Current mood:	accomplished
Current music:	mutilated lips - ween
Entry tags:	! fic, pairing: hermione/pansy, rating: any age, username: m

Paper Faces on Parade (Pansy/Hermione, PG-13)
written for jewelofsaturn's masquerade challenge at hp_slash_fanfic.

Title: Paper Faces on Parade
Author: Dulcinea
Pairing: Pansy/Hermione (sort of ;))
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: A little silliness, a little surreality.
Summary: Hide your face so the world will never find you.




“Goodness,” Hermione breathed as she entered the Great Hall. “It’s better than the Yule Ball, isn’t it?”

Beside her, Ginny nodded silent agreement. The students had truly embraced the Hallowe’en Masquerade’s theme, ‘History of Wizarding’; Cornelius Agrippa danced awkwardly past with shackles about his wrists and ankles, attempting to wrap his arms around the neck of Gwenog Jones, who sported 60’s era Quidditch robes. Several old Headmasters were to be spotted among the throng, and the real Headmaster was barely recognizable in his classical robes and even longer, whiter wig in honor of his old friend, the late Nicholas Flamel.

Ginny and Hermione carefully slid past Newt and Porpentia Scamander, Harry and Ron close at their heels. Hermione had developed their costumes based on careful analysis of her beloved copy of Hogwarts: A History; she was resplendent in a navy gown with bronze piping, her hair tinted a rich chestnut with the help of several complicated cosmetic charms. Beside her, Ginny’s coppery hair had been tamed to golden blonde, which set off her canary dress beautifully. Ron proudly sported a crimson and gold robe, while Harry appeared somewhat sulky in his emerald robes, embellished with silvery serpents that actually slithered across the rich fabric.

“Well, it’s a natural, isn’t it?” Ginny had teased him. “After your second year? People will love it, Harry, honestly.”

And indeed, all but the Slytherins burst into gales of laughter as they passed. Draco Malfoy (rather frightening as Grindelwald) darkly muttered something about blasphemy, which lightened Harry’s spirits a bit.

After much searching, the four of them finally located a table and took their seats, still gazing around in wonder.

“It’s almost scary,” Run murmured. “I honestly have no idea who some of these people are. I could be dancing with Eloise Midgen and not even realize it -”

Hermione’s bronze face mask was not enough to conceal her sharp glance at Ron, who quickly fell silent.

“Shall we have a dance, then?” Ginny piped up mischievously. “I hear you’re quite the dancer, Salazar.” She stood up and graciously offered her hand, which Harry took rather grudgingly. Ron and Hermione followed, just as the Weird Sisters (or, for that night, the Medieval Minstrels) struck up a particularly lively tune.

Dancing with either Ron or Harry was still an exercise in patience, Ginny and Hermione soon learned as they gingerly guided them across the crowded floor. The song was barely half over when the girls finally gave into their pleas for mercy and finished off the dance with one another.

“Lovely!” Professor Sprout, or Elladora Ketteridge, crowed as she jigged past with Nicholas Flamel. “You’re the spitting image of our founders, Hannah and Susan.”

Hermione and Ginny exchanged pleased looks, giggling brightly.

That was the last they were to see of one another for a long time, as mysterious boys continually swept them into impromptu dances. Hermione was rather dazzled by the whole experience, peering eagerly into their eyes to uncover a hint of their identity, but quickly gave up her attempts when she correctly identified Zacharias Smith, who invited her to accompany him on the next Hogsmeade weekend. Declining politely, and in what she hoped was a sufficiently disguised voice, she hurried off the floor and slumped over the refreshment table, fanning at her face with a napkin.

A much-needed goblet of punch in her hand, she rose on tiptoe and scanned the Great Hall. Harry and Ron were easy enough to spot, still slumped in their seats across the room, but there was no sign of Ginny’s brilliant robe among the throng of dancers. With a disheartened sigh, she sipped at her punch and mopped her sweaty brow. She’d rather fancied another dance with Ginny, who led her so smoothly across the floor that they almost seemed to be dancing across the clouds. And she really did look lovely with her pale hair, especially when it caught the flickering candlelight and appeared almost like spun sunlight...

“Rowena Ravenclaw.”

She turned, rather startled, and discovered Morgan Le Fay curtseying before her. Dipping a curtsey in return, she admired the glistening wings which actually flapped ever so slightly when the girl moved, the raven curls arranged in immaculate coils and adorned with strands of golden beading, the elaborate gown of burgundy velvet.

“A pleasure, Queen Le Fay,” she replied, amused by the charade. “And an honor that you should know of me.”

“Those intent on nurturing the magically inclined rather than ostracizing them are of the utmost interest to me, Professor Ravenclaw.” An enigmatic smile touched Morgan’s lips. “And one who values knowledge above all else is herself very wise.”

Hermione inclined her head in a gracious nod. She was beautifully spoken, far more so than anyone Hermione had ever encountered at Hogwarts; just who was this girl?

She curtsied again and held out one hand, ornamented with costume rings which Hermione’s mind transformed into golden bands inlaid with the finest of gems. I’m letting myself be completely swept away, she thought ruefully, but the idea caused a strange little flutter in her stomach.

“Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

“The honor is all mine, I assure you,” Rowena smiled, accepting the outstretched hand. They moved slowly onto the floor, almost as though in a trance, and Morgan lay her free hand on Rowena’s hip as she began a gentle, sensuous swaying motion. Her cheeks flushed, Rowena grasped Morgan’s shoulder, carefully avoiding one lightly fluttering wing.

They moved together almost as one, oil sliding gracefully across the surface of water, their fellow dancers fading from an occasionally irritating distraction to complete nonexistence. Rowena gasped softly as Morgan’s hand moved from her hip to snake around her waist, drawing her so near that she felt Morgan’s breasts press against hers. This was an entirely unappropriate display, she thought, far too sensual for the public eye; yet she made no move to separate herself, resting her cheek on the shoulder of the slightly taller woman. Morgan laughed delicately.

“I don’t ever recall you looking so quite lovely as you do tonight, Rowena.”

Aha! At last, a clue at her identity.

“I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning, Queen Le Fay. I was under the impression that this was our first meeting.”

“Nay,” Morgan chuckled musically, “we have met many a time, my Lady. But my sort are very adept at disguise. Perhaps more so than yours.”

Then she knew Hermione’s true identity. Shaking off a twinge of fear, Hermione again gave herself to the fantasy.

“Myself, I have never had need of such a disguise. Chicanery is not among the traits which I value.”

“Chicanery!” Morgan crowed with delight. “Truly, you are gifted with a sharp tongue. I should hope I might discover its other uses one day.”

Rowena bit back a sigh; Morgana had accompanied her candid words with a particularily tantalyzing movement of her hips.

“Would the Queen perhaps give me the pleasure of her company in a promenade of the grounds?” She asked huskily. “Hogwarts boasts a most lovely view, especially in this time of year.”

“I would be delighted,” Morgan purred, linking her arm through Rowena’s as they made their way back through the mass of dancing bodies and left the Great Hall. The evening was crisp and cool, an occasional cloud scudding across the star-spattered sky; a waxing moon lit their way through clusters of whispering men and women to a deserted patch of lawn away from the crowd.

“I hope I have not been mistaken in your intentions, Rowena,” Morgan breathed.

“I am sure I have no idea what you mean, Queen Le Fay,” Rowena smiled coyly. “Perhaps if you made these intentions clear, I might -”

Morgan cut her words short with a long and heated kiss. Rowena moaned into her mouth, eagerly parting her lips to meet Morgan’s tongue with her own. She had never dreamed of being so intimate with a woman, although she had often wondered at her ardent admiration of one particularily lovely one; but Helga’s golden locks and gentle brown eyes were nothing when placed alongside Morgan’s fiery gaze and fierce, demanding mouth. She wound her hands through the elaborate maze of dark curls and pulled Morgan closer, careful not to displace a single one.

Such soft hair. Almost as though it had been bewitched to draw unsuspecting hands into its rich, full depths and thereby ensnare them. Rowena was caught in their trap, and gave herself gladly and willingly, until a sweet voice rang across the grounds.

“Hermione? Are you out here?”

She tore herself from Morgan and clasped her head in her hands, mind whirling frantically. Hermione. That was her true name. And she hadn’t a clue of the name of this... this girl whom she had just kissed so passionately.

“I have to go,” she whispered. “But first, who are you?”

“Return to your escort, my Lady,” Morgan murmured, dipping one last curtsey. “Perhaps, if you keep your keen eyes sharpened, you will one day discover my identity.”

“Please, won’t you -”

She could hear Ginny’s footsteps quickly approaching. With one last, bittersweet kiss, Hermione left Morgan’s side and ran to greet Ginny a few steps away.

“Where did you run off to?” Ginny demanded. “I got saddled with Neville for three straight dances, and let me tell you, he doesn’t dance any better as Fulbert the Fearful.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione laughed, taken with the image Ginny’s words presented to her. “I just needed some air. Let’s get back inside; have Harry and Ron danced at all yet?”

Ginny shook her head, strands of copper beginning to show in her swishing blonde hair. “They’re hopeless, the both of them. Personally, I’m waiting for the day that they run off together hand in hand and live in peace and harmony, with no girls to confuse their poor, troll-thick minds.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched at the words, as she thought of her own mysterious tryst with a fellow girl, but she offered Ginny a smile and linked an arm through hers, just as Morgan had done such a short time ago.


“I don’t see why you even attend the balls if you’re not going to dance,” Ginny muttered scornfully as she slathered jelly onto her toast. There were still hints of blonde in her hair, but Hermione found it rather becoming. Her own hair was, true to form, back to its rather dull shade of light brown.

“Well, it’s because you two dress us up like dolls and drag us along, isn’t it?” Ron fired back. “Harry, would you care to see their faces if we tried to refuse them?”

Harry, ever the diplomat, promptly shoved his mouth full of porridge.

Ginny continued to tear a strip off her brother, but Hermione didn’t find the display as entertaining as the rest of Gryffindor table did. Her eyes were scanning the Great Hall, full of perfectly average looking young witches and wizards, for any trace of the bewitching Morgan Le Fay.

She swept quickly across Slytherin table, attempting to ignore a snide glance from Pansy Parkinson. But there was something beyond the usual derision and loathing in Pansy’s eye that caught Hermione’s attention: a bizarrely triumphant glint that froze her blood in her veins.

She glanced down at the hand which held a cup of tea, falling into a dead faint when she saw the gaudy costume rings that adorned each finger.