Quick as lightning, a glint of metal, and then Pucey was a breath away, his knife between her skin and the strap of her slip. He tugged on it.

"She's a Mudblood, Draco. She only needs to lay on her back." His crisp white teeth flashed at her, his breath hot on her face. "Besides, I always heal them afterwards."

She froze in horror as the knife cut through the strap, her heart fluttering wildly and her eyes bulging to the only exit — her dress slipping down her chest—

The knife zoomed away from her skin, spinning through the air to pierce the wallpaper as Pucey jumped backward. Her strap repaired itself, and she turned to see Draco pocketing his wand, hot rage simmering beneath his cool facade.

"I'm not sure how many more times I need to say it," he whispered, and the room was barely breathing. "That Mudblood is mine. Her mouth is mine, her cunt is mine, her skin is mine." His teeth bit through the words, and he met eyes with every person at the table before saying, "You will not touch her, under any circumstances. I purchased her. I do what I please with her."

Her skin tingled where she could still feel the ghost of Pucey's knife. Her breath was shallow as she watched Draco glare at them, still a statue until he was satisfied that he was heard.

"Now bring me a bloody plate. I said I was hungry."

A grumbled sigh, and then Pucey was piling a plate with food and handing it to her. She moved back to the head of the table on jerky legs, and Draco took his seat as she set his plate before him. Before she could move back to the windowsill, his arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her down to his lap. She struggled not to squeak as she landed oddly across his thighs. His hand pressed on her stomach to keep her close, and he picked up with fork with a sophisticated twirl.

"Now, what were you saying about the Chudley Cannons, Warrington?"

The air was still dense in the room as the boys around the table drifted back into friendly conversation, but Hermione wished they could prop open a window. The heat from Draco's chest and thighs, the feeling of his ribs rumbling into her own whenever he spoke, the puff of hot air across her neck whenever he laughed were inescapable. She tried to concentrate, tried to listen in for clues about the world outside, but she was distracted by Draco's hand on her stomach, stiff and warm. She tried to shift away from him, to make herself more comfortable, but his hand jumped to her ribs, holding her, keeping her from twisting about.

The other girls stood by the walls, stepping forward to fill the empty glasses. Ten minutes after conversation resumed, Penelope Clearwater stepped forward and reached for Flint's wine. He caught her wrist smoothly and pulled her down to his lap as well, and she stumbled as Flint pulled her blonde curls to the side.