Hermione was rarely swayed by any passion, doing what was necessary. However, by the mask, was she ever just the opposite tonight?

Had there ever been a sound so sweet to her ears than the rustle of her heels on that carpet?

The halls never smelled so sweet, the moon outside those endlessly tall windows- so bright. Her own eyes - hazy and sore, but delightfully alert.

She'd never walked while looking through a mask, but she felt like a natural at it.

Perhaps it was just the mask. She did not sense its touch on her skin, like it was barely there. Sometimes, her breath would envelop and bounce off the edges and leave a silken trail along her skin.

She tried not to give too much thought to unnerving ideas. Thinking meant she was going to wake up. And waking up meant not seeing the ball, not carrying through with this plan.

"Intoxicating, is it not?" Snape asked, his voice prickling against her neck. She could smell him, feel the heat of his presence beside her.

"Oh yes," was her breathless reply. "Does everyone feel like this when they wear the silver mask?"

"How so?"

"Like adrenaline running through your veins…like falling, just the moment before you release your feet off the edge of the diving board." She glanced over at him.

His voice was bright, with a hint of a smile. "If you can define it, it has not yet taken you by full force."

There was more? she thought giddily. What would it feel like to be totally consumed by the mask?

"How will I know when it has?"

"You will be approached, rather presented with the sole object of your desire. One of those offers we as people are rarely fond of accepting. But if you accept it, allow yourself to be consumed by your true desire…. you will feel the full strength of the mask's power within you."

She bowed her head.

"It would have to be an undeniably tempting offer."

"All-consuming."

It was one thing to indulge occasionally, but to be consumed? That would be a bit much.

"Did it hurt, when you accepted?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I don't remember," he said solemnly. "But I don't remember the way I channeled magic before accepting. Funny, the way memory works."

Picking up her robes, she walked the dark corridors. In the distance, the gentle tune of the orchestra played among a symphony of voices.

"Do not look so dejected," he whispered. "Perhaps, you will not have to choose."

"Right."

Occasionally, a ray of light from a window would bounce off a mirror and Hermione would catch a glimpse of herself. This was her.

She looked good in black, but she looked better in silver.

Snape's feet barely made a sound on the carpet as he kept close by. Would he be good tonight or prove the news on the radio true?

She stopped to face him. "Only a dance?"

"As you yourself have told me," he replied.

"And no sudden movements?" She tried to keep her tone stern. It was not easy to do, she had a great deal less experience being severe.

One gloved hand lay on his handsome chest, rustling the single silver chain on it. "Mark my words."

"Not even towards the Aurors?"

"None."

"And if they are armed?"

"Miss Wilkins," he murmured, gallantly opening a doorway for her. "The most violent, most brutal exertions, proven by the history of my past conduct will be replaced by the most absolute submission to your will tonight."

When he said it like that, it was hard to disobey. Also hard to keep the faint heat from her cheeks. She nodded her head before stepping through.

An unmasked gentleman with a light mustache and thick brows glared at the two of them. "Halt. Names?"

"Sir Tobias Marchbank and Mrs. Marchbank," said her companion.

The gentleman pulled the list of names out, scanning through, occasionally stopping to look at their masked faces. When he paused, scratching his hair, Hermione knew this was the end of it.

"Truly? You are not on here," he said.

Oh no. Hermione knew that she should admit the truth, and maybe they would let them leave the palace without a second thought. Something inside her prickled at her conscience.

When did telling the truth get you far? The voice asked.

Indeed. Hermione tried to think of a time where her unabridged honesty served her well. All her thoughts clouded in a haze of smoke as she tried to reach them. Finally, her tongue said the following.

"We must be. Check again."

She was happy that the guard was a Muggle, a non-magical, else the silver masks would have instantly given them away as imposters. But there was no such recollection from the guard and he continued to search.

She knew she had to be here tonight. After all, she reminded herself that she was just sleeping. She wouldn't really be going to prison, even if they were caught. For once, she could have a little…fun.

"Yes, we must be included. After all, we are the guests of the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall."

The guard raised his brows. He should have known these important guests, but no form of recollection swam before his eyes.

Hermione looked over to Snape, watched his firm and stoic position in this entire exchange. Perhaps the master of games knew how to behave? She took note and straightened herself.

"Here. You say you work at the Palace? Next time, we will not make such a long trip from Vienna," she said dryly and very hastily. "Viennese gatherings prove to be more up to our tastes."

At once, the guard's expression changed to one of apprehension. "My apologies madame, but when a name is not on the list I have no right-"

"-to what?" This time, it was Snape's voice, loud behind the mask.

A swish of his robes and he was towering over the plump man.

"P-p- policies sir."

"Do you know who you are speaking to, imbecile?" He said this in a casual as-a-matter-of-fact kind of tone. "Here before you is the Mistress Marchbank, a descendant of the infamous Griselda Marchbanks."

"So you are with them ?" whispered the guard, eyes shifting nervously.

"Indeed."

"I will call one of your…guards…err officials to come check you."

"No need, you have done enough." With the wave of his wand, the man's expression turned blank and he fell to the floor. With another, their names were swiftly added to the list.

Hermione could barely contain her heart. He had erased his memories, like that. Right there!

"Did you-?"

"Yes," he said quickly, extending his elbow for her.

"He'll be okay?" she asked. Hearing no answer, repeated to herself that nobody could be hurt in dreams.

Her insides seemed to crunch together out of anxiety, but her palm, wet and shaky, slid over the cloth on his arm. It was cool and unwavering in its shape, as though it could never crease.

"H-how did you Obliviate him so quickly?"

His dark capes came to a slow stop. He glared out into the distance.

"Once. Long ago. I did not have the upper hand. Against-" He paused. His silhouette was stark against the light from the window. "I desired to be stronger."

"Was that the…offer you were given? To always have the upper hand?"

He said nothing.

Hermione had always considered the Dark arts, been intrigued, but never accepted them. She was frightened of what they might do to her, to her conscience, to the fragment of her human soul, tied to her Wiccan body. Would the darkness destroy her completely? Would she become like…Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?

Her mind raced in wild circles as they marched away from the fallen guard. She was certain that had this been real, she would have been in a lot of trouble from the Auror Department. Ron would not like it at all.

That only made her enjoy the thought of it more. What would it be like to be dark? The heroine of those murderous stories Ron always told her about over the dinner table? To be the witch that fights for the wrong side.

It was not like she was going to be it forever? Just for a moment. Just for a dream.

The ballroom was well worth the wait, and she had to admit: Ron was a bastard for not telling her too much about it.

It was marvelous. More than marvelous.

Beautiful banners in shades of red and gold hung around the room. There were the crystal chandeliers so bright they looked like suns hanging down in a galaxy of marvelous tiles on the ceiling.

When they entered, dressed in black, the sea of different colored shades all turned to face them.

Hermione swallowed. This was it. Now she certainly needed to go back.

Oh no. Okay. Relax.

She looked at Snape.

His face was masked, his expression - a mystery. She could not bring herself to own the moment. To veer off the path of discretion. Could she?

But then the violins began to sing, the horns, toot, and the flutes- whistle. Her hand slid where her mind justified it was appropriate and her feet moved, scarcely giving her mind time to deny their progression. There. On the dance floor. She went, she walked, she moved.

"One foot in front of the other," Snape said. She obeyed.

They made a round about the room. Hand on arm, one foot in step with the other.

"Do you think they will oblige us?"

"No," she whispered back, suddenly feeling entirely naked in her dress. It seemed like everyone was staring at her.

"Then we will make them."

It was wrong to force, but her eagerness overpowered her prudence. "I wish they would be more obliging."

And then, she looked into their eyes. Each lady, whether having a prodigious history or title, bowed. Each gentleman they passed tipped their fashion hat for them.

"How is your sister?" Snape asked one gentleman in a salmon rose suit wearing the plumage of a flamingo and a mask made of tiny fish scales.

"Swell and exceedingly better by the day," he replied, extending a handshake. Snape lifted his leather-gloved hand and shook the gentleman's in return.

"Do you know that man?" she asked when they walked off.

"First time seeing him."

"Oh…oh! You have charmed him, you con-man!" she said, giddily.

"Could not withstand your polite summons, milady." Then, stopping, gestured towards the open clearing in the center of the room. "Shall we?"

She nodded. "Yes."

Then, the centuries of dress separated before them. There were ladies in robes-a-la francais, with Grecian curls and masks of pheasants and hens, and their partners in long jackets and wigs standing like proud cocks. There were men in Poole's suits and their ladies in sleek silken robes like snakes. Then- everyone in between: with robes that trailed along the floor, in gossamer gowns with tiaras or in short dresses like Hermione's own at the start of the night.

Through that crowd marched Snape, and she was beside him.

Stopping, he bowed. She did the best curtsy she could.

The crowd gave a gentle wave of applause.

He took her hand in his, with the other - snapped and the orchestra began to play. The strings trilled, the throats of the instruments vibrated nervously and the bass hummed.

Like the foaming wave running down the sandy beach shore, the crowd sighed, their eyes on her. Hermione's eyes floated to him.

His shoulders strong and aware, his snapping-hand slid 'round her waist, and he stood erect.

I cannot dance, I've never danced, her mind said in a mad panic mere moments too late.

The dance had already begun. The orchestra did not wait. Neither did Snape.

In that mad panic of stolen breaths and clammy hands she went, not knowing how and where, but with each step, her heel miraculously found the wooden floor, and its clink resounded over the walls and ceiling.

"I can't, I-"

His breath trailed into hers. His mouth mere inches away.

She wondered how long she could hold out without breathing until he answered her.

"You can."

"I won't."

"You will."

That pattering shoe, his loud heel charged, and then everything became clear. The room grew darker as his hand gripped her waist and he guided her backward.

Back and to the side. Back and to the side. In a rhythm of steps, she was dancing.

"You are rarely denied?" she asked.

"Never."

She gasped, her foot sliding under her.

In that blackness, he steadied her. One hand lifted into the air, he spun her under and caught her again.

They waltzed across that barren floor, like two unstoppable forces. Like no one else wanted to deny them the privilege. Like all the crowd of onlookers wanted was to gaze upon them in awe, getting champagne-drunk over their presence.

So this was power?

A cold breeze swept over her arms. That thick smell of his cologne rested on her. She allowed herself to lean into that opening space between them, then to fall only to be caught by his strong arms again and again.

The room spun, she spun with it. The faces in the crowd gazed upon her in silent envy.

And then, she halted.

"I'm sorry," she said to him, stepping back. Then she turned to the crowd, "I'm sorry."

Again to him, "I don't belong here at all. What I said to the guard, that isn't like me. I'm not some marvel. Never was. I thought this was easy- dreaming."

"It is easy."

"No it's not." Her voice became louder, then was torn by gentle sobs. "I don't deserve to be here. I'm not well dressed….I'm jobless…I'm nobody."

He seized her hands at once. "Who gave you that notion?"

"People who know me very closely. They're right." Then clutching his hands back. "If someone listened to-"

"-who-" His voice was firm.

"-what I have to say-"

"-who-"

"-they would realize I'm a sham."

"Who said so?"

"Why does it matter?" Her hands tightened, as did her chest.

"Oh, Hermione." He brought his hands to his mask, lifted it enough that his breath trailed over her knuckles. Running his lips over their surface, barely touching the skin, murmured, "you do not do yourself justice."

"But I think it of myself."

Then his lips pressed into her hands, kissing them softly. "If we were judged only by our own thoughts, we would lose the esteem of the world."

"Please. Please let me go," she said through squinted eyes.

Swallowing her tears back, she glared back at him. "You're holding me."

He held up his hands.

"I am not. It is you. You are doing this."

"I couldn't be-" She looked around the room, her heart beating heavily. What did he want her to say? That she didn't think Ron loved her? That her own friends gave no notion of wanting to see her again? That she herself felt like a pathetic excuse.

Yet, her body continued to constrict and tighten. Then glancing down, there were silver strands crawling all around. "What's happening?"

She moved her head around, trying to see who was holding her.

Then the sight of red hair emerged from the crowd. "Ron. Ron?"

There he was, that perfectly pinned Auror badge on those dark robes. Beside him, the stout guard from before. His finger pointed straight at her.

With a final shove, she trailed her hands down Snape's arms and pushed him away. "Ron, Ron!"

She came closer until his features were clear. His familiar hands, his eyes. She wanted to reach over and touch him but found herself forced away and curled up on the floor.

Gasping for breath, she trailed one hand over her mouth, coughing. Then let it come to her stomach. She writhed in pain at her own touch. Then spreading her fingers before her eyes, she saw red.

"Ron?"