A Labyrinth of Dreams

Chapter Two ~ Glitter like Fool's Gold

There's a lady who's sure
All that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows
If the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven.

~ Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin

December 2006

The Burrow still stood in the same place it always had. From the outside it looked the same as well. The same walls, the same roof, even the same chimney. The windows were closed, and so was the door, but they looked the same too. But something about the Burrow had changed. Whether it was the lawn, grown long without a gnome in sight, or the yearning silence, something was different here. The grass was muddy and wet from yesterday's pouring rain, and his footprints circled the house from all angles. A cutting breeze began to whistle, and he tugged the collar of his dark trench coat tighter. The breeze ruffled his red hair, the red of blood, of roses, of passion, and whispered forgotten memories into his ear.

Ron Weasley blinked away the mists enshrouding his vision. His family had long deserted the Burrow. Charlie was in Siberia, Fred and George had their own joke shop and Fred at least was happily married. Bill had settled down with his wife Felicity in Italy and Percy had a family with Penelope. Molly and Arthur had bought a small apartment in London, so that travel to work would be easier for Arthur, now that Floo Powder was banned. And Ginny was...gone. But Ron still came back every month, to remind himself of happiness and laughter.

The wind grew stronger, and he knew that he should probably head back to the car, but his feet remained planted solidly on the ground. Was there ever joy in this place? He asked the house silently, Was there really a time of innocence? It was so hard to imagine now. His childhood days spent there were like pieces of ash, mere remainders after a raging fire had consumed them, now blowing away, piece by piece, floating away on the wind. He was a successful Auror now, one of the last wizards licensed to use magic without authorisation. Did I help create this world? He wondered, Did I construct this world where magic is repressed?

He continued to stare at the building as though sealing it in his mind. If he tried hard enough, he could see the trace of a child's fleeting shadow running around, hear the familiar noises of home again. But they were fleeting, taunting memories. They pricked him and then ran away, daring him to chase them, to revel in their company. But he never gave into the chase, to their taunts. He had a life to live, a goal to pursue. Maybe one day he would spread his wings and fly, but his earthly desires and ambitions were his chains of iron. He had placed them upon himself and they held him down, tied him to the ground.

"Ron!" a woman called out from behind. She stood next to his car, her curly auburn hair bobbing in the wind. Her arms were folded across her chest and her teeth were chattering.

He acknowledged her with a brief nod before tearing his eyes away from the building.

"Come on, we've still got to head to the cemetery, and I've got an appointment at eleven." He nodded. Time was always of essence to Alere, just as it was to him. They both led fast-paced lives. He walked towards the car and got into the passenger seat silently. Coming to the Burrow always left him quiet. Alere slipped into the drivers seat and smoothed her Chanel suit before activating the car's safety wards and placing her hands on the wheel.

They drove silently for ten minutes, and Ron stared out at the window, his fingers tapping lightly against the upholstery, dancing to a tune his deaf ears couldn't hear at the moment. The streets passed in a blur to him -- grey, green and brown stirred into a cauldron and mixed like cement. Eventually Alere pulled up to the curb and they were outside the cemetery. He continued to stare out the window unseeingly.

"Okay, It's the usual drill, right? I'll be back in half an hour to pick you up," she told him briskly.

Ron nodded and got out of the car. He waited for Alere to drive away before turning and walking into the cemetery.

The grass was well kept and many of the tombstones were engraved statues. A pale, shy sun peeped out from behind the heavy clouds and shone solemnly down. Ron continued walking past all the fancy statues and mausoleums, past the large grave markers and the marble headstones, until he came to a simple grave. He came here often, and would often spend hours just standing there, staring at the small miniature of an Angel engraved on it. The Angel's eyes were closed, but there a sad twist to her mouth and the way she held her head denoted unknown pain. Ron called it the Angel of Sorrow. Engraved below it was a simple obituary.

Virginia Rosa Weasley,

In fond memory of a cherished daughter,

A loving sister and a loyal friend.

Born 1981

Missing since 1997.



Ron read the passage to himself, trying to comprehend the meaning behind the words. She had been missing for nine years, and for nine years he had come to visit her grave every month, a part of him hoping that she would be standing there instead of a gravestone, and a part of him dying every time he read that. He had tried railing at God, tried to protest, to deny and to search for her. Nine years couldn't teach him to accept, to forget, to walk away, but they had taught him the futility of anger. He tried to imagine what it would be like to cry again? He had cried for her once, and salt tears would drip from his eyes every time he stood here, but not anymore. Instead his heart would bleed as another part of him became numb.

A bird called out in the tree behind him and he turned around to look at it. His eyes were the blue of cobalt, and lightning bolts of anguish ran through them. The wind blew harshly and Ron closed his eyes for a moment. Something soft and wet landed on his cheek. Was it a tear? He looked up at the sky and clouds hid the sun. Another raindrop fell onto his face. The sky's crying for you, Ginny, he thought and looked back at the picture of the Angel. There was a raindrop on her cheek as well. Are you crying for me too? He wondered as the sky let loose its torrent of angry tears, pouring them upon him, drowning him in them.

* * * * *

Molly Weasley sat in her kitchen, methodically picking and unpicking seams. She was making Angelina and Fred's baby girl a dress. It was going to be periwinkle blue, with a hem of hand-stitched violets. The kitchen was small and cramped; it had a cold, hard linoleum floor that seemed to embody modern sterility. But she had no more children to cook for; all her children had flown the nest. Her two oldest were far away. Molly reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a letter she had received from Bill recently, Bill who had married a novelist and settled down to live in Italy. She placed the letter down on the table. Next to it was a photo of Charlie who had gone onto be become a world-renowned magi-zoologist and was now in Siberia, searching for the elusive Snow Dragon.

She sighed and picked up her needle again. Sometimes stitching was the only thing that helped pass the empty hours. When Percy had married Penelope, his childhood sweetheart, Molly felt that perhaps life was bittersweet in the end. Even though everyday she seemed to gain another daughter or grandchild, all her babies had flown their nest. George too had left home, and Fred had followed Percy's footsteps and married Angelina. Even Ron, her youngest son, was now a celebrated hero of war, and a successful Auror. And Ginny...here Molly's hand began to shake uncontrollably and she bit her lip. Her very youngest, her only daughter was gone. But in Molly there bloomed a half-trodden hope that as long her body wasn't found, she might still be alive. It was a strangling thing, that little flame of hope, torturous and painful. It kept her awake at night, but at least it was. People might say that it would be better to just know, but Molly thought she preferred a choking existence to death.

A loud knock came to her ears, shaking her out of her thoughts. Molly quickly put down the stitching and hurried to the door, anxious as ever for company. She opened it and was startled to find an apologetic Alere standing at her doorstep, with an arm around Ron, who seemed to be soaked to the bone through his trench coat. His red hair was plastered to his forehead, but there was a fire kindled in his eyes.

"Hi Mum," he said weakly, with a joking smile, even as a cold shudder ripped through him.

"What happened?" Molly asked Alere, worriedly hurrying them into her apartment. She bustled about, as she hadn't in months, grabbing towels, whisking Ron's wet clothing off, running a bath and putting the kettle on.

Alere guided Ron into a seat and sat down next to him. "He got caught in a freak storm."

Molly nodded and clucked softly to herself. She wrapped Ron with the towels and he gave her a tired, but grateful smile. Alere picked up the wet trench coat and other pieces of clothing and walked with Molly into the kitchen. "We went to the Burrow today. He was worrying me a bit, but you know, he always gets kind of silent every time. Then I dropped him off at the cemetery, but he was seriously frightening me, I swear, his eyes looked dead." Alere shuddered graphically, and helped Molly stir the cocoa and tea. She placed the drinks on a tray and sighed. "So I picked him up half an hour later, because I had an appointment with my hairdresser and I come back to find him standing in the rain. Only good thing is that he seems alive again."

They both walked out into the living room, Molly balancing a tray and Alere folding up Ron's soaking clothing. "I brought him here, because I thought he might need someone to look after him a bit and I have an executive meeting at the firm in half an hour." Molly put the tray down and handed Alere a plastic bag for her to put the clothing in.

"Don't worry dear, I'll look after him. You go on to your meeting," Molly told her reassuringly. Alere cast Ron a last look and he gave her a grimace that said I could have looked after myself, and a thumbs up.

"Alright then. Thank you Molly, you're a dear," she told her and headed towards the door. "I'll have Charmaine run his robes over; we have a Gala to attend tonight. I'll pick him up at the seven." Molly nodded and Alere blew Ron a kiss before waltzing out the door.

Molly looked at Ron, "Well, don't sit there. Get out of those clothes and into the bathtub. Then we'll figure out some way to get you dry again."

Ron nodded and plodded off down the hall, dripping water on her carpets. He paused at the door. "Mum, can I have the cocoa?" Molly stared at him, and then snorted. Her son might be 26 and about a foot taller than her, but as he stood there, asking for a cup of cocoa, wet and with a repentant expression on his face, she was suddenly reminded of a much younger version. "Of course you can," she told him generously, walking down the hallway, and handing the mug to him. "Now get in there. We don't want you catching a cold."

"No, mum," he agreed meekly, stepping into the bathroom.

* * * * *

The day was smiling now, a sheepish sun peeking out from behind the clouds like a child ashamed of its temperamental tears. The room where Hermione kept her computer and work materials was airy and snug. The bottom half of the walls were covered with brick, adding an earthy touch to the room, the small psuedo-fireplace was also in brick. The upper half of the walls were painted a creamy colour. She sighed and leaned back into her chair, a mug of herbal tea in her hand. The window was open and biting breezes flew in through the window to nip at her.

She flexed her hands to lessen the tension in her fingers. The traffic rumbled and churned away noisily outside, and the perfect horizon was marred by an eternal grey backwash. Hermione had been typing since eight that morning, checking and cross-referencing all her data on Draconis. It was her usual routine, to run up some background information just for an idea how to direct the investigation. She had come up with nothing. Absolutely nothing. Draconis had perfectly clean records it seemed. According to all that she had found, not one single employee had ever filed a complaint, no one had ever been discharged unfairly, and the company seemed to have never experienced any financial problems or breached any terms of any kind. All of the information made Draconis seem to be a perfect law-abiding company, with a perfect employee mentality. All of which was utter bullshit.

Hermione stood up and stretched. She knew Draco Malfoy and she knew his idea of ethics. Do whatever you want but don't get caught, was probably a good mimic of his motto. She walked into the kitchen and thumped her mug down with a bit more force then intended, due to frustration. The tea sloshed about dangerously before deciding to rise out over the ceramic rim. Hermione sighed and reached for a tea towel to mop up the mess. When she had started down this road, she had never imagined that at the age of twenty-six, she would be employed by the B.o.M in a low-paid menial position, sharing an apartment with Cho Chang of all people, and single. She turned the tap on and rinsed the towel, wringing it dry and hanging it back up.

She left the kitchen and was in the corridor when she heard the door opening. A rather breathless Cho stood in the doorway, tucking her keys into her bag.

"Hi," Cho said, smiling happily, unwrapping her cashmere scarf from around her neck. Cho had left before Hermione had gotten up that morning, and Hermione now took the time to survey Cho's outfit with a casual eye. She wore long suede trousers of a spruce green colour and a v-necked cream jumper. Over her arm was draped a russet leather coat. Hermione's eyes lingered on the coat, and the two plastic bags she was holding, like those you received from the dry cleaners to protect your clothing.

"That's a new jacket," Hermione stated, a questioning tone in her voice, although she knew with absolute conviction it was new. She had had her eye on it for weeks, but it had been way outside her budget. At that moment Hermione felt her inferiority to Cho in the ranks of wealth and money keenly. She turned around and sat back down at the computer.

Cho bustled into the room, ignoring Hermione's less than warm welcome. She worked for the B.o.M as well, as one of the elite Investigative Agents who had a wand license. She placed the clothing bags on a chair and threw her coat onto the lounge carelessly to the sound of Hermione resuming her typing. "You'll never guess what happened today."

"Something exciting?" Hermione asked out of etiquette and not interest.

"Exciting? Well, I suppose you would say so," Cho told her, slipping her feet out of her expensive leather boots. "I thought it was absolutely amazing. Glenda Harding's daughter eloped with Darren Crown. Isn't that absolutely rich? I swear, poor Glenda was so distraught over it all that she was practically twitching." Cho stopped to shake her head in wonder and sit down in one of the wooden chairs around the dining table. Her back was as straight as a ruler, one of the few things, and ways, in which she conducted herself, and her life that Hermione approved of. "The poor darling was obviously suffering. The Harding family has looked down on the Crowns for goodness knows how long; Trinity has really gone and destroyed Glenda this time."

Hermione shrugged, her eyes browsing the computer screen, searching for anything that might prove to be a lead. "Trinity has always been a wild child. And Darren Crown is an absolute rake," she commented, heavy disapproval in her voice.

Cho laughed, a light, glossy laugh, perfected over years of flirtation and charm. "You're far too harsh. Let the children have their fun," her dark eyes grew darker for an instant, "for I know enough to miss those carefree days."

Hermione stood up and trekked into the kitchen, cold disdain frosting over her demeanor. "I don't. What did those days afford us but a false sense of security? Children should learn that the world isn't a paradise and make themselves useful." She poured herself another cup of tea and walked back out again.

"When did you become so cynical? You're far too young for it, why I'm older than you are." Cho flexed her foot and yawned. "You don't relax enough, Herm. You ought to go out more. There's a Gala tonight, I know you've been invited. You really ought to go, it'll be a blast and everyone's who's anyone will be there."

"I don't feel young. I feel old and tired." Hermione sighed and sat down, facing her computer again. "And I've seen things you'll never see..." she whispered to herself, caught in a whirl of faded terror and memory that always caught her momentarily. She turned around to face Cho. "I'm not going to the Gala. It's pointless." Her brown hair pulled back cleanly of her face and her eager determination to work, Hermione was the perfect picture of utilitarian efficiency. Cho sitting opposite her, with her languid pose, her smiling mouth and her bewitching eyes made her Hermione's opposite, the darling social butterfly. The butterfly flashed it's wings quickly, bright colours sent to sparkle across the air and reminded everyone of times gone past when they too danced below the gilded sun, laughing and flying on lighthearted wings. Hermione shook her head to clear the images rampaging across her mind.

"Pointless? But there isn't meant to be a point. It ridiculously extravagant, but everyone still goes, if for no other reason then because they've been invited." Cho reclined against the chair, one hand in her hair, untangling imaginary knots in her silky locks. "You have to come. Even Glenda's coming, after Trinity's merry romp with Darren."

"I admire Glenda's strength of will," Hermione replied acidly, "and her staunch ability to continue after being associated with the Crowns who are, after all nothing but riffraff, but I do not intend to go."

Cho laughed again, and Hermione admired it. Not a single drop of exasperation could be heard. "You are funny, Herm. I never meant that the Crowns were riffraff since they are one of the richer families. But you know the Harding's. Why, they're almost as bad as the Malfoy's were. Glenda still refers to the Crowns as nouveau riche because their recent prosperity is truly entirely due to Dylan and Deigan."

Hermione sighed and laced her fingers together, stretching upwards. "Dylan and Deigan?" she asked, "Dylan Crown? Doesn't he work for Draconis?" She wasn't much interested in the gossip that Cho seemed to circulate her life around.

"Work for Draconis? Herm, he's doesn't just work for the company, he practically manages it. Why, he's the chief of management." Cho flipped her hair back, an action that often grated on Hermione's nerves.

"Really? He would be the person to ask, then, if I wanted to know about Draconis?" Hermione asked suddenly, perking up. She was having no success searching for the information, maybe it would be better after all if she just went and spoke to someone close to the source.

"He's the one."

Hermione searched through her drawers, looking for her diary. "I'll have to schedule to meet him someday," she commented, a pencil held between her teeth as she rifled through the pages.

Cho's eyes lit up. "He'll be there at the Gala tonight. So will Draco Malfoy, the owner of Draconis. You could meet them there..." she suggested demurely.

Hermione shook her head firmly. "Sorry Cho, but I don't want to go. Ron's going, with that fiancée of his." She spat the word out, as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

"Oh, Herm, I should have guessed." Hermione shrugged at Cho's sympathetic words. "But you shouldn't let him get in your way. Have fun without him, and show him that he hasn't destroyed you." Cho grabbed one of the bags. "I've even got the perfect dress for you."

"I'm serious, I don't feel like going." Hermione gave Cho a smile, her first smile of the day. "If I did, all the Ron Weasleys in the world couldn't prevent me."

Cho stood up and stretched. She picked up the bags and turned in the direction of her bedroom. "All right. I'm going out for a bit," she told Hermione, "but remember, the dress offer is still valid, if you change your mind."

"I'll keep that in mind."

* * * * *

A fruitless hour had passed since Cho had left the apartment. Hermione sat in front of the computer, still frustrated in her attempts. She shut down the computer, and threw herself down onto the lounge, determined to come up with another method to dig up the information she needed. She was thinking up various sources she could utilize when someone knocked at the door. Hermione jumped onto her feet hurriedly, and smoothed the pleats of her knee-length khaki skirt, pulling the bottom of her cream turtleneck flat. She grabbed a pair of shoes, jammed her feet into them and opened the door. Before her stood the Director of Operations from B.o.M, Aubrey Knight, and Chief of Executive Affairs, Allan Lawrence.

"Hello, Ms Granger," Ms Knight greeted her pleasantly, "I hope we're not interrupting you in anyway."

"No, no," Hermione stammered slightly, before recovering from her surprise. "Please come in." In all her three years at B.o.M, she had never once laid eyes on the elusive Director of Operations. She had begun to wonder if the person was just a myth. But the woman standing before her looked like any other you might pass on the street. She was around thirty, with dark auburn hair cut short just below her ears, and brown eyes surrounded by a pair of black frames. Ms Knight and Mr. Lawrence followed Hermione into the open living space of her apartment and sat down on the lounge.

"Would you like some tea, or coffee?" Hermione offered.

"Sit down, Ms Granger," Mr. Lawrence instructed her kindly, "this isn't a social call."

Hermione nodded and sat down dazedly, wondering exactly what kind of call it was exactly.

"Allan means that we have something serious to discuss with you, Hermione. May I call you that?" Ms Knight had a slight indiscernible accent in her speech, which suggested of years spent abroad.

Hermione nodded again, before finding her voice. "Certainly," she replied, how could anyone say no to a woman in such a position of power? She was awed with both their presences, never having even dreamt of seeing them on her doorstep.

"Well, Hermione, you began to work for us in 2003, correct?"

"Yes, I was 23, just graduated from Ash-"

"And you hold the position of Senior Research Assistant in the Commercialisation of Magic Department?" Mr. Lawrence asked her, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

Hermione just nodded. She hated appearing like a young fool, naïve and ridiculous, but that was how she felt.

"That's quite but a position to hold, for someone so young." Hermione looked up then, into his eyes. The position paid poorly and could have never measured up to her ambitions. How could she possibly bow her head and nod, when all her heart cried out with dissatisfaction? Something in her eyes must have revealed her feelings, or perhaps they were playing a hunch, but Ms Knight smiled.

"A worthy position, perhaps. But not worthy of you, I'm sure," she told Hermione. "You're entirely over qualified for the job, and I know that your ambitions must surpass it by leaps and bounds. That is why we are here to present a proposition to you." She brushed a strand off hair of her face, tucking it behind her ear. Mr. Lawrence bent down slightly to pick up his briefcase. He rifled through it and handed Ms Knight a sheaf of notes. "We hear you have been assigned to the Draconis case."

Hermione nodded again. She felt confused. What were they proposing exactly? Her ambitions certainly exceeded her position, were they proposing a career promotion? If so, why had they come to visit her personally?

"The Draconis case is of imminent importance to us. And frankly, there is no way we'll ever come anywhere near the truth." Mr. Lawrence gazed at her, a hard, penetrating gaze.

"I don't understand, are you suggesting that I get moved off the case?" Hermione asked bluntly, tired of her perplexed daze.

Mr. Lawrence laughed harshly. "Nothing of the sort. We're suggesting that you terminate you job with the B.o.M temporarily and consider a career working for Draconis."

"Working for Draconis?"

"Yes." Ms Knight looked at Hermione simply, and Hermione understood instantly. They were proposing that she become their inside source and investigate Draconis unofficially.

"Why have you chosen me for this?" she shook her head, troubled. Usually these jobs were left to the field agents. She had certainly never imagined that she would ever have to take on such a role.

"Because you have reason to be dissatisfied with your job, because they would never expect you to be an agent working for us and because you've known Mr. Malfoy previously. For all of those reasons above, you were our first choice." Mr. Lawrence stood up, obviously considering the matter closed and Hermione agreed. Ms Knight followed suit. "Your new job begins on Monday; Stacey has everything arranged." Ms Knight smiled at her, walking out to the doorway, "We'll be in touch, Hermione."

They exited themselves, leaving Hermione frozen on the lounge, not quite sure if the events of those last few minutes were ever planning to sink in. She shook her head and stood up, stretching her arms out in a dazed yawn, before walking into the kitchen. She was no longer working at B.o.M; instead she was on a secret mission into Draconis. Did spies ever feel as removed from reality as she did now? But, as ever, efficiency kicked in, and Hermione began making a mental list of preparations. She would be able to discover Draconis again. Perhaps it would be a good idea to meet her future employers. The front door opened again and Hermione poked her head out of the kitchen. It was Cho.

"Hello, Herm," she greeted Hermione cheerfully, shaking her windblown hair out of her eyes.

"Hi Cho." Hermione was about to step back in the kitchen, when a sudden thought occurred to her. She turned around slowly to face Cho, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I'm just wondering, but is that dress you offered me for the Gala still available?"

* * * * *

Crystal chandeliers, dangling like stalactites from the cathedral ceiling, lighted the colossal ballroom. The pristine marble floors were covered in rich carpets and antique gold ornaments were the decoration of choice. Warm, glistening shadows flickered over the walls as the guests began to arrive for the party, already waiters in red jackets had begun to circulate, with a tray laden with bubbling champagne glasses held high. Over the soft jazzy tune played by the band, a tinkling river of conversation flowed. Men in a mix of tuxedo's and formal robes, and women in glittering gowns and satin sheaths conversed together animatedly, there to see and be seen, their voices melding to the ebb and flow of the melody.

She stood gracefully, having just entered the room, her eyes surveying the people before her, her ears tuned into their conversations. Little tidbits of gossip fell within her hearing for seconds before dissipating, serving to arouse her amusement.

"Did you hear about the Ms Arblaster? You know the show jumping champion. Why she -- "

"Excuse me madam, can I have a moment?"

"Ms Christensen is it? I think I've heard of you, the gossip columnist if I'm correct?"

"See that girl up there? In the band, the one with the cello? That's my cousin, Amelia. I tell you sir, she's absolutely swell -- "

She smiled serenely, the warm light cascading over her face. She turned slightly, to smooth her dress and heard someone call out her name. "Why, if it isn't Cho Chang, our illustrious Auror!" a sweet voice called out. Cho looked up, a grin of recognition breaking out over her face.

"Angela! Darling, how wonderful to see you!" she exclaimed, looking her old friend up and down. The tall Eurasian woman stood before, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder and her tailored gown clinging seductively. "You look just as lovely as I ever remember."

Angela Dubosque laughed. "That's the thing with you, Cho, I can never quite decipher the intention behind your compliments."

Cho placed a hand on Angela's arm and they both glided towards the center of the room. "You can trust your instincts with me," she said, a tantalizingly enigmatic smile on her lips. They paused next to the mantle, and both accepted champagne glasses from the passing waiters. "So," Cho began, "how's Andre?"

Angela swatted dismissively at her, her gloved arm sailing through the air languidly, showing off the pearl and diamond bracelet she wore, set in gold. "He's fine," she replied shortly, before closing her mouth tightly and looking around the room, a pensive expression in her eyes. She turned back to Cho, a look of temporary haste flashing on her features. "Oh, lets not talk about Andre," she expressed keenly, "Being married is nothing like I imagined it; you don't know how much I long to be free again, like you."

Cho smiled, the fine art of ignoring small, emotional situations having been mastered years ago. "Oh, heavens yes," she announced blithely, "as free as I can be, with Oliver."

With a sigh and a shake of her elegant head, Mrs. Dubosque led her to a white cloth covered table, in the center of which sat a bouquet of white lilies among dark green glossy ferns. "You look gorgeous," she gushed, gesturing to Cho's dress. It was made of soft russet suede, backless and draped to the floor like a mermaids tail. She than looked back at the gathered crowd for a moment, as though searching for someone. "Where is Oliver, anyway?"

"He couldn't make it, this evening," she sighed sadly.

"That's a pity," Angela sympathized. "But at least Puddlemere United seems to be out in force tonight. Looks, there's Gem," she pointed at a tall Chinese woman, dressed tastefully in silk robes. "Oh my," she gasped melodramatically, a hand fluttering to her chest, pausing there lightly. "Is that Marcus Flint standing next to her? Pansy's going to be angry about this." The tall, burly Chaser for the Montrose Magpies looked as though he had been dumped unceremoniously into his old-fashioned formal robes. His blonde hair was cut stylishly though, and if it wasn't for the haughty glower on his face, he could have passed for handsome.

Cho giggled, the obvious soap opera atmosphere glaring her in the face. "Look, there's Pansy Parkinson with Reginald Godfrey." The short blonde woman was dressed in filly pink dress, her perfectly manicured hands latched onto Godfrey's arm possessively, her eyes fixed on Gem with a look that promised retribution. The tall chaser smirked secretively and moved closer to Flint, draping her arm casually over his shoulder. That caused Pansy to bristle like an angered cat, her talons tightening their iron lock on the poor Godfrey, whose forehead was beaded with perspiration. "I feel utter sympathy for Reginald. He must be regretting ever offering to escort Pansy."

Angela shook her head, and leaned back, while crossing her knees. "Don't say it as though he did it willingly. Once Pansy discovered she was dateless, he became her scapegoat." She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "I'm so glad I never did grow up in that circle of friends."

Cho watched the ongoing show before smilingly, and nodded at Angela's comments. "Marcus and Pansy might as well get married and be done with it. They act like a married couple already anyway, with their lovers tiffs and whatnot."

"Don't wish matrimony on anyone," Angela warned, forced joy cracking in her voice. "It's not a happy state."

"What would I know of it? Oh, look over there, that's Omer Brander with Caswell Thomas!" she exclaimed, pointing at the rock icon and his supermodel girlfriend. "I didn't think they would show up, isn't he meant to be on tour or something?

Angela shrugged. "I'm just surprised they're still together. I never pinned him down as the committing type."

Cho sighed, "When was the last time you felt happy for people? Oh, there's Zefyr Li, and colour me blue with yellow spots if she's not on the arm of Andrew Dumbledore." She lifted her hand to point at yet another chaser for Puddlemere United, a short petite woman, who had a rather pleasant expression on her face, unlike the coquettish Gem and the antagonized Pansy. She was indeed on the arm of Andrew Dumbledore, the great-nephew of the famous and much missed Albus Dumbledore. He had short red hair and a rather bashful grin.

"That's a happy couple. Look at them, not a single jealous glance being directed at them from maligned ex-lovers at all," Angela commented dryly. She took a sip of her champagne, rolling her eyes and moving on to inspect the next couple. "I heard that Ennia Egnaro might show up with Sean Maudley, the music journalist."

"How horrid. I won't believe she has the gall, until she actually shows up." Cho shuddered and leaned back, staring out onto the dance floor. Flashes of rich fabrics and sudden glimpses of twirling forms swirled about in her mind. Ladies dressed in satin cocktail dresses, in silk gowns, in spreading skirts of organza, paraded around the floor. She gazed out wistfully, caught up in the dream of the moment, the great romance and grace of the waltzing figures, and allowed herself to forget for the moment the irony of life, the cynicism everyone affected, and the ideals they trod on with mocking mouths. Love danced before her with a swishing dress, a golden aura, and glided momentarily from couple to couple, daring her to believe in its reality. Maybe she had been wrong, maybe it shouldn't be a matter of commonplace for Pansy and Marcus to subtly destroy each other, maybe Angela's marriage shouldn't have been, maybe Ennia Egnaro had done the right thing when she left her husband to step into Love's waiting arms. And maybe her relationship with Oliver...

Years had past since she last believed in love, in the existence of that fairytale myth. But sitting there, trapped by the kaleidoscope of colour and beauty, she managed to see beyond mere superficiality, into something she thought she would never hope for again.

"I can't believe she would show her face after what she has done, either," Angela commented bitterly, cutting into Cho's reverie of stolen memories and soaring hopes. "I would never consider doing such a thing, why she should have been banned from coming tonight, if her sense of decency couldn't contain her." She finished with a smirk, but a sense of intense discontent lingered. Perhaps, Cho wondered to herself, we're all entrapped after all. She nodded, contemplating the silent thought in her head, before drawing in a sudden breath.

Preying vulnerability? She wondered to herself. Only moments ago, she had wondered on the nature of love that presented itself to her, and now... Surely, a miracle is only an extremely fortunate coincidence. Then was this moment a miracle? Her eyes lingered on him, a sense of déjà vu, of longing, of an awakening blooming. Although he looked nothing alike to anyone she had ever known, or might have professed to know, she was struck by him. His tall fame, the smile, the way his hair fell into his eyes slightly, before rushing back into order, all of it promised a memory. A shadow seemed to linger around him - when he turned a certain way, or the light angled down on his features - that was familiar to her. She half rose out of her seat, to the surprise of Angela, caught in what must promise to be a vision. For the man standing before her, on the outskirt of the dancing silhouettes, spoke to her of love, youth, and faded oaths. Her mouth half formed the word as he turned around slowly, catching sight of her. "Cedric."

Draco lifted his glass, to examine the champagne by the soft lighting of the flickering lanterns and soft fairy lights that decorated the large courtyard the ballroom opened out to. He was bored, and didn't quite care if he showed it. Dylan Crown and his fiancée Shirley stood opposite him. Both of them were speaking earnestly about their upcoming wedding to Mr. and Mrs. Haversham, their words consisting of hopes and aspirations. He found their optimistic chatter grating. They were such self-absorbed, hardworking people. How boring.

Draco smoothed the front of his gunmetal grey suit. He hadn't wanted to come to this Gala. Ben and his boyfriend were laughing loudly, as were the rest of their cluster. Ben had that effect on people: he laughed, they followed suit. He looked back inside the ballroom, at the swirling kaleidoscope of fabric and flesh. He took a long drink from his champagne glass and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter, before grabbing another glass. He hated these social gatherings. Ben and Dylan were both better suited to pandering and playing with people when placed in a leisurely atmosphere than he was. Draco found that dithering with pointless conversation was just that. Pointless. Only when he choose to play with words and create a tangible maze of sentences did he find socializing fun.

He tugged his tie straight, restlessly. Every time he came to one of these damned social conventions, various managers and businessmen all seemed to deem it a good time to mob him, grab his attention and chat to him as though they thought he was one of them, exactly like them in their crudeness and coarse interests. He wanted to sneer at them, allow them to see exactly what he thought of their petty feuds and common sensibilities. He would have done that once, the old Draco, he would have insulted them, then walked away, smirking with satisfaction. But it was useless to dream about what would have been.

Sighing, he turned and walked away from them, towards the outskirts of the courtyard, looking out onto perfectly manicured lawns lit by bobbing, golden lights, with tall perfect trees casting long, opaque shadows. He had been wondering about the past lately, about things he couldn't change, that might have been, but now would never be. Ben called out to him from behind, but Draco found it easy to ignore him, letting the cascading tide of conversation and music drown out Ben's voice. Looking out into the night, at the stars, he felt a pang. They were so high, up there, somewhere far beyond his reach. They twinkled at him, promising wealth, riches and a multitude of other bounties. Was happiness among them?

He stood there, searching for the meaning among them, but they just smiled back smugly, unconcerned, unaffected. He gazed back at them coldly. Dreams were for the foolish, and hopes only existed to be crushed. He drank from his champagne glass again, and continued to stare out onto the dark horizon, his eyes unseeing. A hand grazed his shoulder and he turned around, startled, to find a tall blonde woman standing there, watching him with sparkling eyes that shone with the light of the stars. Instantly thoughts of failed pursuits and half-envisioned longings disappeared from his mind as though chased.

She smiled at him, dazzling him all the more. "Hello, I'm Myra Kingsley. And you are?"

He automatically lifted his hand to bring hers to his lips. "Draco Malfoy," he murmured, his eyes traveling down her svelte body, and the jewel encrusted golden gown that clung to her curves.

She laughed, throaty and enchanting, "Of course you are. And the most eligible bachelor in all Britain, too." She continued to smile, leaning in closer, "It's my pleasure to meet you, Draco."

He gazed back, captured by the sheer seduction of her lips. And her voice lingered about his ears, teasingly provocative, and there was a quality to it that he couldn't surmise. Draco had dined and wined many women, but there was a breathless quality about her, like the essence of gold and diamonds poured into her being that was enchanting. "Oh, no. It's entirely my pleasure. You're beautiful, Myra, has anyone ever told you that?" He wanted to hear her voice again, to see her ruby red lips curve and open.

"Very often, but I love the way you say it." She winked at him, and then turned around slowly, facing the trees in the distance.

Draco followed. "Well, I'll say it again then, shall I? You're beautiful, like a nymph dancing upon the wind." He wound a lock of her flaxen hair around his finger, before drawing it down her neck slowly. She shivered. His pulse raced. Two could play at seduction. "I want to take you away."

"Oh do," she breathed lowly, pouting. "I was so bored just then, but now I've met you..." Her voice was full of money, ringing softly, intoxicating. It was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, and the cymbals' song of it. It sang of magic, and forbidden places. It spoke of her, high in a white palace, the King's daughter, the golden girl.

Draco smirked and pulled away from her, taking another sip of champagne. "But I don't even know anything about you yet," he replied, directing the comment at the black ceiling of stars above. He wanted to laugh out loud. This was fun, this was excitement. The endless waltz of flirtation, just like the business deals and meetings he reveled in. It was all about power play, the sheer exhilaration of it, not knowing and yet foreseeing another's plans, outwitting them, driving them into a corner, your corner, manipulating them into wanting what you desired. It was his life, and his one passion, now.

She too played the game of cat and mouse with expertise, glamour girl, innocent princess, intoxicating seductress all masks that were changed like flashes of colour running down a fish's back as it swims along, touched by sunlight. Now she walked towards him, coming close to him, her fingers grazing his collar, her eyes focused on the ground, her red lips pouting like a rose encased with morning dew. "But what would you like to know about little old me, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked him innocently, her hands playing with his lapel.

He spun around suddenly, and whispered into her ear, "Everything."

She stared back at him, surprised by the sudden force in his voice. He was arrogant and self-assured, turning the tables on her even as they stood there, entranced. Both of them looked into the others eyes, searching for nothing, seeing nothing. She wasn't sure who was the hunter, and who the hunted any longer. But this was the challenge she had lusted after, the confrontation of dominance. When she next spoke, her voice was an open invitation, delicate, warm, feminine and submissive. She could play the role for now; play it as though she had been born to it. She would charm him, for now. "Then what are we waiting for?"

Hermione felt like stamping her foot in utter frustration. She had spent the first hour standing around, feeling out of place, despite the gorgeous dress Cho had lent her. It was made of pale lilac organza, and hemmed with silver and diamantes among the intricate embroidery. She should have felt dazzling, but instead Hermione could feel the onset of a headache. She sipped her cocktail, hidden behind the vase of ferns and lilies at her table. After the first hour she had searched for a sign of Draco Malfoy, Dylan Crown, or anyone at all from Draconis, but to no avail. Now she sat at the table, trying to find someone to talk to, and avoid everyone she knew at the same time.

Instead of finding Draco, she had run into the very couple she wished never to see. Her lips tightened as she thought of Ron dancing the evening away, in the arms of his new fiancée, content and oblivious to her presence. She found it hard to think about, to wonder what went wrong with their romance. But she knew what had gone wrong. They had drifted apart, began drifting ever since Harry had isolated himself. The trio was gone now, destroyed by years and Voldemort.

Hermione watched the couples dance by, happily spinning and stepping to a lively jazz tune. Just two years ago she would have been one of them, was one of them. They had been famous together, the famous couple, best friends of the legendary Harry Potter - the dashing Auror and his beautiful, intelligent girlfriend. With Ron at her side, she had been a staple in all the magazines, especially during her university days. They had often made the headlines, envied by all, bedazzling, with everything going right for them.

She closed her eyes. Than everything began to fall apart slowly. She had chosen to forsake her promising medical career in order to work for the B.o.M, hoping to one-day work her way up into an administrative position, and also to be closer to Ron. But while Ron was promoted, she remained stuck in her menial position. They began to disagree with each other, Hermione wanted to spend more time alone while Ron wanted to continue the social circuit they had pursued earlier. Disagreements turned into fights, and fight became silence as both threw themselves into their respective careers. And the silence slowly killed the love, until one day they both decided things weren't working, moved out, and sold their joint residence.

Hermione dashed a tear away frantically as the memories came rushing back at her. He had recovered quickly, and within weeks was seen stepping around with an attractive redheaded lawyer - a colleague of Penelope's, Percy told her, trying to assure her that they were nothing more than family friends. The assurances all fell empty when Ron moved in with Alere Graham two months later. And Hermione? She had remained single, became almost single-minded in her efforts at work, and neglected her social life entirely. She had bumped into Cho Chang one afternoon, and since they were both looking for a place, decided to rent with her. Her entire life was in tatters now, her career stalled dismally, her love life nonexistent and her social life withered. Until now.

Now she had been given a chance for a promotion, and wasn't she here at the Gala? The social event of the year? But Hermione still felt empty, as though nothing had really changed. Tomorrow was a new day, and she wondered what it might bring for her. She drank more of the cocktail, watching everyone else dance past her, getting on with their lives, leaving her where she was.

* * * * *

It was dark on the cliffs that night, a pale luminescent moon gleaning down onto the rough, choppy waves. A song could be heard on the wind, a cold, wispy song that did not belong to this world perhaps. Tom Lester sat on the doorstep to the little cottage he called home, charmed by the wind's voice, mystified as always by the magic that seem to penetrate so deeply these cliffs.

So far away...

A breeze ruffled his hair and stung his cheek, but he felt no obligation to return indoors. In the air was the scent of mint, which grew, sprawled across the stone steps. In truth Tom was looking for the Angel he had spied on the cliffs yesterday. The chance that he might see her again, especially this late at night was slim, but he was hopeful that she would visit again.

So long ago...

As he sat there, snug in the doorway, staring out at the cliffs and the towering waves, he played about with a small reed flute in his hands. It was a small thing, only capable of a few indistinct notes. An uncle of his had made it for him when he was six. With skill, a few simple, but melodious tunes good could be played. Tom twisted it about his fingers, but didn't blow on it. He was too fascinated by the breathy, musical quality in the wind tonight.

I heard your voice...

The wild ocean raged below, and he could hear it flinging itself against the rocks, trying to break them. He loved living here, being so close to nature, being able to run free. His mother had moved there twelve years ago, one of his aunties told him, and two years later he had been born. His aunts winked at him, telling him tales of mermaids that swam near the rocks, who sang at night, but they had never mentioned the mysterious sorcerers whom visited at unexpected times, nor the wolves that sometimes ran there, tame and friendly.

He rarely visited his relatives, except at Christmas time. In fact, tomorrow he, Jim and his mother would be leaving to spend the festive season with his grandparents. He smiled, thinking of the lovely dinners and presents he would be given.

And fell in love...

A loud, gasping cry reached his ears; they seemed to come from the cliffs below. Tom dropped the flute in his hands, and stood up, eyes searching for a source, any source. But no more cries came from that direction, nothing distinguishably human. Tom decided to go and investigate. He walked down the last remaining steps, onto the grass, before a voice halted him.

But you left me...

"Tom! Mummy says you have to come back inside!" It was his older brother Jim, standing framed in the doorway, wearing his pajamas. The wind whipped his blonde hair into his eyes and he pushed it out of the way, annoyed. "She says we ought to be in bed."

"I'm coming Jim. But I heard something and I'm going to investigate," Tom replied stubbornly, "Could you get me a torch?"

"You're not investigating, Tom!" Jim commanded loudly. "It's bedtime! I'm not getting you any torch."

Tom turned to look back longingly at the lower cliffs, wondering what had made that cry, disappointed that he hadn't seen the Angel again. He turned around with a sigh, his face crestfallen and walked back to the door, reluctantly. "Alright. But..." his lips trembled slightly, "I wanted to see the Angel again, Jim."

Jim placed a comforting arm around his younger brother. "You will someday. Anyway, cheer up," he told him optimistically, guiding his brother back inside and closing the door behind them. 'Tomorrow we see Grandma and Grandpa again. I'm sure they'll wonderful presents waiting for us." Tom nodded and let Jim pull him in, then locked the door.

All alone...

The small reed flute lay forgotten outside the doorstep, in a small bed of weeds. The moon passed overhead, and for one moment, a ray of light touched it.

Shall I ever...

A young woman was hunched over on her knees, hidden by scraggly bushes on the cliffs below. Her long scraggly red hair hung over her face, half-hiding her tear stained face. Her arms were wrapped around her knees tightly as she rocked back and forth, crying heart-brokenly. As she cried, the wind hummed along around, lifting her hair, and the stars swung low in sympathy. Her muffled voice uttered the words in gasping, heaving coughs. "I'm so sorry Tommy, I'm so sorry."

See you again?

A wave broke against the silent shore; a strangled cry rang out, forever more.