Chapter 3
October 31, 1998
Hermione hates heels.
They’re extremely uncomfortable for no reason, and these shining heels are no exception. She keeps her spine linear and concentrates on not stumbling over the smooth gravel. She adjusts the white eye mask around her eyes, straightening the placement. Her keen senses pick up on the gazes of both men and women lingering on her, enthralled by her transcendental beauty.
Ginny has straightened Hermione’s hair out, then curled the very ends so they fall softly across her shoulders. Half of her hair is gracefully swept up, curled into a bun on the back of her head. Her makeup is simple, only blush and lip gloss and mascara with shimmering gold eyeshadow. The yellow gown has a simple square neckline, the fitted bodice glowing in the same shade as her eyeshadow. The skirt flits around her, descending in subtle layers covered in golden swirls.
She has always been told she is stunning, inhumanly so, but tonight she notices that the attention is more than usual. This is why I don’t wear dresses on a regular basis, no matter how nice they are. Attention is not a thief’s friend, she thinks wryly.
Taking note of the manhole around the corner for her escape later, Hermione reaches the entrance to the ball, a beige building with stunning arched windows and entryways. She prances up to the bouncer, skipping the line, and no one seems to mind, dozens of eyes raking over her. The bouncer clears his throat, his face paling. “Invitation?” He grunts.
She hands over the fake paper, smiling sweetly. He barely glances at the invitation, more focused on her. He steps aside, puffing his chest a bit. “Welcome, Lily Evans.”
Her heart hurts at the mention of Harry’s mum, the brave woman who was killed in a tragic car accident with her husband and Harry’s dad, James. Harry had only been twelve.
Hermione steps in, mouth parting in awe. The ballroom is grand, utterly extraordinary. Crystal chandeliers glimmer above her, twinkling in a manner similar to the bubbles within the many glasses of champagne. The white marble floors are spotless, and it's a surprise that the shoes don’t squeak against the cleanliness. In the far left corner, a full blown orchestra exudes gorgeous classical music. Dozens of men in sharp cut suits dance and converse with women dressed in elegant finery. The colors swirl in her vision, burgundys and magentas and ceruleans, but no yellow, not a shade of it in sight. She marveled at how Harry had found out that no one else would wear her color. Of course he did. He’s the best there is.
Scanning the room, she spots Beauford lounging on a white fur chaise against the farthest wall of the ballroom, where Petunia Evans is standing to the side and fanning him. Yes, Harry’s aunt, who left Hogsmeade twenty years ago to marry and never looked back.
Hermione cracks her knuckles, ready for another victory. She steps forward, about to maneuver through the dancers. “Showtime.”
Cold, thin fingers close around her wrist, twirling her around to face him. Draco smirks, threading their fingers together and wrapping his other arm around her waist. “Hello, love.”
He’s wearing a formal royal blue blazer with a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, with loose black pants and brown dress shoes. His hair is hanging loose across his face, curling on his forehead and over his black mask. Hermione groans, and then he’s moving them, leading her in a waltz. She recognizes the song that begins, ‘Experience’ by Ludovico Einaudi. “I was dreading seeing you here,” she chastises.
His lip twitches. Narrowed eyes. “My dismay surely outweighs yours.”
Draco tightens his arm around her and spins her then, so swiftly that her feet lift off the ground for a moment. If it weren’t for her covered face, he would’ve seen the surprise across her features. “That mask is mine, Malfoy.”
He makes a frustrated noise, frowning artificially. “Must we always talk about business, love? It’s a masquerade ball, after all.”
“Oh I’m sorry, would you like me to just enjoy this waltz with you?”
Those quicksilver eyes dart over her face. “You’re smart, you know it’ll make a scene if you stop and leave in the middle of a dance.”
Hermione glowers up at him, pressing her lips shut, incapable of arguing with that. Draco smirks yet again. That line between her brow appears under her mask. “What are you smirking at now?”
He grins, releasing her momentarily and lifting their hands in the air, twirling her under his arm. “A few things.”
It takes a conscious effort for Hermione to ignore her heart rate speeding up, dismissing it as a reaction to the music as it begins to climax. “Enlighten me,” she answers, deciding to play along, because why not?
Draco tilts his head slightly, a stray curl falling over his eye. She resists the urge to brush it out of his face. He clicks his tongue, eyes running over her. “Well, you’re rather invested in this job, dressed up as the Shining Gryffindor Princess.”
“And I suppose you’re what, then, the Damned Slytherin Prince?”
“Precisely.”
Hermione rolls her eyes, an action that always occurs in his presence. They dance in silence for some time, moving in complete harmony. Draco bends his face over hers, lowering himself a good twenty centimeters or so. “It’s also that I’m so much taller than you now,” he murmurs. His breath secretes many aromas that she has subconsciously associated with him. Coffee and smoke, mint and old library books. Green grapes. “Told you I would be, remember?”
Her body stiffens with the memory of when they first met, and he dips her low to the ground, ringlets brushing marble as the song crescendos.
She swallows, staring up at him through dark lashes, the gold of the sun breaking through the silver of the moon. “Shut up, Malfoy.”
After what feels like years in that position, the song comes to an end and Draco lifts her back up, his expression solemn. Hermione blows air out of her nose, prying his fingers from hers and stepping back, fixing her bodice. “Ready to watch your arse get handed to you?” She sneers, backing up towards Beaufort, her gaze challenging him, daring him.
“Humorous. I was about to say the same to you, but…” He peers around her. “There’s no arse for me to hand over.”
She scowls, sending a rude gesture with her middle finger before turning around, plastering on a sensuous smile and filling her gaze with what would look like desire.
Unsurprisingly, it only takes a minute or two for Beaufort’s gaze to lock on Hermione, on her “divine figure” and her “irresistibility”, which are the words she hears whispered behind her by strangers. His gape is framed by the breathtaking golden mask, with miniscule rubies and emeralds dotting under the eyeholes and an insanely large diamond embedded in the center. He ambles over, grasping her hand roughly, bending to press his lips to her hand. “Good evening, m’lady,” Beaufort coos, straightening again.
His hands yank at his white tie, an eggshell shade that matches his entire suit. His dirty blonde hair is drenched in gel, rigid, a helmet of sorts. His piercing blue eyes devour her hungrily, easily, the look of a predator locking in his prey. She supresses her disgust at his overwhelming air of superiority: as handsome as he is, his womanizing tendencies and shallow motives deteriorate his whole character.
“Mr. Archer,” Hermione smiles, pretending to be nervous, awestruck by the man before her. “Happy Halloween. This is an outstanding party.”
He bounces on his feet, a drizzle of confusion etched into his eyes, trying to recall how or if he knows her. “What’s your name again, dear?”
“Lily Evans,” she responds with practiced ease. “Petunia’s sister?”
“Petunia…” Beaufort taps his fingers against his chin, and Hermione’s dismay grows at the fact that he can’t even remember his employees' names. After a few moments, his face shifts in recognition. “Ah, yes of course, my secretary, I did tell her she could invite a few people. She never mentioned a sister, let alone one as striking as you are.”
She gasps, giggling absurdly. “You flatter me too much.”
His pupils dilate, and he leans close to whisper in her ear, his exhale rolling across the shell of her ear. “Would you like to go out to the balcony for some fresh air?” He asks, though he knows she’ll say yes, expects nothing less, a stranger to rejection. Hermione guesses that he has experienced refusal before but simply chooses to ignore it, another trait of a bigot.
She knows she judges prematurely, picking out the worst qualities in a person. But it’s her way of functioning, of convincing herself that these people deserve to be stolen from.
She expertly forces a blush. “I would love to, Mr. Archer.”
“Please, call me Beaufort,” he urges, looping his arm through hers and pushing large double doors open.
They step onto a small balcony, overlooking a quaint garden full of red and white roses. Like blood and snow. Beaufort faces Hermione fully, reaching up to brush a curl out of her face. “You have the most tremendous eyes I have ever seen,” he compliments.
She bats her eyelashes at him. “That’s too kind of you.”
“Even with a mask on, I think you are the most beautiful woman I have laid my eyes on.” He has inched closer, noses about to graze.
“I feel the same for you,” Hermione says breathlessly. Beauford puckers his lips, going in for the kill, but she puts a finger against his lips. “Beauford,” she mumbles, feigning both innocence and adoration. “Let me see your face, so that I may relish in its full perfection.”
“Of course.” He unties the silk ribbon from around his head and sets the mask onto the ledge rather carelessly, ocean eyes glued to her honey ones. His tongue scampers over his thin lips with a persistent thirst. “Will you do me the same courtesy?”
“Perhaps later on.” Hermione’s lips curl mischievously. “I like to keep people guessing.” This, she realizes, is the only truthful thing she has said to him so far.
Beaufort cannot wait any longer, swooping down and taking her mouth with his, an eagle eating its fish dinner. His lips are startling and frigid. Gross, she thinks. So gross. But she makes a small, pleasant noise against him, showing her enthusiasm by returning his kiss firmly, and running her palms up and down his arms.
Hermione can only handle so much. “Beaufort,” she pleads against his mouth after a few minutes, drawing back. He moans in annoyance, and she indicates to her lower body, placing her hands on her cheeks in a show of humiliation. “My lady duties call, unfortunately. I will use the loo and be back in a moment.”
Beaufort kisses her cheek. “Hurry back,” he tells her as she leaves. His pupils are enormous and glazed, trailing after her figure as she disappears through the doors. His infatuation prevents all other senses, prevents him from realizing that his precious mask is no longer beside him.
Once Hermione is well out of his reach and across the ballroom, she grins broadly, patting her upper dress layer where the mask is concealed as she strides towards the door.
A shoulder rams into hers, and she’s met with a withering stare, hardened steel. “Watch it,” Hermione snaps, though she’s still smiling.
Draco studies her for a moment, releasing an exasperated breath and stepping out of her path. “You got the mask, didn’t you?” He mutters as she moves to exit, disappointment undermining his tone.
Hermione spins around to face Draco, wiggling her brow and saluting him. “Did I?”
He huffs, shaking his head and dipping his chin as she leaves the land of the wealthy.
Hermione passes through the front doors with ease, the bouncer only sparing her a second glance to take a moment to admire her. She rounds the corner, casting a brief look around before stripping the manhole lid off the ground. She bunches her pretty dress around her waist, dropping into the sewer and climbing the first few rungs of the ladder to slide the cover back into place.
Wincing, she takes her heels off and stuffs them under her dress into one of the many hidden pockets. She breathes a sigh of relief, flexing her sore toes against the stone cold cement. Hermione sits, extending her fingers into another dress pocket and pulling out the rollerblades, lacing them onto her feet.
Shouts filter in from above, yells of alarm and surprise. Taking that as her cue to go, she stands and knots her dress around her hips. Her feet have just started rolling when she hears the repeated word from multiple voices: “fire.”
She almost falls over, modifying her weight distribution to regain her balance and continue skating. Malfoy marks his victories with fires, yes, but this wasn’t his to claim. However much she dislikes him, he has always been honest with his work, only leaving his symbol behind if he won. Draco has never claimed her steals as his own, or vice versa: they at least respect each other that much.
So why would he set a fire?
Feeling paranoid, she takes out the mask, just to assure herself that she has it, that she succeeded tonight, that she beat Malfoy. But her eyes focus on a sizable dent in the middle of the gold, something that certainly wasn’t there before.
Hermione swears, wheels gliding and speeding her faster through the tunnels.
Hermione may have gotten the mask, but Draco got the damn diamond.