Chapter Text
Dearest gentle reader,
As yet another season begins, as the months fade into the new year, as servants are rushed about and Mamas shriek about marriages, this author finds herself wondering—what exactly is the point of it all?
Ginny was hiding from her mother.
She was tired, exhausted, from meeting suitor after suitor with no idea who she was beyond her not inconsiderable beauty.
You'd think the mask would help with that, but somehow Mama seemed to notice her—and specifically the lack of names on her dance card—anyway.
Ginny stuck to the edges of the ballroom, keeping a wary eye on her mother and making sure to remain on the opposite of the room from her at all times.
She found her brother engaged in the same exercise. He smirked at her. "Avoiding Mama, are you?"
"You're a perpetual bachelor," she reminded her brother. "She's looking to matchmake you as well."
Ron scowled. "At least I'm not her main target."
Since that was perfectly true, she did not bother replying, and instead flounced off.
It was in this process that she bumped into him.
He was doing something that could only be described as gaping—very uncouth—at the chandelier.
Ginny so rarely saw someone in their circles openly display their expressions that she felt compelled to ask: "What exactly is so special about that?"
He startled and turned, startling her in turn with the greenest emerald eyes she'd ever had the pleasure of looking at.
Entirely focused on her.
He swallowed, throat bobbing. She tracked the movement. "We—we have not been introduced."
She couldn't help a grin. "I believe that's my line."
"You are the one who began randomly talking to me," he pointed out, not untruthfully.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "I did not mean to distress you," she said mocking with a curtsy. "I apologize. I shall take my leave."
"What about talking to you is distressing?" This was asked in a bewildered enough tone to gain Ginny's approval.
She tended towards arrogance, and was not shy about it.
She caught sight of her mother and grimaced. "Perhaps talking to me is not distressing, but my Mama is on her way here to interrogate my prospects—and since I have not yet run away from you, you will certainly be considered part of that count."
He looked alarmed enough at that idea to stir Ginny's curiosity and prick her ego—you did not become someone like her without healthy doses of both.
Was being her suitor so horrific?
Clearly not—otherwise the hordes would not be after her—but this snub interested her even more than the openness, the guilelessness of his expression.
She seized his arm. "Come on!"
"What the devil are you doing!" he exclaimed in a scandalized tone. She was the one who ought to be scandalized at his language, but of course it only amused her.
"Escaping Mama, obviously. Or do you want to stand around and talk to her?"
"I'm certain I can brave your Mama," he declared with incredibly misplaced confidence.
But she noticed he gave no more protest to her dragging him along.
Ginny knew this house like the back of her hand—even the servants' passages. She used a mixture of those and the main corridors to burst out of the veranda on the first floor.
The man's eyes flicked from admiring the ironworks—Ginny had never really paid any special attention to them before—to her, almost accusingly. "You live here." He took a step back.
"How could you tell?"
"Only someone who knows a place very well can know where they want to get to and how to get there quickly," he retorted.
It said something about the standards of men around here that that actually impressed her.
"I can merely be an intimate friend of the family," she protested nevertheless.
He pressed himself against the wall, as bashful as a debutante. "You did not deny it."
Well. That was true.
"And what is wrong with this being my house?" she questioned.
"Nothing," he muttered. "I'm just—not supposed to draw attention. Especially that of the hosts."
How sad for him, because this was like catnip to her. "And why is that? Was your family not invited?"
"Of course they were invited!" he sputtered. "I—look, you brought me here against my will—"
"Who is going to believe that?" she asked, amused. "You are the man. It is certainly more probable that you brought me here to ruin me."
What was visible of his face through the mask turned scarlet. "I—I would never!"
"You need to calm down," she advised.
He gestured wildly, his gloves as black as the rest of the shimmery costume, which would look terrible on anyone else. "We are alone in your house! What if one of your brothers finds us?"
"How do you know I have brothers?"
He looked at her like she was insane, furrowed his brows. "The Harpy, of course."
That startled her. She knew everyone read The Harpy, but it still took her by surprise every time it was referenced.
"Right," she recovered. "I suppose you can name them off the top of your head—"
Giving her an imperious look, he rattled off: "William, Charles, Percival, Frederick, George, Ronald."
She raised a brow. "Wow. You must be a really dedicated reader."
Ginny hadn't known the newsletter had any fans.
Enjoyers, of course—everyone like gossip, especially mean gossip—but fans?
"She is brutal," he enthused, and he actually sounded in awe of the fact. "I wish I could be mentioned in it."
"You haven't been mentioned in it?"
She'd thought every man in the ton had been mentioned in the rag at least once.
His face closed off, and she realized he was just as capable of dissimulating as the rest of them—he just seemed to prefer not to.
Somehow, that just made him more intriguing to Ginny.
"The Harpy doesn't take notice of people like me," he said self-deprecatingly.
She smiled winningly. "A handsome gentleman like you? I think you're exactly the kind of person she notices."
He blushed again, she observed, amusement growing.
He was vastly more entertaining than any of her callers.
"So, tell me, why was someone like you staring at the chandelier and not on the dancefloor courting young ladies?" She propped her chin up on her hand, gazing at him intently.
"I—er, haven't been to many events," he confessed. "I was just. . . trying to get the lay of the land."
"By looking at the ceiling rather than around the ballroom."
She desperately wished she could see if the redness faded into the portion of his face covered by his mask. . . . or even down his chest.
Wait, what?
She reprimanded herself furiously.
No, this man was interesting, that was all.
She needed more than one fawning-less conversation to fall for someone.
"Your chandelier is beautiful," he said defensively. "Especially with the soft, twinkling lights. How did you get those?"
She shrugged. "My brothers came up with the idea. Most men don't have an eye for beauty."
"Is that why you were not dancing?"
Now she flushed and a victorious, beautiful smirk danced along his lips.
"More that I tire of the insipid conversations the act prompts," she replied, gathering herself. "But you can assume what you like."
"Especially if it is flattering to you, I presume?" he funned. Teased! Her!
She had never been teased by anyone other than her brothers before.
Ginny stared at him, and he avoided her gaze. "I apologize, that was inappropri—"
"No, no, do not! I very much appreciate that," she said hurriedly.
He smiled crookedly. "Maybe we should dance then, so the conversation can become—how did you put it?—insipid."
Surprisingly, Ginny didn't immediately run from the suggestion.
She actually considered it.
What would dancing with this man be like, when he was so different from everyone she had ever met?
Even his flirting was different.
"It would be a shame to waste those hours spent in front of a mirror with maids fussing over you," he cajoled.
Her mind made up, she took his hand. "Am I supposed to take that to mean you think I cannot be beautiful without all that effort?"
He didn't miss a beat. "Hardly. I can assure you no servant can make up someone to be as beautiful as you." His eyes were intent on her.
Trying to draw the attention away from her face, which had become the shade of her hair again, she asked: "What are you doing?"
"Trying to memorize this moment," was the prompt answer. "I do not much get to—well. Enjoy."
"And you are enjoying this conversation, with all the ripostes?" she asked disbelievingly.
"Oh, yes," he breathed.
The moment was ruined when he stepped on her foot.
"Apologies! Forgive me, it has been a very long time since I have danced," he rushed to get out.
She laughed. "Take comfort in the fact that you have not hurt me nearly as much as Lord Longbottom has."
"Is he truly a dancer of the sort The Harpy writes about?" the man asked curiously.
"Truthfully, the Harpy understates the matter," she whispered, as though imparting a secret.
"I wonder why that is, then," he mused. "She certainly does not bother to do so for anyone else."
A little panicked, Ginny changed the topic.
"Why has it been a long time since you have danced?" she inquired.
His face shuttered again. "I. . . am not a part of society," he haltingly explained.
"You have withdrawn, you mean?" she pressed. "Why is that so?"
"I was removed from it after my parents passed," he said abruptly.
"Oh," she jerked, startled, and he smoothly compensated for it. He was a fast learner.
His hands were warm even through her glove and dress. The latter's fabric at her waist was feeling very thin.
"I suppose that explains why the Harpy hasn't mentioned you," she segued.
"Are you not going to give me condolences?" He raised a brow.
"Do you wish for them? I find it hard to believe such sentiments from a stranger would do much to help."
"It wouldn't," he admitted. Then shrugged. "But it is courtesy, is it not?"
"What about me or my conduct this evening has suggested I pay much mind to that?"
His laugh was beautiful, bubbling forth raggedly as though it was a rare occurrence. He looked surprised himself. "You are a strange one, Miss Weasley."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment," she decided.
"Do. It was meant as one."
"Most people who say that do not mean it as such," Ginny noted.
He shrugged. "Then they are stupid."
Such straight-forwardness was incredibly refreshing. She told him so.
He smiled awkwardly. "Like I said. I am not much around in this type of crowd. I would not know how to conduct myself. At least you are merely ignoring what you have been taught."
He sounded sad about it.
"Why don't you call on me?" she suggested on the spur of the moment, as startled as he looked. "I can teach you how to navigate these waters."
"I—I'm afraid I can't."
"And why is that?" She stopped abruptly, dropping his hand, for some reason, ridiculously, feeling slighted.
"I just can't." He sounded apologetic, but also stubborn. "Look, I just want to have one nice night, can we—"
"That definitely sounds like you want to ruin me," she interrupted, somehow not hating the prospect.
"I—that is not—absolutely no—" he stuttered.
She took pity on him, walking to lean over the balcony. Someone might spot her, but at the moment, she felt reckless, invincible.
He joined her after only a moment of hesitation, seeming to get that she wasn't angry at him.
It was odd to be so well understood by a stranger.
"One night, huh?"
He bit his lip. "Yes. One night."
"And I don't suppose you can tell me why."
"No. No, I cannot."
The air was filled with melancholy, now, rather than the growing camaraderie.
She had to accept that the only man she had ever found appealing was somehow not at all interested in her.
"Are you married?" she asked suddenly.
"God, no. Why would I—with you—"
"A lot of men with wives have no qualms in seducing innocent debutantes," she told him.
"That is true," he agreed. "But I am surprised you classify yourself as that."
She laughed. "I am certainly not a fresh-faced debutante. I am entirely on the shelf—only my mama refuses to accept that as fact."
"You are not that old!" he protested, seeming genuinely shocked.
She reached over boldly and patted his cheek. He coloured again, and she could feel herself following suit. Still, through the fluster, she forced the words out: "You're sweet."
He caught the hand. "Why, thank you."
They stared at one another. His black mask—shaped like a cat's—was covering over half of his face. It suited him, the costume of a circus ringmaster.
He was certainly making his mark on her heart, disrupting and dictating its beating and functioning.
He called her strange?
He was from an entirely different species, she felt.
He complimented her, flirted with her, blushed and stuttered, seemed like he was actually seeing her rather than just a potential bride, but at the same time refused all advances.
Was he not a hot-blooded man?
"Go on, then," she urged. "Kiss me."
His eyes were regretful as he dropped her hand, took a step back. "I should go."
She could scream. "Why?"
His lips quirked into a smile. "The ruination of a viscount's daughter is not something I need on my repertoire from my first foray into society."
Her ears perked up. "First?"
He'd said he'd taken a break—but that long?
"I really ought to go," he said again, but did not take his gaze off her. It scorched her down to her toes.
She took the leap forward; cupped his covered face with her palms, resisting the urge to slide the mask off—it would cause the trusting, hazy with wondrous lust expression on his face to disappear and she decidedly did not want that.
"You do not sound quite convinced of that," she whispered.
He made an odd noise, some sort of laugh. "Of course I do not. You are. . . you are—"
"I am what?" she asked, still in that low tone.
Their lips were close enough to touch. They were just barely brushing as she spoke—not enough to be classified as a kiss, but nevertheless sending shivers down her spine.
She had never kissed anyone before.
And somehow, she wanted him to kiss her. To be her first kiss.
Someone whose name she did not even know.
Why?
She couldn't answer that.
Even as they stood there, unmoving, transfixed by one another, there was an intimacy to the moment—one that she did not want destroyed.
So naturally, it was.
The tolling of the clock's bell startled the man so much, his forehead smashed into hers. She groaned in pain, then had to laugh at the ridiculousness of the moment as he began stuttering out apologies, grasping on to her waist to steady her.
She placed her hands over his, fingers brushing against his. They entangled together.
His green eyes were wide as they studied her.
"Miss Weasley," he said quietly.
"Ginny," she corrected.
He shook his head wildly. "I can't call you that!" he cried.
She frowned. It was against most society's rules to call a lady by her first name—but still, that was rather vehement.
"We are without a chaperone," she reasoned. "We have gone against etiquette enough that this won't make much of a difference, will it?"
"Yes, it will," he insisted.
Ginny frowned, but gave in. She'd have time to convince him otherwise.
The night had just started, after all.
They had plenty of time.
She tugged on his hand. "Come," she urged. "Let's get something to eat. I'm starving."
He didn't look at all fazed by the admission. Most men would have been appalled by women daring to express humanity's natural inclinations—especially those that could widen their waistline.
"So am I," he admitted. "I haven't eaten since yesterday."
Ginny laughed. "Funny." He only looked puzzled. She wasn't typically someone to explain when she found something humourous and another didn't, but he seemed to change everything for her.
It ought to have been scary. Terrifying, even.
It was, a little bit.
But it was more exciting—like diving head-first into water.
She shook herself, wondering what he'd meant if not: "You know, since it's after midnight—"
He stepped back so abruptly she became unsteady. "It's after midnight?" His voice was incredulous.
"Of course. What did you think the clock was ringing for?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "I—I need to go."
"What?" She couldn't believe her ears.
He'd said they only had a night, but she'd had plans. To persuade him otherwise, show off all her best charms.
"I'm sorry," he apologized.
"Give me an explanation, then!"
"I really, really can't." He wheeled around to face the doors through which they'd entered the balcony, but in a trice Ginny was in front of him, blocking his way.
"Why not?" she demanded.
Rather than answer, he gently shoved her out of the way. Not expecting this, she was moved rather easily, much to her fury.
"Wait!" She chased after him, down to the ballroom, catching the edge of his waistcoat—
But he ran ahead anyway—what she had got was his handkerchief.
Fisting it tight in her hand, she picked up her skirts and cursed everyone from the dressmaker to Mama to Katie—everyone who'd had a hand in making her wear this odious, wearisome thing that prevented her from being able to move properly.
If only she had been in her riding dress!
She caught sight of the sparkly black get-up near the entrance. Glad for how peculiarly noticeable it was, she made to go there, but—
"Ginny, look!" George pointed at the fireworks in his hand gleefully, but her attention was entirely not on him.
She ignored him, running towards the doors, demanding of the servants where the man passing through had gone.
But there was no satisfactory answer.
One thing is for certain—we can expect an explosive start to this season at the Weasley masquerade—literally so, if the twins have any say.
Whether this author will find this season particularly—or at all—entertaining. . . . Only time will tell.
As always, this author signs off, sincere in bringing the genteel crone and horned one the best of gossip:
The Harpy