Masquerade

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Edited by: thyme_is_a_cat

Chapter 18 – Masquerade

Hermione tried to draw air through her nostrils unsuccessfully, then gave it up as a lost cause, pulling another tissue from the box on the coffee table. Luna sat next to her on the sofa and patted her shoulder in an absent, but somehow reassuring, manner.

"I wish I could say that I understand how you feel, but I don't," Luna said kindly as Hermione dabbed at her dripping nose. "I was devastated when my mother died, of course, but it's a different kind of loving. So, I suppose that I kind of understand, but not really. I'm sorry, nonetheless."

"'Dank you," Hermione said and snuffled again. It seemed that her most recent bout of crying was coming to a close, but then again, she had spent most of the last two days crying, so it might be that she had simply run out of tears.

With her surprisingly accurate sense of disturbances in the time-space continuum, Luna had Flooed late that night, a dense fudge cake in tow. If it had been in any other circumstance, Hermione would have accused her of being a Jedi master attuned to the Force, but she had just lost her heart twenty years in the past and her only method of retrieving it somewhere outside of time.

Talking (and crying) until the rosy glow of dawn had crept between the tall buildings of the London skyline to paint her dining nook an unwelcome, cheerful pink, Hermione had confessed the entirety of her adventure. In her previous discussions with Luna, she had hinted and hedged, admitting to only those events for which Luna had proof. Now, she left out nothing, answered every question to the very fullest of her ability, and tried to not be offended as her friend accepted each detail with such easy belief. If someone had come to Hermione with such a preposterous story, then she would have had him or her committed. At the very least, sedated. Then again, perhaps her outrage stemmed from her own desire to not believe her story, for which practical, right-minded woman fell in love with a man four years dead? Sedation didn't sound half bad at the moment, though it would only dull the pain temporarily and not make Severus any less dead.

Even her alternate plan had been foiled: the note that she had tucked away in her bodice, in the event that she wouldn't be staying with Severus, had disappeared. She had no idea when or where she had dropped it. It could have slid through a crack in the porch during their confrontation with Lily, slipped under Severus' sofa while they had snogged or been set adrift in eddies of time with the Starglass. She hoped that he had somehow found it, for in it, she had not only expressed her feelings for him, but had hinted about the nature of his death, warning him to keep his stash of Blood-Replenishing Potion, coagulation salve, and anti-venoms close at hand. It was the most her conscience would allow, but much less than her heart desired. And obviously not enough, had he found it.

Her eyes stung and watered, and she sniffled futilely, swabbing her face with her bathrobe sleeve. It appeared that she had more tears left, after all. And they had eaten all of the cake. Damn it.

"Think of it this way," Luna offered thoughtfully. "Now that you have known him personally," she paused when Hermione blew her nose with a muffled honk, "you can help others understand him as a man, not just the sum of his deeds."

The memory of his warm, chapped lips moving against hers shot through her chest as sharply as the shaft of an arrow, and she was sobbing all over again. This was the grief she had expected to feel when her relationship with Ron had ended: a hollowed-out wretchedness, as if the greater part of her innards had been scooped away, leaving what was left raw and exposed and hurting. An integral part of her was missing, and she despaired of ever finding it again.

Luna was patting her again. "You really should come by Spinner's End before it opens to the public," she said. "Your team has done an excellent job. Perhaps it would give you some closure."

"I don't want closure!" Hermione wailed and flopped sideways on the couch. "I wanted to stay!" A thought occurred to her, and she mumbled it into the sofa cushion. "It opens soon?" She could hardly believe it. She had scheduled months of renovation before it was presentable, which meant that her timetable had been accelerated drastically since the last time she had seen the house. Granted, that had been after her first trip to the past, and so many other things had changed...

"Who is going to care for Bewlip, once the house opens?"

Luna blinked at her owlishly. "Bewlip?"

"His cat," Hermione clarified, snuffling to clear her blocked nasal passages. She would have to get this cushion laundered after leaking tears and mucus on it for two days.

"Oh, right." Luna nodded. "Mewlip. He disappeared not long after Headmaster Snape died."

Headmaster Snape. Severus. They were still two entirely different people in her mind: one, the harsh professor whose classes she had enjoyed for their curriculum, but resented for their unfairness; the other, a difficult, sensitive man with whom she had wanted to spend the rest of her life. However, Spinner's End would always be Severus' home in her mind: a place where they had studied, fought, kissed, and finally admitted to love. And now Mewlip was gone, as well. No, she didn't want to go back, not even to see the improvements made on the property. Perhaps when the pain of losing him had dulled, but not now.

"Would you mind terribly," Luna started carefully, and Hermione lifted her head enough to eye her friend. Luna rarely prevaricated. Caring little for what others thought, she usually just stated what was on her mind. "If I wrote down your story and published it in the Quibbler?"

Alarmed, Hermione rose up on her elbow and opened her mouth to protest, her tears momentarily forgotten.

"No, I won't mention the name Heidi or anything about time-travel or raising people from the dead. It would be something of a memoir of a woman who had adventured with the Headmaster when he was still a young professor and who has long since vanished, unearthed by the Quibbler's Editor and published in honor of A.A.S.S. opening the door's of Spinner's End..." Luna trailed off with a misty smile, her eyes glazed with what was probably the opening paragraph of her article as it unfurled in her mind.

Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about that. She trusted Luna to give the story its due, and she knew that her friend would not publish anything that would allow someone to trace the heroine of the story back to Hermione. Nevertheless, the idea made her vaguely uneasy, as if the publishing of it would somehow leave her exposed and under a spotlight. "I don't 'dow..."

"I'll let you read it before I publish it. Edit it, if you like."

'What harm would it do?' she thought resignedly. Maybe it would even help her to read it from a third person perspective, to pretend that it had happened to someone else entirely. Everyone else in the story had passed on (except, perhaps, for Madam Beetlebump, and she was barmy) and wouldn't be around to ask questions. Sighing heavily through her mouth, since her nose was hopelessly clogged, she shrugged. "I suppose so."

"Thanks, Hermione. I really do think it will be a good thing." Rising from the sofa, Luna stared down at her speculatively. "I think we should go out for breakfast. You've been in this flat for too long. Have you even bathed since you got back?"

Grimacing, but knowing that her hair was a rat's nest and that she could smell her own funk, Hermione slouched off the sofa and toward the bathroom, finally succumbing to the pull of her life moving forward.

The heat of summer lingered as September drew to a close, the sunny days blighted by the occasional rain shower and growing cloudier as the month progressed. It was just such a day, warm and overcast, that the Association for the Acknowledgement of Severus Snape opened the doors of Headmaster Snape's house on Spinner's End in a formal ceremony hosted by the Ministry of Magic. Hidden from Muggle eyes, the ceremony included speeches given by Snape's former colleagues, including a tearful Minerva McGonagall; a reading of Luna's article (with Hermione's blessing, of course); a ribbon cutting and refreshments afterward. The Malfoy family had sponsored the reception, and Hermione had it on good authority that the elf-made wine had come from their own cellars.

Draco had accompanied Hermione to the ceremony as both her date and the representative of his family and stood by her as she severed the deep purple ribbon that wrapped around the house with a nonverbal Diffindo. She had almost called it quits with him during that beastly last week in August when she thought that she would shrivel up with the pain of her lost love. However, his companionship and attentiveness had helped her to start coping. She didn't love Draco, but she liked him and being with him was better than being alone. It pricked her conscience that she was using him, but she mollified it with the thought that she could love Draco, if she were ever to get over Severus. She missed him fiercely and suspected that she always would.

For now, she was grateful for Draco's presence: a shelter of normalcy (or as close to normal as she could find, anymore) against a teeming mob of memories waiting to assail her beyond the doors of Severus' house, pitchforks in hand. To her immense relief, the house was so changed, inside and out, that she barely recognized it. In addition to the re-facing of the house, the verdant lawn and beds of pansies lining the walk, a chestnut tree had been planted in the left section of the small yard and encouraged to grow tall and broad. Dark, gnarly branches, heavy with leaves tinted yellow by autumn, partially obscured the brick structure and managed to give the lot a more homey feel. The inside of the house had been repainted, the wood floors polished and waxed, and the tile floors and countertops re-grouted and in places, re-tiled. The bookshelves in the parlor gleamed with wood oil, and the books had been dusted and enchanted against curious visitors.

None of his original furniture remained. Each piece had been replaced with a new item in a similar style, but in immaculate condition. Meaningful objects, including Severus' Order of Merlin, had been mounted in display cases and hung on previously empty walls, each with a brass plaque explaining its significance. Throughout the ground floor, small podiums had been erected, faced with a larger brass plaque that described important points in his life or enumerated his many contributions to the fight against Voldemort. No, this was not Severus' house; this was a museum. She could deal with this.

The reception was located in the backyard, which had seen as many improvements as the rest of the lot. The ugly old tree had been diseased and unsalvageable, so it had been uprooted and a flowering plum planted in its place. A new lawn had been sown, and a tidy, white, wooden fence had replaced the chain link. There was nothing to be done about the view beyond the fence, and Hermione had watched more than one guest stare up at the stacks of the mill beyond the river, as she had once done.

Harry and Ron sulked at the edge of the reception, throwing mutinous glances her way that had less to do with A.A.S.S. and more to do with Draco standing next to her. Though he hadn't said anything directly, early on in September, Harry had hinted at his disappointment that things hadn't worked out with her "foreigner." To Hermione's utter amazement, he had said it out of earshot of Draco, showing a discretion and maturity that the wizard she knew rarely possessed. As with many things in her life, she found that she had to reacquaint herself with her friends. Luna had given her a thorough run-down of the events in her new life, but she was still prone to mistakes. Her friends and boyfriend attributed her absent-mindedness and pendulous mood to the opening of Spinner's End, and as she eased into the waters of a life she hadn't lived, she found it easier and easier to stay afloat. There were times, however, when she was tempted to take a Portkey and disappear; the location didn't matter as long as it was far away.

To her very great relief, her parents had changed little, and when she needed a break from the magical world that often fit like a pair of shoes two sizes too big, she would hide at her childhood home and relive fond moments that all of them remembered. It occurred to her that she could leave the magical world behind altogether, but magic had become a fundamental part of her. In truth, the Muggle world was even more uncomfortable and foreign than this changed present.

Placing a hand in the small of her back, Draco whispered in her ear, "Would you care for a glass of wine?"

"Yes, please," she said, smiling up at him. He really was quite attentive and courteous, for all that he had a keen mind, sharp wit and barbed tongue. Often, as they conversed over dinner or during one of their strolls through Diagon Alley, Hermione saw glimpses of Severus in his speech and manner, and she caught herself wondering how much Severus had taken to heart her admonition to provide guidance to Draco. That led to the thought that she liked Draco because he reminded her of Severus, and then she would have to feign a speck of lint in her eye to dab away the tears. Draco wasn't fooled, but he had a great respect for her privacy and didn't pry with anything more than a concerned glance and a tender squeeze of her shoulder.

Ron elbowed Harry, and they both glared at Draco's back as he wended toward the wine fountain placed in the middle of the refreshments table. Standing next to their husbands, Ginny and Lavender rolled their eyes and shook their heads, heading to the aperitifs and leaving the men to their grumbling. Harry and Ron might not approve of Draco, but their wives were staunch supporters. On one occasion, Ron had accused Draco of slipping her a Love Potion. Lavender had socked his shoulder before Hermione could respond.

"Ronald Weasley," Lavender had snapped, and her husband had begun to flush, his head hunching low on his shoulders as he rubbed his arm, "I am sick to death of that tripe. Draco has grown up to be a decent bloke and a fine catch. It's obvious that he fancies Hermione, and she has been alone for far too long. Now, shut your gob."

Hermione hadn't felt the need to add anything after that; she merely smiled at Lavender and toasted her silently. Who would have thought that "Lav-lav" would grow up into a thinner, prettier Molly Weasley?

It had taken a couple of weeks for Hermione to acclimatize to Ron and Lavender's marriage. At first, she had been jealous of the sweet touches they had shared, as only weeks ago, Ron had touched her that way, but that had faded quickly. Now, she was glad that the couple suited each other so well. She found that she quite liked the woman Lavender had become.

Their mouths set in similar pouts, Ron and Harry stalked toward her, and Hermione sighed heavily. Draco was on his way back as well, two goblets of wine in hand. She didn't relish the coming confrontation.

"Potter, Weasley," Draco said, his polite tone served with a healthy dollop of disdain. "I hope that you are enjoying the reception." Hermione could almost see the wheels turning behind Ron's eyes, examining his words for the smallest insult. Finding none, he merely scowled and crossed his arms over his chest.

His face pinched in dislike, Harry said, "It was decent of your family to sponsor it." Hermione smiled at him in reward, and he shot her a look of aggrieved resignation.

Draco raised a surprised eyebrow. "Ah, but Severus was my godfather. It is the least I could do for his memory." His lips curving in what would have been a sappy smile if it hadn't been Draco's face, he added, "And this project is what brought us," he draped a possessive arm around Hermione's waist, "together."

Flushing scarlet, Ron spat, "Listen, Ferret... " He stopped abruptly when Draco raised his glass in greeting to Ginny and Lavender as they approached, dainty china aperitif plates held in one hand and goblets of pumpkin juice in the other. Ron glanced behind him and winced, immediately changing his tone. "Right, erm. Good for you, then."

"Are the boys playing nicely?" Ginny asked as she winked at Hermione.

"Of course, Madam." Draco gave her a small, courtly bow, grinning playfully, and though it hardly seemed possible, Harry looked more sour.

"That's good to hear," Lavender said, giggling as Draco bowed over her hand.

Luna wandered up to their group, her slightly protuberant eyes drifting over them in turn as they greeted her. "It doesn't seem like the same house," she said dreamily, smiling as she gazed up into the branches of the plum tree. "I think he would have liked this tree. The leaves look almost black."

Nodding, Draco eyed the tree speculatively and then turned his attention to Luna. "Luna, I have a question regarding your resources for that article you read." Hermione froze, shooting a nervous look at her friend, but Luna just cocked her head and blinked at him. "The memoir of the woman who had spent time with Severus as a young man?"

"Oh, yes." Latching onto his elbow, Luna steered him away from the group until they were standing alone under the purple foliage of the plum tree. Watching them leave as surreptitiously as she could, Hermione was relieved that Luna hadn't even glanced her way. Lavender nudged Ron's arm, murmuring her desire to inspect the fence because she wanted something similar in her own yard. Always happy to discuss home improvements, Ginny trailed after them, much to the dismay of her brother who didn't give a toss about fences and knew that once Ginny and Lavender got started, the conversation would last for eons.

Hermione relaxed, letting her gaze wander back to the newly refurbished house. She wished that she could have truly been a part of its renovation, just as she wished she could have met the man Severus had become. The respect and admiration that the public held for him still came as a shock at times. How much more would she have enjoyed his classes? Would his bushy-haired, know-it-all student have reminded him of a woman he had known long ago? Or had he eventually forgotten her as he clung to his obsession for Lily? "He must have really loved her, to have fought all those years."

"Loved who?" Harry asked sharply at her shoulder, and it was only then that Hermione realized that she wasn't alone and that she had spoken aloud.

"Lily, of course. Isn't she why he protected you and spied for Dumbledore?"

"How did you know that?" he asked and then answered his own question with a self-deprecating smile. "Oh right, your research." He shrugged and shoved his hands into his Muggle jeans. "At first, I suppose. He had a terrible crush on her and never got over resenting my dad... but he loved another woman who... just vanished. No one even knew her real name. I saw it in his private memories, though I didn't get to see her face... She had hair like yours." He shook his head, as if to cast off the shadows of the other man's memories. "I think that maybe she was the woman in Luna's article." He gave her a long, serious look and then said, "Promise not to repeat that. If it didn't come up in your research..."

"Of course not," Hermione managed to sound offended around the lump in her throat. So, he hadn't forgotten her at all. He'd loved her.

Lowering his voice to a near-whisper, he continued, "Do you remember that ghostly otter that guided me to the Gryffindor sword? At the time, I could have sworn it was yours, but it was his Patronus, and it was also hers." Blinking at him stupidly through a film of tears, Hermione nodded dumbly. "She made him want to be a better person."

The Malfoy Halloween party was held in the grand ballroom of Malfoy Manor, a spacious room that held two hundred and fifty guests, a string quartet, refreshment tables, and an entire colony of giant vampire bats fluttering about the ceiling with plenty of room to spare for the numerous dancing couples. Cobwebs had been strewn over the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that lined the ballroom, and the glasses had been enchanted to distort the guests' reflections into caricatures of themselves. Five sets of tall French doors opened onto a wide balcony overlooking a rose garden, a warming charm allowing guests to linger outside for fresh air without catching a chill.

Hermione was not thrilled to be back at the Manor, but the dread that had curdled her blood when she had visited with Severus was now only a shiver of fear. Like a gentleman, Draco had picked her up at her flat and Apparated with her to the front gates where an Abraxan-drawn carriage had carried them up to the front entrance. He'd steered clear of the drawing room, his smile tight and forced until they had entered the ballroom. Only leaving her side to fetch them drinks or nibbles, his attention was almost smothering, but she didn't mind it in this instance. His behavior also answered a question she had been unwilling to ask: had she and her friends been dragged to this house as prisoners on this timeline? Apparently she had, and Draco remembered it. She wondered what this new Draco had done about it.

Her eyes scanning the other guests, Hermione was now glad that Draco had insisted that she wear this costume. She had argued that it was far too elaborate, but he had assured her that the rest of the guests would be dressed similarly. Dressed as a Gorgon, she wore a sleeveless, silk chiton that shimmered and changed from ocean blue to sea green as she moved. A faint scale pattern and the clinginess of the fabric gave the illusion that she was clad in living snakeskin. The dress was belted low with a length of silver chord, and she wore flat, silver sandals that laced up to her knees, occasionally visible through the slits in her skirt that reached from the floor to the top of her thigh. Hermione had pointed out that the slits were not historically accurate, but Draco had merely laughed. A heavy, silver collar in the shape of the Ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail, laid at her throat, and silver, snake armbands twined around her upper arms. Her hair had been charmed into a nest of teal-green serpents that writhed, hissed and lunged at any male who got too close, excluding Draco. Hermione suspected that he had a hidden agenda with her costume, and when he had appeared on her doorstep dressed as a circus griffin tamer, complete with top hat, tailcoat and whip, she had been tempted to sic one of her hair snakes on him. This was before she had realized that the snakes would ignore him.

Every guest wore a mask. Each and every angel, demon, fairy, mermaid, cat, bird, Muggle (and some of the Muggle costumes were truly outrageous), vampire, Crumple-Horned Snorkack (at least, that is what she though he was) and naughty schoolgirl wore no less than a demi-mask, and many wore elaborate full-faced masked that gave no clue as to their identities. Hermione had donned a simple, silver eye-mask of the same design as Draco's black mask. She liked the anonymity, and from the raucous behavior of some of the guests, they were enjoying it, as well. That, and they had had far too much to drink.

One such partier stumbled against her chair, his beaked mask and robes decorated completely in red and gold feathers, and her hair rose en masse, coiling and striking at the unfortunate phoenix. Mumbling an apology, he lurched away, toasting her hair respectfully with his half-empty goblet. Sighing, Hermione wondered how long it would take Draco to refresh their drinks when he dropped a kiss on her shoulder.

"Did you know," he said quietly as he took his seat at their table in the back of the ballroom, "that a number of the guests have made a drinking game out of your hair." He smirked, preening at his own cleverness.

"Do tell."

"Take one drink if you get hissed at, two if you get bit, and three if you manage to touch it unscathed." He tweaked one of her snaky locks, and it slowly wound around his finger.

"Do you have to take three drinks, now?" she asked bemusedly, wondering how one could win such a game.

His smirk widening into a grin, he drawled, "No, I just won twenty Galleons from the idiot Can-Can Girl with the hairy chest."

"Oh." She did have a rather hairy chest. And a prominent Adam's apple. Shapely legs, though.

"Would you care to dance?" Rising from his seat, he held out a hand and bowed at the waist.

Though not much of a dancer, Hermione took his hand and let him lead her onto the dance floor. "I'll try not to step on your feet," she said as they fell into a stately waltz. "Just be careful of my back. The scars ache now that the weather has turned chilly."

"Which reminds me," he said, pausing to spin her expertly. "A dear friend of mine, a Healer, is here, and I'd like him to take a look at those scars. They aren't healing properly."

"I'm sure he doesn't want to work while at a party, honestly!"

"He prefers work to parties," Draco said with a delicate grimace. "Merlin only knows why." Hermione could name a number of reasons, but held her tongue. "I had to twist his arm – literally – to convince him to come to this one."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have insisted," Hermione suggested, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. One thing that she had learned about Draco was that he was difficult to dissuade when determined. At times, it was charming, but could also be very annoying. As for this Healer, she could only hope to distract him from his idea to have her examined or risk creating a scene. Eyeing the crowd for a suitable diversion, she noticed a wizard dressed as Zeus standing proudly in a ring of admirers. His skin was painted with shimmering gold, covered only at the groin and one shoulder with a draped length of white cloth, and his long, blond hair was crowned with a wreath of crackling light. He held a tall scepter of glowing, white metal. Hermione almost blushed to look at him; whether by enchantment or exercise, he cut a fine, male figure. "Is that your father? Zeus is usually portrayed as having a beard."

"Ah, yes," Draco said sardonically as he followed Hermione's line of sight. "No time like Halloween to proclaim one's superiority and parade around unclothed. I suppose we should pay our respects."

She supposed that it would be rude to do otherwise and might serve to distract Draco sufficiently from having his Healer friend examine her, but she wasn't looking forward to it. Since she had begun dating Draco, she had not once seen his father. She supposed it was possible that she had run into him before her memories of their relationship began, but doubted it. The Malfoy patriarch and his wife were often out of the country doing Important Things. She simply couldn't imagine Malfoy approving of his only son dating a Muggle-born witch and didn't relish the prospect of learning it first-hand from his own mouth. The thought crossed her mind that he might recognize her from the past, but she decided that it was unlikely. He had only met her twice, and that had been twenty years ago. Trying to look like she was enjoying herself, she allowed Draco to lead her from the dance floor to the glowing, golden Olympian and his circle of sycophants.

"Father, you are looking shiny this evening," Draco greeted his father with a firm handshake.

"And you, Draco. Please tell me that you shall be putting that whip to good use?" Lucius eyed Hermione standing by his side, and she tried not to flush and fidget under his penetrating gaze. She managed the latter, but not the former, and the snakes in her hair hissed reprovingly.

"Now, Father, no need to be crass. I'm sure that you've met Miss Hermione Granger," he said tugging her gently forward by the hand until she was fully facing him. Hermione smiled tightly and nodded in greeting.

"Mr. Malfoy."

"So, Miss Granger has grown up." He shot Draco a leer, and Draco's smile iced over. "My, my, Draco. You seem to have taken your godfather's words to heart. She truly is the spitting image of his Heidi. Except for the snakes, of course," he added when one of the jeweled serpents struck at his face.

"I am master of my own life, Father."

Lucius drew himself up and attempted to eye his son over his nose. Unfortunately for the patriarch, Draco was a couple of inches taller, not to mention the fact that it was difficult to take a man seriously when he was dressed in an artistically draped sheet. "Very well, Draco. Have your fun. I'm sure she will prove a most... transient... amusement."

Muted snickers rose from the guests surrounding them, but were silenced with a sharp look from Draco.

'I was good enough for Severus as Heidi, but I'm not good enough for his son as myself,' she thought bitterly.

"As transient as your good name," Hermione simpered sarcastically at the Malfoy patriarch. Their audience murmured quietly, and Draco smirked at his father, sketching him a mocking, old-fashioned bow.

Malfoy raised a golden eyebrow, his upper lip curling in a sneer. "The name Malfoy has survived the rise and fall of many a Dark wizard, my dear. And their vanquishers. Do not get too... comfortable."

"Father..."

"That goes for you, as well, Draco. One should never forget one's place."

With a tight, false smile that no held no humor, Draco nodded sharply at his father. "As you say. Lovely party." He included the guests encircling them with that last statement, then led Hermione out of the ring of people with one hand at the small of her back. Shocked into silence, Hermione allowed him to lead, her thoughts heavy with the conflict between father and son. She guessed that she was only one facet in what appeared to be a struggle of wills, and she wasn't thrilled to be caught in the crossfire. She had to wonder if part of Draco's attraction to her was his father's disapproval or whether it was in spite of it. What was the future of such a relationship? Did she want it to have a future? So wrapped up in her doubts was she that she hadn't noticed Draco talking until he was making another introduction.

"Hermione, I would like you to meet my friend, Healer Pericles Greenglass. Pericles, Miss Hermione Granger."

Hermione stared blankly at the masked man that stood before her, belatedly remembering to offer her hand. "Oh, erm. How do you do?"

He took her hand perfunctorily and gave it one pump, his face hidden behind the featureless, full-faced mask he wore. It was stark white and expressionless, contrasting sharply against the long, black hair that he wore unbound. Two long locks framed the white mask and rested against the breast of his crisp, white frock coat. The rest of his suit was of the same pure white except for a shoulder cloak of black velvet. The ensemble was striking, but could have easily been ridiculous on a man who did not carry himself with the same self-possession.

"How do you do?" he greeted her in turn as the snakes in her hair writhed and hissed. To his credit, he ignored them, not even flinching when one struck at his shoulder.

"Your costume is very interesting, but I must admit that I don't understand the symbolism," she said as her eyes wandered over his form. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn't quite place him.

"Indeed."

Draco chuckled. "Another moment to record." Rolling her eyes, Hermione huffed. Still chuckling, he added, "You weren't meant to. It is a private joke between Pericles and me."

"How lovely for the both of you," she snapped, irrationally irritated and well aware of the fact. Mr. Malfoy probably had much to do with her mood, but Draco's gentle teasing was rubbing her the wrong away. Chafing her arms with her hands, she sighed and glanced at the door longingly. She was done with parties at the moment and wanted nothing more than to go home.

"Hermione," Draco stepped into her line of sight, his tone conciliatory. "Please don't let what my father said bother you. He can be a right arse, and he likes to show off for his guests. Not everyone here liked the way the war ended."

She gave him a narrow glance and then slid her eyes toward his friend, Healer Greenglass. A real Greenglass, she supposed wistfully. The blankness of his mask unnerved her, and she wished to see his face in order to read some inkling of his feelings on their current topic. Though, if Draco counted him among his close friends, he was probably safe enough. This Draco had far better taste than the Draco she had known before.

"He has always treated people poorly and always will. It's not right," she said finally. "I think I'd like to go home."

"It's not yet midnight," Draco protested, replacing her hands with his and stroking her arms gently. "And Pericles has agreed to look at your scars." Hermione groaned and squeezed her eyes shut behind her eye-mask. All of that nonsense with his father, and Draco had not been distracted. "Don't be contrary, Hermione, those scars should have healed better by now."

"How did you say they were acquired?" Healer Greenglass suddenly inquired of Draco as they flanked her and walked her out of the ballroom to one of the retiring rooms across the hall. It was small and furnished with one plush sofa and two wing-backed chairs clustered around a cozy hearth. Wood-paneled with one large, picture window and sparsely decorated, it was one of the most comfortable-looking rooms in Malfoy Manor that she had ever seen. The furniture was of the highest quality, of course, and the crystal decanter sitting on one of the end tables assuredly held the finest of liqueurs, but the impression was of hominess, as opposed to opulence. Despite the atmosphere of the room and the warmth of the fire in the hearth, Hermione was distinctly uncomfortable as she sat sideways on the sofa with Draco's friend seated behind her.

Draco was right: the scars had not healed well. The tissue was thick and purple where Remus had scratched her, and they tended to ache when the air was cold. She didn't mind, however. They were a constant, physical reminder of the time she had shared with Severus; one of her few reminders, for her Order of Merlin had remained stuffed in a sock in Madam Beetlebump's attic room.

"She was attacked by a werewolf while touring New Zealand," Draco said, continuing their conversation now that they were away from prying ears and wagging tongues. "He just clawed her, fortunately, or we would have had a much bigger problem on our hands. The clasp is at the nape of her neck," he added helpfully.

"The snakes, if you would, Miss Granger," Pericles said silkily from behind her. She shivered, then quickly nullified the charm on her hair, chastising herself for her reaction. All doubts about their relationship aside, she was seeing Draco and should not allow herself to be affected by other men. Not wanting the stranger's fingers on her neck to possibly ignite more unwanted reactions, she swept aside her curly hair and undid the clasp herself. The chiton did not have a standard button-up or zippered back. Instead, it was slitted from waist to neck, held together by a single, silver clasp of two snakes linked together. Once undone, the fabric parted, baring her back and its scars. The man behind her hissed slightly.

"They aren't that bad, honestly," she grumbled. He must have seen worse. He cleared his throat, and she felt the cool pads of his fingers trace one of the long wheals of purple skin. Fighting against another shiver, she gave Draco a suffering look and said, "Is this really necessary?"

"He's the best, Hermione."

A sharp rapping sounded on the door, and a voice called through it. "Mr. Malfoy, your father would like a word."

"He can wait," Draco said loudly, sending Hermione's look back at her. She grimaced on his behalf.

"He really was quite insistent."

Sighing heavily, Draco scowled at the door, and Hermione pitied the man on the other side. "Very well. I'll only be a moment," he said to her, slipping out of the room.

Left alone with Healer Greenglass, Hermione stared into the fire and tried to ignore the man examining her back. His breath was ghosting against her skin, and despite her resolve, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck were prickling and gooseflesh was racing down her arms and legs. Her muscles were tense and her pulse racing, and the man was doing nothing more than fingering her scars.

"They appear to have been reopened," he said, breaking the silence, and Hermione started.

"Erm. Yes. Once," she stammered, wanting to hug herself, but reluctant to move. She was almost positive that she had met this man before: his voice, his manner, his build were so very familiar that his name hovered at the tip of her tongue. It was working her into a fit of confusion and distress, as if the answer, when it came, would be terribly painful, and she wanted nothing more than to rip away his mask or flee from the room. At this point, she was in favor of retreat.

His fingers abandoned her back, and she relaxed minutely until she heard a soft rustling. "What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly to her acute embarrassment. She flushed, and her eyes skittered across the room, seeing nothing.

"I carry with me a number of first aide potions and salves," he said quietly. "I prefer to be prepared."

"Oh." Of course he did; he was a Healer, after all. Still, she couldn't shake the image of him opening his clothes. 'Draco. You're with Draco, now,' she reminded herself silently as she stared into the fire again. 'But why am I with Draco?' She had gone through this when she had been with Ron: denying her attraction to Severus while clinging to a man she didn't love. At least with Ron, she had thought she loved him. She was still trying to love Draco, and their encounter with his father had her doubting the wisdom of her efforts. 'I'm in love,' she thought sadly, 'just not with my boyfriend.'

Healer Greenglass was now rubbing something cool and minty into her back, the fragrance reminding her of the afternoon in Severus' bathroom. His greasy hair had hung in eyes, dark with his love for her, and she'd kissed him finally, sweetly, breathlessly...

Inexorably, she turned her head slowly, against her will, to look at him, but instead of the awkward face of the man she loved, only a blank, white mask stared back at her. Tears welled in her eyes, and she choked on a sob, clambering off the sofa and fumbling with the clasp to close the back of her dress.

"I'm sorry, I must go," she said looking anywhere except at him. She gave her clothes a tug and her hair a quick toss as she hurried toward the door. "Thank you very much for your time, and please give my regrets to Draco."

"Miss Granger..."

'Gods, he sounds like him!'

"Sorry!" she gasped and fled the room, slamming the door behind her. Heedless of the tears leaking from under the edge of her mask, she ran for the front entrance of the manor.

A/N: Oh, the angst! We're winding down, guys – two more chapters to go.