A heartbeat when she thought he'd kiss her.

"When I'm back next month, I hope to see her again," Minister Cirillo said.

Draco's hand dropped away. He excused them, shook Minister Cirillo's hand again, and guided Hermione back to the front of the room. They passed a young girl, no more than fifteen, standing in the corner with Jugson while he socialized. The girl's olive skin was drained and pale, and her eyes were shining with tears when she looked at them. Hermione felt a fire burn in her belly as Draco pushed her along, fingers itching to hex off the greedy hand that stroked the girl's waist.

Apprehension swallowed her anger when they turned the corner, meeting a dark corridor. Draco took her elbow and guided them through a carved door, opening to the clock tower building. Several people in corners speaking lowly with each other paid them no mind, and he turned toward a winding stone staircase, not releasing her elbow. As if she would fly away with the breeze if he did.

A boy she recognized from the year below them stood at the top of the stairs. Harper, she thought his name was. He stood tall once Draco's head bobbed up the steps. He greeted Draco and reached for the door.

"Harper," Draco chastised, in the same tone he used for Crabbe and Goyle when they were being terribly dense.

Harper jumped, as if his hand had been burned by the doorknob. "Right. Sorry. I just recognized you—"

"That doesn't matter," Draco sneered. He extended his left hand, and Harper's wand tapped the emerald ring he wore on his thumb. A class ring of sorts — something she'd only seen on the Slytherin boys. The ring that had cut her lip the night Draco slapped her.

The end of Harper's wand turned green. With a nod to Draco, Harper turned to her next, and his eyes slid to her gold collar. He pressed the tip of his wand to the metal, and eyed the warm golden light now emanating from it. Another nod before he turned the doorknob for them.

Uproarious laughter met her ears. Thick, deep voices — some familiar from her childhood — ricocheted through a small room decorated in lavish patterned wallpaper and dark woods. When the door opened, nine heads turned to them from around a long table, their conversations trailing off.

She blinked, struggling to register every person in the room. The boy at the end of the table stood, his chair knocking back, and smiled at her with greedy black eyes.

Marcus Flint.

"Miss Granger," he crooned. "We're delighted."

In a disturbing shadow of chivalry, every person at the table came to their feet, all eyes still locked on her. She recognized Zabini, Nott, and Goyle. Adrian Pucey stood to Flint's right, and Montague on his left. Three boys in the center of the table she struggled to place. And lining the walls were nine girls in collars.

One of them looked up to meet her eyes before blanching and dropping her head down. Susan Bones. The rest of them kept their eyes down. Penelope Clearwater stood behind Marcus Flint's chair. Mortensen from the Ministry holding cells stood behind Pucey, and she thought she recognized one or two more classmates, but the rest were unfamiliar to her.