For Him. Always.

For Him. Always.

Her skirts floated over the sweeping staircase, over the velvet carpet that lapped the marble floor like an eager tongue massaging the mouth of an old lover. Waving away the footman whom thought himself worthy of her arm she let a pale hand glide her down the grand oak banister, creamy nails glittering innocently in the light cast from the gallant torches. Eyes followed her entrance, walking up her body, casting off the layers of pale blue satin until her pearl lined mask stopped them. Then her petite smile would mock them as her amber eyes darted oh so far above their heads.

She looked over the ocean of deep, serious fabrics blanketing wounds reopened by probing news reporters on this eve yearly. A macabre tradition she would rather they not have to partake in. As she drops off the last stair another chinadoll crests the steps and begins her majestic descent in a flutter of barely knee length red scarves and hems that don't bother with imagination. Ebony hair ends sharply under her chin, aligning the angles of her face and the edges of her almond eyes that look for him, just as the vibrant red head before her.

Men swarm this obvious beauty as she descends, filling her black gloved hands with their sweaty undeserving palms, trying their best to run those hands over soft curves even as they clash with her carved features. Impatiently she waves them off with an artful flick and melts away in the wake of the red head, always behind the little Weasley child, just the same as always.

Ginny's eyes have locked on him, just him, always him. She melds her body through the crowds beginning to form. Cliques in the world a vanity fair. Gloves dart out and snatch her from her path. Women kiss her under the rim of her mask, a light stain beginning there on her cheekbone, men toss arms around her waist and whisper in her ear as they jot quickly on her dance card.

She frees herself from one huddle only to be taken in by another, Cho in her place in the last. The Asian beauty still following her toward that one goal. Her elder brothers shift in, take her between their gauzy robes, and tell her to exercise her manners and thank them for drawing her from the claws of the beast. She does this by helping herself to the olives of their martinis. They respond by shoving her lightly into the path of generously curved woman with an extraordinary bosom, and little ringlets of honey dipped hair sneaking out from under her mask.

Cho escapes the seven deadly sins by proclaiming her need for womanly pursuits of powder and perfume, and though of no intention that's where she ends up. Sitting on a duvet, examining herself critically in the mirror, running a hand over the carefully arched eyebrows she spent eternity preparing, adjusting the rings glistening like a second skin on her tiniest toes.

The door creaks open on her primping and she almost jumps up anxiously, but manages to keep herself planted stiffly, the picture of calm decorum. The last person on earth she wants to see wafts in, her typical breeze of self-assured, self-confident, far-too-comfortable-in-her-own-skin being. Her painting of precise green satin stretches easily over a flat tummy and down the legs like a taunt mermaid fin striped in shifting bronze, this is the perfect merging of tasteful style and not-trying-too hard. How disgusting that this girl can still own a room with two people and not even try because she's got a warm, easy smile radiating from under her simple stoned mask.

They waltz through the steps of polite conversation as pins in hair are straightened and cloaking spells are reapplied to blemishes and runs are patched near flawlessly. Hermione leaves before Cho does and floats through the crowds on a cloud, deflecting silly questions about the weather and invitations to drinks by nodding toward her waiting dance partner whose she's promised this one to. This one dance for him, always for him.

Hearts slam to a crashing stop as he walks out on to the floor on the arm of his best friend. Ginny shakes off Pansy and watches in horror as all her hard work with this ridiculous, impractical fabric of her cloak melt away as useless because the girl who advised against the cloth is the one dancing. She's dancing with him, always dancing with him, dancing in dreams, at these formals, and past the sighing eyes of romantics. Discouraged she tucks a strand of her rebellious red locks behind her ear and bites at her lip to halt the tears, not that anyone would notice through this mask of happy for the dancing couple cutting through the crowd.

And what are they masking with their heavy dresses that reveal flashes of skin that's been massaged and lotioned, moisturized within an inch of its life? Surly its silly to try and hide from him, but she should be so well practiced in her hiding, after all they've been doing it since the start of this war.

Hazy smoke clouds Cho's eyes and she composes her high boned face and positions her dance card so some will come redeem themselves. They do, they sweep her off her feet in whirls of bad cliché and parade her for their friends. A half dozen times she's within reach of that spiky black hair and those emerald eyes, but his back's always turned to her, blocking his partner from her view.

They have tried so hard as they promenade past on the arms of near strangers and elder, watchful, brothers. They have prepared for this night, waxed and fretted over what to wear, how to proclaim their regret or how to tell him that they've grown up since that naïve valentine.

Standing together on the wall with flutes of something they think might be champagne they watch as she swoops in to kiss his cheek and he bows away from her. She's so natural, not trying to get in those extra touches of his arm of blanketing herself in his scent, and not angling for how best to get him to run his hand down over the small of her back. Hermione thanks Harry for his protecting her while she waits for her date to finish his business. Harry tries to decipher who this bloke under the azure mask is who thinks he can just thank him for occupying his Hermione and then carry her away, but he can't, not for the life of him, how his wishes to be this stranger, always wishing for him, always him.

Enraged by their own foolishness they rise off the wall and drop glasses long empty on to the try of the suited boy with the apron and leave behind that tall, dark, stranger. Cho is finished, dragging her mask off before the customary midnight, that watt smile has disappeared and can't come back for him.

Ginny's still got her mask tied in place, a firm shard of her fractured dignity. The floaty, disagreeable cloth hangs in her wake, a fashion faux that can be found in all of the next day's media. She gazes over her shoulder one last time at him.

He tries to find a friendly face to dance with him now that Hermione has left with that...that...blonde. He cuts through to try and locate Ginny, her brother mentioned she was definitely coming, wouldn't stop talking about her damn dress, it was supposed to be quite something. Hopelessly he sees her turning away from the ball at the top of the stairs, her face a picture of abject dejection and Harry wants to snap whatever monster broke her heart.

Done following that crazy little Weasley Cho has left him, one step at a time out to the vanishing point. A delirious thought crosses her mind to take off her spiked heels even though they add a magnificent inch to her height that she thought would help compliment his stature nicely. Viciously she rips the heels off.

Everything can't always be for him, not always.