saw before him was but a small amount of what had been before, speckled with black spots threatening to cloud his vision entirely. Struggling to stand against the sudden dizziness which kept him off-balance, he tread over his discarded mask while making haste for the nearest set of stairs. Voices rang clearly through the corridor, reaching his now fully receptive ears to alert him to the end of the Masquerade Ball and urge him further up the staircase. Instead of clawing his way back to the Gryffindor Tower, he merely took him wherever his unbalance and fogged senses could guide him.
Eventually, Harry was dimly aware of being within the moonlit circular room of the Astronomy Tower, leaning against the cold stone wall as he attempted to sort his thoughts. Due to the holiday and the weekend, there were no classes at the hour, which roused but little happiness within him . . . at least his confusion and anger would go undisturbed.
It was well into the morning before Harry finally fell into a fitful sleep, plagued with nightmares of what he had to bear witness to, the suspicions which preyed upon his thoughts, and the questions that echoed through his mind. At dawn, the sun shone so brightly through the many windows of the tower, he was forced to wake. It was Sunday and he had decided exactly what to do, as if his mind had countered the obscene dreams by planning while he slept.
At once, he drew himself stiffly from the floor and, with whatever semblance of calm he could muster, began to move towards the dormitories.