Chapter Text
Hermione finished work on time for once, much to her own surprise. She didn’t rush home, and lingered in the shower, letting hot water ease the tension from her shoulders as she prepared for the night ahead. Part of her hesitated.
Her last visit to the Broom Closet had not gone all that well. Nothing that broke the rules, the club’s spells would have alerted the staff the instant anyone became genuinely distressed, and safewords were sacrosanct. But her partner had been pushy, greedy for more than she was willing to give.
He hadn’t violated her consent, but he had clearly wanted to, and his evident disappointment over her limits had left a sour taste in her mouth, the encounter leaving her rattled even now, a month later.
She was disappointed with herself really. She should have stopped him sooner. Actually, she should have known better than to go with him in the first place, simply based on his ostentatious, rhinestone-encrusted rhinoceros mask. But she’d been so late that pickings had been slim and so she’d gone against her better judgement.
Tonight would be better, since she would actually be on time for once.
And she needed the release. Hermione was only brave enough to attend the club on new moon nights. Each month when the moon disappeared and the night was at its darkest the BroomMaker Committee hosted a masked ball. It was the absolute anonymity they offered that attracted her, though it was the sort of event that gave even experienced members pause, and she sometimes felt a little out of place amongst them.
She dressed with care, settling the fox mask over her eyes, stroking the soft fur as it magically contoured to her face, warm and familiar. Some people wore nothing but their mask, the only required garment though it was more for identification than disguise, but Hermione was not quite that confident.
Though she was far more daring now than she could have imagined before her first visit. Tonight she wore a corset made of bronze lace that cinched her waist and lifted her breasts, paired with a tulle skirt so sheer it hid almost nothing. The curve of her arse, her tiny knickers, the garter belt and thigh-high stockings were all clearly visible. She felt exposed, but powerful. And as long as she didn’t look in the mirror too long she could pretend she was wearing proper clothes.
And, whenever she did catch sight of herself, the anonymity spells helped. They didn’t just conceal identities, but gently altered how everyone appeared, tailoring each person’s allure to the viewer’s taste. Even she, when she looked in the mirrors here, found herself more attractive.
As did everyone else, and more importantly, none of them would recognise her as Hermione Granger, rising political star. Even her best friends would pass her by without a flicker of recognition.
Even Romilda, who had introduced her to the club, would not recognise Hermione inside. Hermione had tried to find her, but had been unable to pick her friend out of the crowd, and trying had only made her head ache. Only the staff knew every member’s true name, and they were bound by powerful oaths not to reveal it.
Which was why Hermione dared attending, even knowing it would spell doom for her budding political career should anyone ever find out about it. If pressed, she might admit that only added to the thrill of it all.
At exactly six o’clock she stepped through the Floo. The temporal distortion to stagger arrivals meant that, despite her punctuality, the lobby was already full. Masks of every kind moved through the crowd, their owners in various states of undress, the air humming with the promise of sex, and heavy with magic.
Spatial distortions meant navigating the room itself took some getting used to. The room was divided into various different areas, some more secluded than others, though nowhere was completely private, at least not during this part of the evening. They were encouraged to mingle.
This was the part Hermione had trouble with. She struggled with small talk at the best of times, and it was particularly hard to find topics of conversation which didn’t touch on her identity, but it was how you were supposed to find a partner for the evening. Her impatience with that process was likely to blame for ending up with Rhinoceros man the previous month.
She made her way to the bar to order a drink and then paused there, letting her gaze sweep the room.
Her attention immediately caught.
A tall man stood alone at the edge of the dancefloor, leaning against a pillar and hiding in the shadows, as though the light might burn him. A black silk dressing gown clung to his lean, powerful frame, the front parted just enough to reveal a pale, muscular chest, dusted with dark hair.
On his face sat a striking bird mask, featuring a large, shiny black beak, and glossy black feathers that blended seamlessly into his hair. He looked out of place in the glitzy room surrounded by colourful, twirling couples, as though he should be stalking someone through a dark alley, and a frisson of fear ran through her when his beaked face turned sharply towards her.
It was impossible to distinguish his eyes, but she felt the weight of his gaze and knew he was looking back at her. Heat pooled low in her belly and she knew she wanted him. She shifted, deliberately angling her body to give him a better view. She let one hand trail slowly down her side, over the curve of her hip, then turned away in a slow, deliberate spin. The sheer tulle of her skirt whispered against her skin. She kept her eyes on him the entire time, and then gave a small tilt of her head, in unmistakable invitation.
Offering herself up to the night.
Without hesitation he crossed the room, gliding towards her with predatory grace. She felt suddenly like a mouse, about to be swooped down on by a terror from the sky, and froze. He stopped, just behind her, leaning in close enough that she felt his warm breath brush the skin of her cheek.
“Vixen,” he growled, his voice a low silky purr.
The name slid down her spine like a drop of warm honey. She made a small, involuntary sound, wetness trickling out of here at the mere timbre of his voice. And something in her shoulders relaxed at his choice of moniker. Not “Foxy” or, even worse, “Foxy Lady.” She hadn’t objected to being called those things, but the name “Vixen”, from this man, felt right in a way that made her knees weak.
“Crow,” she breathed.
His mouth curved into a faint smirk beneath the sharp beak. “I don’t recall seeing you here before. Are you new, little fox?”
“Not new,” she said, heart hammering. “Only rarely on time. You’ve probably found better company before I’ve even reached for the Floo powder most nights.”
“How unfortunate for me.”
She smiled, turning slightly towards him, still not quite daring to meet his eye. He stood simultaneously too close for comfort, and entirely too far away for satisfaction.
“Well I am here now,” she said lightly.
“Indeed you are. I suppose I am fortunate after all.”
“Fortune favours the bird,” she quipped.
His smirked softened slightly into an amused smile. “Apparently so.”
She looked up, to meet eyes as dark as an abyss, blacker even than the mask he wore, and depthless. He terrified her, and yet, in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to tumble into the darkness with him.
