A Forbidden Birthright

Chapter Thirty Eight

It was Halloween, and Hermione couldn't help but snort in derisive amusement at herself that today was the deadline she had given Draco, long before either of them knew the reality of what was going on. She recalled how he had joked about the two of them entering into an Unbreakable Vow jut to ensure he would hold his end of the bargain, and now here she was, having entered into one with Harry instead of Draco.

It wasn't something she had every imagined herself doing. She'd never considered there would be a need for it. But now both she and Harry had an unbreakable promise of seeing their revenge through to the end; what would happen along the way, she didn't know.

The feast that was due to happen that evening was still on schedule, although events had been shifted. A student led petition had managed to gain signatures of a little over half the school to host a masquerade in tandem with the feast. Because of such a large number of students requesting it, McGonagall had consented, much to the elation of the school, teachers included. Hermione had penned her name to the petition to not only show support to her students, but liked the idea of something as light-hearted as a gala to give herself a break from the chaos that was so insistent on swallowing her whole.

As silly as it made her feel, she had struggled over her costume, and at one point, had the epiphany of how strange it was that Muggles dressed up on Halloween or other themed parties as what they thought witches and wizards looked like. It was this thought that sparked the idea to dress as something from the Muggle world.

There had been a movie she had watched with her mother that was a dark retelling loosely based on the ballet of Swan Lake. The poise of the dancers in such a stark comparison of their mental state had always struck Hermione as nothing less than intriguing, how the act of striving for perfection could break down the walls of sanity.

She felt a bit like that now, aware that she was willing to go to any length to avenge Ron, to stop whatever dark thing Caspian was forcing on the world through these cult murders. To remove the mark upon her skin.

It had been several weeks, Hermione realized, since she had been deeply bothered by the scar on her on her forearm. She wasn't sure when it had happened, but at some point, the way it haunted her, always in the back of her mind like a cat scratching at a door, had lessened. It was instead replaced with a face, a name, one she never thought would replay so obsessively in her mind.

Draco.

Draco.

Draco.

Hermione opened her closet and lifted out the dress she had commissioned for the masquerade. An intricate mask of black feathers and a short, pointed beak that settled tightly over her nose accompanied the gown, pinned carefully to the shifting fabric. The feathers rose to cover her forehead, their tips like a crown upon her head. No silk or lace was attached to the mask in order to keep in on her face; a complex spell had been cast by the designer so that once she held it up to her face, it would not budge until she herself removed it.

The dress itself was a stunning piece of art. Although ballerinas traditionally wore tutus of of stiff tool that resembled a platter to show off their toned legs and fine footwork, Hermione had opted for a gown inspired by the character. She had no interest in wear a skirt so short she wasn't even sure she could refer to it as a 'skirt.' The back of the dress was nonexistent, sweeping so low that the near entirety of her spine was exposed. Sleeves like wings fell from the back of her shoulders, and gleaming black feathers ran up her torso in a tight bodice and fanned out from her breasts just past her shoulders. The skirt was gathered at one hip and then cascaded to the ground, the sheer black fabric rustling over the inner layer of the grown.

It was one of the most beautiful dresses Hermione had ever worn. It made her giggle, thinking of what her younger self might say if she could see her now. Probably wrinkle her nose up at it, but secretly think of how pretty she looked.