And thus began the carousel. Draco seemed to spin in circles as he was attacked on all sides by eager middle-aged women with daughters of an eligible age. Her skin grew cold as they were interrupted by one after another, some not even waiting their turn.

Hermione stood silently at his side as eyes either skipped or passed over her disdainfully. Draco kept glancing over the women's heads towards the closed doors at the center of the drawing room.

"I'm sorry I'm not dancing tonight, Mrs. Hastings," he said, kissing one of the women's hands. "But I do know that Theo Nott over there has been aching for a partner, and he'd be mad to decline a girl who looks as lovely as Mary this evening. You'll excuse me—"

"But dear, surely there's a young woman you can escort this evening." Her eyes flicked over to Hermione with a grimace before coming back to him.

"Draco," said another stout woman, who had elbowed her way forward. "You'll have to excuse me when I say that given the occasion"—she lifted her brows meaningfully—"having a Mudblood on your arm isn't doing you any favors."

"Too true, Mrs. Dormer." Draco glanced at the doors again as he smoothed his hair. "Unfortunately, I only have time to kiss my mother and walk my pet tonight. But I hope the situation in Switzerland will calm down soon enough."

Then he was swiftly extracting them with a few muttered apologies, dragging her by her elbow through the crowd. Hermione followed him blindly, lost in her thoughts. The whiplash of seeing him again, being near him, his scent so close to her again — and then being held at arm's length while a hoard of women vied for his attention… It felt like a dull blade slicing her open slowly.

And it wasn't just his presence. It was the heavy stares of hundreds of people — most of whom had never believed she was worth more than the dirt under their shoes — now seeing her as nothing more than an ornamental inconvenience. As if she were a pretty, expensive painting that no longer matched the new furnishings.

Edinburgh was different. As disturbing and horrifying as it was, she still held a twisted sort of power there. She was visible; she was valuable. She commanded attention. But here, in Draco's world, she was nothing.

There were young women who greeted him with batted lashes and flirty laughter, and more society ladies who pushed for him to take a debutante to the dance floor. He brushed them all off as politely as one would expect from Narcissa Malfoy's son. But as Hermione stood at his side, mute and invisible, she wondered how long he could slip from their grasp.

If she was unsuccessful with the tattoos… if she remained locked up in Malfoy Manor as the years dragged on, what would become of her when it was time for Draco to court? It was clearly expected of him. And how could he not be expected to marry and continue the Malfoy line with a pure-blood girl?