"This seems like a nice place, Cho." Ron helped his date remove her coat, looked around the quiet little Italian restaurant and caught the eye of a waiter, who immediately walked over to greet him.

"Table for two, sir?" the server queried as he ushered the couple further into the building.

"Yes, please," responded Ron, trying his best to appear mature and courteous.

Cho glided across the floor behind them, dressed in a lovely, pale blue, mandarin gown, and he could sense every man's eye on her in the venue. Part of him was very pleased that she was with him, but the other part hated the attention she got; it made him feel a little bit wary of her.

The waiter seated them in a secluded corner at a cosy table for two and lit the candle in the middle to create the required atmosphere, then he went away to fetch the wine list.

"I love this restaurant. I come here a lot; they always have the same waiters and the food is perfect," Cho said while gazing towards her cheery, redheaded friend through the soft glow of the single flame.

"I've never been here before, but it isn't far from Hermione's house, so I'm surprised I've not noticed it before."

The Ravenclaw went a little bit quiet after that comment. Harry had mentioned to him how she rarely liked to talk about Hermione, and while this disturbed him somewhat, he did wonder if it was a hint of jealousy. If so, he was a little bit flattered.

Abruptly, Cho gracefully stood up and pushed her chair back. "I'm just going to the ladies."

In a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture, Ron also rose to his feet as she left, earning him a small smile from the woman.

"What wine do you want?" he called after her.

"You choose," she answered as she disappeared into a hallway leading off from the main room.

The waiter had returned and stood politely behind Ron, pulling out his chair as the young man lowered himself back to the seat.

"Which wine would you like, sir?"

"Erm, I dunno." Ron frantically read over the list, feeling uncouth and juvenile when he realised he was unfamiliar with almost every entry. "What does my girlfriend normally order?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think I have seen her here before."

"Oh, you're new, are you?"

"No, sir, this is my father's restaurant and I am here nearly everyday," the waiter replied with a raised eyebrow. Suddenly, he schooled his features, remembering that the customer is always right, and gave an apologetic smile, adding, "I'm not that good with faces, so maybe she has been here before. As for the wine choice, I'm sorry I don't know her preference, but I'm happy to make an elegant recommendation. Maybe this light and refreshing Pinot Grigio?"

"How much is that one?"

The waiter coughed lightly and said, "I believe it is one of our more modestly priced wines at about seventeen pounds."

Ron did a quick calculation in his head. "So, that's around three Galleons and six sickles?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Oh no, it's nothing. Yes, that one's fine," he hurriedly talked over his mistake while his mind reeled at the thought of his mother's face if she heard the cost of the wine.

When Cho came back, he forgot about the waiter not recognising her, he forgot about the three Galleons and six sickles, he forgot about everything except for her. Ron just breathed in the ambiance, the conversation, and the stunningly beautiful girl, who was sipping wine opposite of him.

The meal was glorious and he paid the bill afterward, albeit clumsily like a tourist. Stepping outside the bistro, they walked together hand in hand up Finchley high street, the bustle and the noise barely penetrating Ron's ears. Cho happily strolled alongside him, her long tailored coat billowing in the autumn breeze. The lights of the city twinkled and the upper floors of the Georgian four-story houses began to glow.

Oblivious to the busy nightlife streaming past them, Cho stopped walking and swung round to face Ron. Grabbing his lapel, she swiftly pulled him closer to her and raised her head to look up at him.

"Blimey, Cho!" Ron exclaimed as he felt himself press flush against her.

Leaning towards her, he captured her cool lips in his own, closing his eyes automatically.

His hands wound around her small waist, feeling the ends of her ebony hair tickle against his entwined fingers. Cho kept tight hold of his lapel, her hands trapped between them. She returned his kiss timidly at first, but within moments, it became apparent that she was the dominant participant as the control became all hers.

Breathlessly, Ron pulled away and was once again conscious of the bustling crowds merging around them.

"Wow… Nice... Shall we go home?"

Cho nodded eagerly. "Let's find a place to apparate."

They linked their arms and returned to walking, found a quiet street near the tube station and apparated to Grimmauld Place.

Outside of number twelve, Ron explained the enchantments placed on the house and Cho submitted to the blindfold. On entering the hallway, he removed the blindfold and brushed a chaste kiss across her cheek.

"I can't stay long, Ron, work tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know." He hid the disappointment in his voice admirably.

Thankfully, Ron could see that Harry and Hermione were not about and it appeared he had the house to himself. Leading Cho through to the kitchen, he paused to make sure Mrs. Black was covered up and saw that she was. He sighed in relief before ushering Cho into the kitchen and seating her on a rocking chair by the enormous unlit fireplace.

"Incendio," and the fire burned happily at his command. "Tea?"

"Yes, please." Cho smiled charmingly.

Ron stumbled a little bit on his way to the kettle and busied himself making the tea, aware of the silence surrounding them.

"Here you go, then." Ron handed her a large, chipped, Chudley Cannons mug.

Cho giggled and accepted it from him.

"Yeah, I know, not very elegant," he said ruefully.

"Doesn't Hermione like a delicate cup?"

"Yeah, and she hides them in her room. Apparently, we have elephant feet for hands." Ron was surprised she mentioned Hermione, but raised no further comment as he sat across from her to drink his tea. He was uncomfortable to clearly hear each gulp he took, but he hoped that Cho couldn't.

Slowly, their conversation picked up again until Cho said, "I'd better go, Ron."

She stood and the redhead reached out to take the mug from her hand, his fingers gently brushing hers for a moment during the exchange. Placing the cup on the hearth, he turned again to embrace her and nuzzled her neck inexpertly.

She placed her arms around him and kissed his ear. "Imperio," a hushed and seductive whisper whistled around his senses, setting his nerve endings tingling and penetrating the frontal lobe.

Blankly, Ron moved back from her with a dreamy expression creeping across his face.

"Ronald, I've got to go. I've had a lovely time. I want to see you again and I want to take this further. It would be easier if I could just come here, maybe surprise you. You trust me and you said you would do anything for me. I want a commitment. I need to know it's not just a fling… I'd like the proverbial key to your home."

Ron hesitated at this forward speech but found himself lost in yet another of Cho's dominant kisses.

"Yeah, babe, that's fine. I... want... that too," he responded breathlessly. "You can visit me here at number twelve Grimmauld Place whenever you want."

"Thank you, Ron. I will see you at work. You are very sweet to me."

A faint expression of pity crossed Cho's face as she kissed him briefly, and then left a confused and frustrated Ronald Weasley in the kitchen of the old, dreary abode.

When Ron had left for his date, Harry and Hermione started to revise for the N.E.W.T.s in their Hogwarts study room. After a while, they put down their quills and made some tea.

Flopping onto the sofa in a graceless sprawl, Harry flexed his cramping hand muscles and moaned, "Oh, so much writing!"

Hermione ignored him and plunked herself down next to him. She lay back against the opposite arm of the chair, and then flung her feet up and onto Harry's lap with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, do I look like a footrest?"

"Well, as you've rested your homework on my brains all evening, the least you can do is rub my aches!"

"Ergh!" Harry stared at the appendages with amused disgust. "You're wearing your skankiest socks too; your big, grey, fluffy, bobbled thingies. Honestly, woman, you'll never get a man flaunting these babies."

She smirked in response. "Yet my feet are still on your lap! Shut up and rub them or that's it, no more homework help."

He reluctantly squeezed the ball of her foot through the thick sock. "What would Ginny say?" he muttered with a sigh.

"Nothing, she would rub the other foot. I did her transfiguration homework."

Harry grinned. "So tell me, why did you offer to go to the ball with Malfoy?"

"Better than going alone and it helps Draco, I think. It might help me, as well."

"Help you with what, Hermione?"

"I'm not sure… I'm a bit confused."

He looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Are you attracted to Draco? Because I know the war's over and everything, but some prejudices don't die. That's one to stay clear of, and to be honest, I don't think Draco would be interested. I'm not being cruel, I just don't want to see you hurt."

Hermione smiled and then winced when Harry increased the pressure of his massage. "I should be offended. It's a good job that Hogwarts gave me a thick skin. No, I'm not attracted to Draco, although he's a lot better looking than he used to be. I'm using him and he's using me, so it's a perfect date."

Harry's face became even more suspicious as he furthered his questioning. "What are you using him for?" His mind reeled at the possibilities.

"I'm not exactly sure. To get a reaction, I suppose."

He abruptly stopped working on Hermione's fluffy feet. "A reaction from who?"

She remained silent and avoided meeting his eyes.

"You know you can't pull the McLaggen trick again. That didn't work, anyway. You should have gone out with Ron while you had the chance. You can't want things just because you can't have them," he lectured her with concern in his voice.

Hermione swung her feet off his lap and asked, "Why would you think of Ron?"

"I dunno. It's... It's not me, is it?"

She laughed, leaned over and punched him on the arm. "No, sorry, Harry, you're not the chosen one! You're all Ginny's. You are family and that's how I've always felt about you. Gosh! The look on your face, that was quite funny!" she exclaimed and hoped her friend had been distracted from the question.

Unfortunately, Harry was tenacious. "I didn't think so, really, but you don't see anybody else, you don't hang around Neville and the rest of the gang. I can't think of who you're trying to get a reaction from."

"Perhaps that's the point. Maybe I'm trying to get a reaction from anyone."

"No... No, I don't think so. You don't fool me, I know you too well and you don't do random things; you plan, everything you do is thought out. So who? You're always with us, you don't talk about anyone but us and the profess... No! Noooo! You're joking!" He was incredulous at his own reasoning and the blushing woman to his side shifted away from him nervously.

"I don't know what you mean," she mumbled, averting her eyes.

"Yes, you jolly well do! Please, tell me I'm wrong. This is worse than Draco! He's old enough to be your father, nineteen years older than you, in fact, and he's ugly, mean-spirited. Why, in all that's holy, would you entertain any ideas about him? You're too old for a teacher's crush, and he's no Lockhart, either! Oh please, tell me I'm wrong."

Hermione flinched through his impassioned speech, each word striking her like a physical blow. 'He's right,' she thought, 'it's the stupidest notion I've ever entertained.'

Silence settled on the room and she finally lifted her head to look at Harry's concerned features.

"I don't know what you mean," she repeated her lie quietly.

"Snape!" spat Harry

"Professor!" she bit back.

"And there you have it! Wrong and creepy, Hermione."

"It's nothing, Harry. I just need to get out more and I need to see more people. Draco, the ball… well, all that will help."

"Good, that's good, more people. Yep, that's what you need, then you will forget whatever this is. I still don't understand you. The man hates you. You're a heroine; I could take you out now and you would have the pick of any available wizard."

"I think that might be my problem and I think I blame you a bit. I used to obey rules, but you and Ron have spent the last eight years of my life breaking that down. Now I don't want easy, or normal, or even conventional. I want what I can't have, just like you said earlier. After nearly half my life spent trampling on rules and adventuring, you'd think I would have had enough. Since the new prophecy, I've started to realise I would miss the danger... I'm damaged." She began to cry softly.

"We are all damaged, Hermione, but nothing's beyond repair. Let's fix it."

"How?" She sniffed miserably.

"We try to have fun and see what happens." He pulled her into a hug and they sat that way for a while, comforted by each other, then Harry shuddered.

"Harry?" Hermione released him slightly.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"I know what you're thinking."

"Ergh, I hope not." He shook off the disturbing thought.

"Nothing will happen; it's one sided. Like you said, I should be too old for a crush. Even if the professor knew, he would not encourage or be interested in my attention, and his reaction would most likely be the same as yours, only mixed with mockery and spite. Oh my days! What's wrong with me?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, trying to choose the right wording. "Don't be so sure. He's a snarky, bitter old sot, but he's still very much a man, and you are lovely," he remarked fondly.

"Really? I must look like the very devil at the moment. I'm all snot and socks," she said in surprise at his affectionate words.

"Yes, well, at the moment, you're a veritable harridan, but when you're not crying, when you're sparkling over a new discovery, or dressed to impress, you are breathtaking! So, keep away from Snape, find a young man that will appreciate that sparkle, one that won't try and snuff it out. And don't tell Ginny I've described you as breathtaking; I don't think she would hear it as the brotherly pep talk it is."

Hermione lips curved gently into a watery smile. "Thank you, Harry. I won't tell Ginny; I don't want to be bat-bogied into next week! You are very sweet to try and make me feel better."

"Let's talk about the ball. I've had an idea," Harry swiftly changed the subject, hoping that the professor's ugly head would not loom up again in his friend's thoughts.

He had decided that, although last minute, he should ask the headmistress to send a further note to all those attending the ball to arrive masked. This would make it easier on those who didn't want to attract much attention, like himself or Draco.

"A masquerade?! How exciting! That would certainly help Draco ease in, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would. I'm also thinking, because we have such a huge mix of young and old, muggle-born and wizard-born, that it might be a good idea if everyone made a song request, then hopefully there will be dance music for every genre and taste."

"That's a great idea! What song will you choose?"

"I don't know. I need to think about it. I will send a message to the headmistress now; see if she has time to send out the alterations by owl." Harry sat, quickly wrote out the epistle, and when he was finished, he called out, "Kreacher!"

With a pop, the ancient house-elf appeared in the study. "Yes, master?"

"Hello, Kreacher. How are you?" Hermione asked cautiously.

"I'm very well, mistress." His long ears wiggled slightly as he waited to find out the reason he had been summoned.

"Sorry to bother you, but would you deliver this to the headmistress?"

Kreacher promptly snatched the letter from his hands and disappeared without a word.

As it turned out, Professor McGonagall was delighted with the suggestion and sent out the new instructions to all attendees immediately.

Draco Malfoy sat on his bed in his huge bedroom and nervously bit his nails. Jittering, pent-up energy made his feet tap on the floor.

'Calm down, calm down, calm down,' he chanted over and over to himself.

Since the last battle, his panic attacks were becoming more frequent, with the memories of his own actions bringing bile to his mouth. The abuse he had suffered at the hands of Aunty Bella, although now a thing of the past, left a worrying twitch in his body that displayed itself under times of stress.

He reached over and rummaged inside his bedside cabinet, pulling out a packet half full of cigarettes. His long, pale fingers fumbled at the carton and a few seconds passed before one of the slender tubes was trembling in his nervous hold. "Incendio," he thought and the tip flared up then settled to a smolder. He raised it to his lips and inhaled lightly, feeling the initial burn in his lungs. He took a few long, slow draws of the cigarette and slowly blew the smoke out through his mouth and nose.

A filthy muggle habit, his father had screamed at him the last time he caught him in the act. He knew it was a bad practice, but it was just one more to add to a long list.

He held his hands up to his face and watched them stop shaking as his body relaxed. The cigarette hung limply from his lips. 'Now would be a great time to drink some bourbon,' he mused thoughtfully.

Draco watched the smoke curl in the air and reflected on his day. He wondered what his father would say about his date for the ball, but worrying about it wasn't going to help, so he shrugged unpleasant contemplation off for the moment.

Carefully, he vanished his cigarette end away when it had become nothing more than a red hot filter and waited for his father to return home.

"Draco!"

"Yes, father, I'm coming down!" he shouted.

Standing up, he smoothed his clothes and checked for ash. He flicked his hair from his face and then made his way down to the large foyer to welcome his father home.

Lucius Malfoy had the aura of a beaten man, but it was hard to muster up sympathy for him. Cruel, selfish, and unerringly deviant, he had built himself a life of horror and a legacy of disappointment. The only thing that mattered, other then money, had been taken from him and the boy he barely recognised was sweeping down the stairs towards him looking shifty and nervous.

"Son, how are you?"

"I'm well, father. Any news on mother?"

Lucius hesitated imperceptibly and lied proficiently, "No, none at all, I'm afraid."

"Didn't think so… I've got a date for the ball."

"A fine young man like yourself, I'm not really surprised. This is hardly breaking news, Draco," his father replied flippantly.

"Her name is Hermione Granger."

There was a moment of silence before Lucius raised his eyebrows and spoke up, "What was it, Imperio or a love potion? You idiot boy! I've not got the power to keep you out of Azkaban now. Why would you, anyway? Is it for revenge on her? Why would you want her? The war hasn't changed everything, foolish child."

"No, it hasn't, but it should have done. We will be at war again over this issue, probably before the next generation is grown… People don't learn! You don't learn!"

He recoiled in shock at his only son speaking to him with such disrespect. "Be careful, son, and remember who you are talking to."

Lucius raised his ebony cane and jabbed hard at Draco's thin body, causing him to grasp his side and bend over slightly to ease the pain of the rough stab.

Looking up from his doubled over position, he spat out the rage he had held back since the fall of the Dark Lord, "I know exactly who I'm talking to! A sad old fool who's frightened my mother is away and who ruined my life! I'm going to the ball with Hermione as friends, and with her consent! I'm grateful to her for showing me mercy when I have treated her like an animal… Enough! Father, enough! I've had enough of you!" he screamed out.

His father shook with fury and lifted his cane up to lash at him again, but Draco caught it and wrenched it from his hands with enough force to propel the older wizard across the hallway to slam into the stately front door. Lucius growled as his back struck the door handle and his head snapped forward from the impact.

"You can't hurt me or manipulate me anymore," hissed Draco.

He threw the cane to the side and advanced on his father. Grabbing onto the man's robes aggressively, Draco looked at his trembling features and a wave of unbidden self-pity hit him.

His head lowered and fell against his father's chest. "I wanted you to be proud of me. I want to-" he broke off and started to cry in earnest. "I... want to love you, but all I've ever gotten from you is your disappointment. I… I want my mother."

Lucius listened to his son fall apart and knew the blame fell at his feet. In an uncharacteristic movement, he clutched at his weeping boy and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"You mustn't forget to buy flowers for your date," he said quietly.

The sudden, demonstrative contact surprised and unnerved Draco and he pushed himself back out of reach. Wiping his face with his hand, he turned to walk away.

Commenting like nothing was amiss and ignoring the painful interaction that had taken place, Lucius called out at the retreating back of his only son, "How will you get to the ball?"

The young man halted and stiffened up. He knew what his proud father was trying to do, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

But he could still be civil. "By floo. At the house she shares with Potter, it is open to Hogwarts."

"Where does she live?"

"I don't know. Would you trust a former Death Eater to be a secret keeper? Because that's what I am, thanks to you." Draco resumed walking to the stairs.

His father took some shallow breaths and he continued to lean against the door. "I am sorry and I am proud of you! Your mother loves you!" he shouted in panic.

There was no response from the young man and his steps did not falter in the slightest.

"I love you," Lucius added quickly, saying the unfamiliar words as fast as possible.

At this, Draco ran up the stairs, his crying clearly audible and echoing faintly through the empty manor.

Only when he had gone did Lucius allow a tear to escape for the son he had damaged.

Hermione was in Flourish & Blotts, busily searching for a book on masquerades. Harry, Ron and Draco had no idea what to wear, and even though she already had her dress, she still needed to choose a mask that complimented it.

She soon stumbled across a book entitled The History of the Masquerade and a brief skim through the pages revealed this to be the exact volume she needed; it detailed myths, legends, masks and costume. She completed her purchase and hurriedly made her way home to study the information contained within the pages.

Curled up on the sofa, she began to read and was soon immersed in a world of colour, comedy and vice. Hermione could picture the dancers rhythmically moving together in a Venetian waltz, ladies fanning themselves with feathered fans, gentleman strutting around like cockerels, displaying their plumage to all who looked, and coquettes holding bejewelled masks just inches from their faces on golden sticks, with their tightly corseted bosoms rising and falling from the circles of the dance.

'Beautiful, but a little sinister,' she thought.

She set about learning some of the characters of the Venetian masquerade, in the hope of choosing suitable outfits for her friends.

'Harlequin, or Arlecchino in Italian, is arguably the most famous of the Commedia characters. Arlecchino (Harlequin) is a servant of Pantalone. He is extremely poor with a patchwork costume that has evolved to pattern of red, green, and blue diamonds with gold trim. Harlequin carries a baton which he sometimes uses to bash other characters, credited with leading to the modern day slapstick. He is portrayed as stupid and gluttonous and is very flexible and acrobatic. He would often try to win the heart of Columbina or other women, but usually not with success.'

Hermione jotted down some notes and a description of his mask and attire. "Well, I've found Ron's outfit!" she sniggered to herself.

'Scaramouche, either a young man of adventure or a boasting, swashbuckling officer, often Spanish, dressed-to-kill in cape, feathered hat, high boots, with sword in belt. He told extraordinary tales about how he beat a whole army of Turks and carried off the beard of the Sultan, but when there was a hint of real danger he was the first to run away. He made love to the none-too-innocent servant maid, and got trashed by her Harlequin lover.'

Again, she made notes about the costume. "And there's Draco!" She outright laughed this time, before continuing her study.

'Colombina is free, insolent, not slave of love bonds, sometimes brilliant, vane always, chatterer, gossiper, always prone to intrigue at somebody else's expenses. A sort of Harlequin in female clothes, and in fact, she comes up in certain setups as Harlequina (Arlecchinetta), with a patched costume duplicate of Harlequin's. She is usually Harlequin's companion, and the only woman to sometimes wear a mask on stage, Colombina brings that female pepper and intransigence to the plot.'

"Hello Cho!" muttered Hermione, once more writing it all down.

'Ok, now Ginny.' Hermione thought long and hard about her friend. She knew that Ginny would want to look alluring, and she would definitely be unamused by Hermione's character assaults. She struggled with the characters as they just didn't seem right. Checking the contents page, she turned to the chapter entitled Myths and Popular Culture, and the first thing that drew her eye was the picture of a masked creature shrouded in robes of red and black.

The Masque of the Red Death was the heading, and Hermione began to read once more.

'The story takes place at the castellated abbey of the "happy and dauntless and sagacious" Prince Prospero. Prospero and one thousand other nobles have taken refuge in this walled abbey to escape the Red Death, a terrible plague with gruesome symptoms that has swept over the land. Victims feel overcome by convulsive agony and sweat blood instead of water. The plague is said to kill within half an hour. Prospero and his court are presented as indifferent to the sufferings of the population at large, intending to await the end of the plague in luxury and safety behind the walls of their secure refuge, having welded the doors shut.

One night, Prospero holds a masquerade ball to entertain his guests in seven colored rooms of the abbey. Six of the rooms are each decorated and illuminated in a specific color: Blue, purple, green, orange, white, and violet. The last room is decorated in black and is illuminated by a scarlet light- "a deep blood color", because of this chilling pair of colors, very few guests are brave enough to venture into the seventh room. The same room is also the location of a large ebony clock that ominously clangs at each hour, upon which everyone stops talking or dancing and the orchestra stops playing. Once the chiming stops, everyone acts like nothing happened and continue on with the masquerade. At the chiming of midnight, the revelers and Prospero notice one figure in a dark, blood-splattered robe resembling a funeral shroud, with an extremely realistic mask resembling a stiffened corpse, and with the traits of the Red Death, which all at the ball have been desperate to escape. Gravely insulted, Prospero demands to know the identity of the mysterious guest so that they can hang him. When nobody (out of fear) dares to approach the figure, instead letting him pass through the seven chambers, the Prince pursues him with a drawn dagger until he is cornered in the seventh room, the black room with the scarlet-tinted windows. When the figure turns to face him, the Prince lets out a sharp cry and falls dead. The enraged and terrified revelers surge into the black room and forcibly remove the mask and robe, only to find to their horror that there is no solid form underneath either. Only now do they realize (too late) that the figure is actually the Red Death itself, and all of the guests contract and succumb to the disease. The final line of the story sums up: "And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

The costume figures in many of the Masquerade balls held in Venice. The Character was further immortalised by the Phantom of the Opera, who choose this guise for a masquerade held at his theatre.

The Red Death was said to be Death himself, who would not be cheated or tricked. Only he was master over death, using his own cloak, said to be torn from the vale of shadow, he hid himself to strike those who dared try to deceive and evade him unawares.'

Hermione held her breath for a second. 'Harry's cloak!' she realised with shock and wonder. 'Harry will have to go as Red Death, but how strange that myth relates so strongly to him.'

She resolved to broach the subject later with him.

"Hmmnnn, Ginny, Ginny, Ginny… What for you, I wonder?"

'Dama, which presents many elegant variations, corresponds to the ladies of the Cinquecento (the period of Titian) who covered themselves in jewels, expensive clothing and elaborate coifs. In our days, this is probably the most popular and most beautiful mask type used during the Venetian Carnival.'

'That will have to do. She wanted beautiful, so I'm sure that will work and the Red Death can dance with whomever he likes, after all,' she decided. 'Now for me; I have my dress and I need vague like Ginny's character.'

'Inamorata (the Lover, female): the male lover's interest, often ignorant and naïve, she is the opposite of Colombina; she is not free, she is bound by ties of love and convention. She is polite and respectful, sometimes a sorrowful figure, and she rarely wears a mask as she has nothing to hide.'

'That will work for me, I think. The costume is nice and vague, as is the mask. Easy! It's just a shame I haven't got the counterpart to go with, but best keep Draco as Scaramouche. I don't want to give him any ideas.'

The counterpart was Inamorato (the Lover, male): an eloquent and attractive man.

Hermione ruminated over her choices once again.

Rabastan paced the floor of his rented room. His hand twitched and involuntary spasms forced him to open his fingers and look again at the little stone hidden within his bony grasp.

Narcissa had insisted that the Resurrection Stone would not work properly without the correct ceremony, the form of which she was endeavouring to discover. Use of the stone at this point would only bring back a shadow of the person who had died.

'The Dark Lord would prefer the shadow to the nothing; shadows can still inspire fear, a shadow can still affect the mind. If I don't use the stone now, he may question my delay... I need to prove to my lord that I am in truth his most loyal servant.'

He continued to stalk back and forth within the small space, muttering with the mania obsessing his soul. The Dark Lord would have to be made aware of who was going to bring him back, he would need to see the struggle and the work. If he returned to full body without seeing the effort, his servant's labour could be taken for granted.

Rabastan halted suddenly and his skeletal hands furtively caressed the stone.

"My lord," he whispered reverently. "See your faithful servant!"

With this, he turned the stone over in his hand as the legends described.

Once, twice and a third time...