Paper Faces on Parade

Section 8:

He spotted her the second he walked into the ball. He had initially been afraid that she might choose to hide the trademark platinum blonde hair which was easily her most recognizable feature, especially to a former seeker with the habit of spying out (and seizing upon) flashes of gold. Draco knew from experience that that particular color of hair was difficult to conceal. If she truly wanted to disguise herself, then probably the smartest thing she could do would be to either cover her hair up, or change the color. To Draco’s relief, she hadn’t.

If anything, her costume highlighted her hair. His clever girl had chosen to come as a ghost. He might have laughed over the irony of The Girl Who Vanished (the wizarding world having maintained its fondness for ridiculous catch-phrases and nicknames) coming to a costume party dressed as a ghost, if he hadn’t been struck so positively *thoughtless* by how beautiful she looked. Glowingly beautiful barely began to cover it. He wasn’t quite sure how she had pulled it off, whether it was make-up or a potion or a charm, but she had managed to give her skin the silvery, glowing luminance associated with ghosts. She almost looked transparent. It helped, of course, that she was dressed all in white, even with a white mask covering her face, undecorated save for a single silvery tear outlined on one side. Surrounded by women revealing as much as possible in their colorful and daring costumes, she looked ethereal and positively radiant in a horribly untouchable kind of way. Her hair, meanwhile, drew him like a moth to a flame.

Hermione usually wore her hair pinned up, out of her way. If asked, she said it was easier to deal with that way when she was with the children. The truth of it was, she was so happy to have hair that actually *stayed* up when it was put up, that it was almost too much of a temptation to resist. Tonight though, for the ball, it all hung loose in a white blonde cascade that caught the light and made her glow all the more. Her hair had grown considerably in the past year. When she left England, it had been only a bit past her shoulders, and now it hung all the way to her waist, thick and luxurious and absolutely glorious. Draco was struck with a mental image of burying his hands in her hair while he kissed her till she was limp and pliant in his arms and nearly moaned at the rush of pleasure coursing through his blood just at the thought of it. It was very nearly painful for Draco to suppress the urge to run his hands through it.

He had always been fascinated by her hair. Back when it was golden brown and bushy, he had spent far too many hours imagining what the texture would feel like under his hands, or brushing against his skin. It always looked so soft and fluffy and energetically, vibrantly alive, just like Hermione. He had to admit though, he was every bit as intrigued by her new, utterly straight, platinum blonde hair. It wasn’t narcissism, exactly; (alright, so maybe a *little* of it was narcissism;) but he couldn’t help but have a certain fascination for how closely her hair resembled *his*. The straight, silky platinum blonde locks had the exact color and texture of his hair, minus the charms and glamours. As far as he knew, he was the only person from Hermione’s former life with hair like that. When she changed her appearance and traded her brown hair for blonde, had she, perhaps, been thinking of him?

As the countdown began to telling her the truth, Draco found himself spending more and more time wondering exactly what feelings Hermione had held for Draco Malfoy. He knew that she had considered him to be a friend (though not, apparently, a good enough friend for her to trust him with her new identity or location, which still stung a bit whenever he allowed himself to think about it. She couldn’t possibly think he’d blab it to Potter or the papers, could she?) and he knew that she genuinely cared about him. No one would go to the lengths she went to in order to defend him and protect him if she *didn’t* care about him. But did she find him attractive? Did she desire him, even in a passing thought? Did her eyes ever trail over him with appreciation, and did his image ever cross her mind when she thought of what was attractive in a man?

He knew she was attracted to Leo. He had seen the way that she blushed when he caught her eye, and the way she unconsciously smoothed her hair and clothing whenever he approached her, wanting to look her best for him. It was flattering and immensely satisfying to know that she was attracted to him, but there were times when he could barely bite back the urge to question her on what *exactly* about Leo turned her on. Was it the hair? The eyes? The tan? Did she admire his body, which was unchanged from the original, except for the change in skin tone? Did she like his smile? Did she appreciate his sense of humor, or his charm? Would the things that attracted her to Leo Smith vanish when he transformed back into Draco Malfoy? And did he dare pursue her tonight, as he had promised himself that he would, when he still had no idea whether she’d want him when he told her the truth?

For a brief, panicked moment, he considered changing his mind, on all of it. The time wasn’t right; it was too soon. Too soon to pursue her, too soon to tell her the truth, too soon to deal with the possibility of her rejection of Leo Smith *or* Draco Malfoy. He was no Gryffindor and he just wasn’t sure if he had the courage to tell her the truth when he was so completely in the dark as to what her reaction would be. He could still change his mind, he decided. It wasn’t too late. There was no specific reason why tonight simply *had* to be the night that he told her the truth. It could wait until tomorrow. Or even next week. Or maybe around New Year’s, with New Year’s resolutions and all. But just when he’d nearly made up his mind to give up the ghost (in more ways than one) and put off pursuing her for another night, she looked up and her eyes locked with his.

She smiled. Just a little smile, followed by that same instinctive smoothing of her dress. Draco realized that she had been watching for him, waiting for him to arrive. And at the thought of that, he simply knew that he couldn’t keep her waiting any longer.

He tried to head straight for her, wanting to catch her and claim her for a dance before someone else got the chance, but he was waylaid in his path by some high-dollar donors who wanted to congratulate him on the whole affair and the wonderful turn-out. Draco accepted their compliments with a smile and flattered the ladies on their lovely costumes and mentally consigned each of them to everlasting torment if they didn’t let him *go* for crying out loud so he could claim his beautiful lady.

After what seemed like years, he finally managed to break away, just to discover that she was dancing in some other man’s arms. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to take a few deep breaths and bring that charming smile back onto his face long enough to find a partner to dance with, himself. Once that mission was accomplished, he carefully and skillfully led his partner over near where Hermione was dancing. As soon as the song ended (which, thankfully, did not take long) Draco bowed politely to his partner before turning to Hermione and slipping behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her in place before she had a chance to slip off the dance floor.

“I’ve caught you at last,” he purred in her ear, causing her to stiffen for a moment before recognizing the voice and relaxing with a smile.

“At last, sir? What could a man want with a ghost?”

“You’ve haunted me for far too long, wench,” he stated pulling her more closely against him. “I won’t let you go, this time.”

Fighting the urge to simply melt against him, Hermione turned in his arms, giving him a bright smile. “But now that you have me, whatever will you do with me?”

“Well,” he drawled, “for starters… I believe I’ll dance with you.” Slipping his grip from her waist to her hand, he pulled her into his arms as the live band played another slow, smooth song.

“But…” Hermione began to protest, looking over her shoulder to where a man in a court jester costume was approaching.

“This dance is promised to him?” Draco guessed.

“Yes.”

“Too bad for him,” Draco commented breezily. “Pirates don’t ask permission before going after what they want. And once they have it, they don’t give it back.”

Hermione frowned, not certain she liked the confidence in his tone. She didn’t exactly mind the signs of possessiveness… but she didn’t want him to think that she’d give in that quickly either. “Is that all I am?” she asked sharply. “A prize to claim?”

To her surprise, his eyes softened behind his mask, and his hand clasping hers pulled her hand to his lips for a soft kiss. “I’d sail the world over for such a treasure as you. And yes, I’d do everything in my power to claim you as *mine*” (the not-at-all subtle emphasis on the word did not escape Hermione’s attention) “once I found you.” He had, without noticing it, pulled her closer and closer through his speech until their bodies were brushing against each other. But at this point, he took a careful and deliberate step back, putting empty space between them. “But for all that, I would not hold you against your will. Do you wish for me to let you go?”

Hermione suddenly found herself unable to hold his gaze as her eyes dropped to the floor, thankful that he couldn’t see her blush behind her mask. “No,” she whispered, summoning up her Gryffindor courage to move closer to him, so her body brushed against his, like it had before.

Thoroughly content with this state of affairs, Draco settled their joined hands on his chest, and let his other hand slide from her back into that beautifully tempting hair. That was how they stayed, completely silent and perfectly happy, swaying to the music, for the rest of the dance. When the song ended, Hermione began to pull away, but he didn’t let her go. His hand tightened on hers, leading her back into his arms, for another dance, and striking up a conversation so she couldn’t ask him why he wouldn’t let go.

“How did you die, my lady?”

“A broken heart, of course,” she answered, gesturing to the teardrop on her mask.

“Is it broken, still?” he asked softly, holding his breath as he waited for her answer.

Hermione blushed, in spite of herself. For all her bold plans of making this the night where she figured out whether Leo wanted her or not, she was still uncertain just how to make her intentions clear. Heaven knew, she didn’t want to frighten him away by coming on too strong, or make him think she was uninterested by not coming on strong *enough*. Mentally cursing her lack of dating experience that she could draw on, she contented herself with shaking her head no.

“That’s in the past now,” she answered. “I’m not who I was before.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re her ghost. They say you cannot live without your heart. Yours is no longer broken, but it is not yet fully healed. If I can heal your heart,” he whispered in her ear, “will that bring you back to life again?”

“Would you give me something to live for?” she whispered back, trembling as his arms tightened around her.

“You could live for me,” he replied in a low undertone, his lips brushing back and forth against her ear, caressing her with his lips and his tongue and his hot breath on her skin.

“As your friend?” she asked hesitantly.

“As my everything,” Draco insisted, his voice far too serious to leave her in any doubt. He meant it. He wanted her to be his everything.

“And what would I do as your everything?”

She didn’t say no. That was good. That meant that she was willing to be persuaded. He could be persuasive. He’d been persuasive all his life; surely, he could pull it off now that the skill truly mattered.

“Live in my arms,” he pleaded, cursing his voice for breaking a bit. “Live for all the pleasure I could give you; pleasures that ghosts never get to feel.”

“What pleasures?” she asked, cursing herself for the breathlessness of her voice. She knew that she sounded like some trite, bodice-ripper heroine the way she was literally melting in his arms, but she couldn’t help herself. He was making every inch of her tingle, and she could tell from his soft chuckle that he was just getting started.

“The pleasure of skin on skin,” he answered, “and flesh on heated, sweating, panting flesh. Touching, tasting, exploring every inch. Letting me learn every single thing that drives you mad with need, until I can penetrate straight through to your soul with just the right word or touch. Would that be worth living for, my lady?”

“It might,” she murmured. “Keep going.”

“I love the sound of your voice when you whisper, but I’d love to hear you scream. Scream for more, scream for *me*. I could make you scream, and sigh, and whimper, and beg. I could make you forget anything exists in the world but you and me and the pleasure we’d create between us. You look so pure and perfect in your white gown, but I know I could set you on fire. I want to. I want it more than anything.”

She pulled away slightly and Draco felt the world freeze around him as he waited for her response. He could see her eyes through the mask. They were wide open, staring straight into his without hesitation, but he couldn’t quite read the expression in their depths. She opened her mouth and he held his breath, waiting to hear what she would say.

“What are we waiting for?”

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