The Great Hall had become a cavern of light and noise. Draconia moved through the crowd with a calculated grace that felt more like armour than a social grace. Her dress, the one that had been a source of so much contention with Pansy, sat heavy against her skin. It was the correct garment for a Malfoy to wear when she intended to be looked at, yet she felt as though she were wearing a suit of plate. She kept her shoulders square, a habit born from a week of standing in the trophy room, and she kept her gaze level.
"You look perfectly adequate, Draconia," Pansy said, leaning in close to her ear so the words would not carry. "Though the hem is perhaps a fraction too long for a waltz. You might trip if you are not careful."
"The hem is fine, Pansy," Draconia replied, her voice steady and cool. She did not look at the girl, but instead watched the way the candlelight caught the silver thread in the tablecloths.
"It is a brave choice, the length," Pansy continued, a sharp edge of judgement in her tone. "Most girls would have had it shortened by an inch to avoid the appearance of being swallowed by the silk."
"I am not most girls," Draconia said, and she meant it.
She took a sip of her drink, the liquid cool against her throat. The music swelled, a rhythmic pulsing of strings and brass that filled the hall. She watched a group of boys near the entrance, their laughter loud and undignified. She did not look at them, but she was acutely aware of their presence. They were part of the background, a collection of faces and voices that she chose to ignore. She had practiced her poise, her poise was a weapon, and she would not let a few clumsy boys or a sharp-tongued friend break it.
"Are you going to dance with anyone?" Pansy asked, her eyes darting toward the crowd. "Theodore is looking quite hopeful, actually."
"Theodore is a boy," Draconia said. "He is not a plan."
"A plan? You speak of a dance as if it were a military manoeuvre."
"It is a performance, is it not?" Draconia asked, turning her head slightly to catch the light. "One must know exactly where to stand and when to move."
She felt the weight of her own eyes as she scanned the room. She was looking for a specific height, a specific stride, but she refused to name him in her mind. To name him was to admit he was there, and to admit he was there was to admit he had power over her. She kept her focus on the periphery, on the way the enchanted ceiling mimmed a winter sky, bright and cold.
"You are being very mysterious tonight," Pansy remarked, a smirk playing on her lips. "It is almost as if you are waiting for something."
"I am waiting for the music to end," Draconia said.
A boy with dark hair approached them, his hand extended in a formal gesture. Draconia recognised him as a Ravenclaw prefect, a boy who was polite and entirely unremarkable. She took his hand, her fingers brushing his palm, and allowed him to lead her toward the centre of the floor. The dance was a standard waltz, a circular motion that required a steady count. She knew the rhythm by heart, a residue of the hours spent in the trophy room.
"You are a wonderful dancer," the boy said, his voice a little too eager.
"Thank you," Draconia replied, her smile practiced and thin.
She kept her right arm at the correct angle, the way he had shown her in the privacy of the trophy room. She felt the tension in her own muscles, the discipline required to keep her movements fluid but controlled. She was not thinking of the way his hands felt on her waist, or the way his breath sounded when the room was quiet. She was thinking of the count, the rhythmic step, the precise tilt of her head.
"You seem a little distant," the boy whispered, as if he were sharing a secret.
"It is the music," Draconia said, her voice smooth. "It is quite loud tonight."
She moved through the turns with a seamless grace, her eyes fixed on a point just above his shoulder. She was there, in the centre of the room, a part of the spectacle, yet she felt entirely detached. She was playing the part of the girl who had no intention of attending with anyone, the girl who was perfectly content to stand alone.
"Theodore is watching you," Pansy called out from the edge of the floor, her voice cutting through the music. "And Cormac. They both seem to think you are in a particularly fine mood."
Draconia did not turn her head. She knew she was being watched, and she knew the game was being played. She saw the way the boys hovered, the way they waited for a sign, a laugh, a glance. She gave them nothing but the perfect, polished version of herself. She was a Malfoy, and she would be looked at, but she would not be seen.
"They are staring," Pansy whispered, leaning back into Draconia's space as the dance ended. "It is almost embarrassing for them."
"Let them stare," Draconia said, her voice a low, steady hum.
She moved toward the refreshment table, her hips swaying with the natural rhythm of her gait. She felt the eyes on her back, a constant, prickling sensation. She knew she was being watched by the boys she had ignored, by the girls who whispered, and by the professors who observed the social hierarchy. She felt the weight of the room, the collective gaze of a hundred people.
She took a small, delicate step to the side to avoid a passing waiter. Her eyes drifted, almost of their own accord, toward the far end of the hall. She was looking for a shadow, a silhouette that did not belong to the crowd. She saw him. He was standing near the edge of the enchanted ice sculptures, his silhouette sharp against the pale blue light. He was not part of the dancing, not part of the laughter. He was a solitary figure, a point of stillness in the chaos.
He was not looking at her. He was not looking at the dancers, nor was he looking at the centre of the room. He was looking at the floor, or perhaps at the empty air just in front of him. He looked as though he were a thousand miles away, a ghost in the middle of the celebration.
The realization hit her with a sudden, sharp clarity. He was forty feet away and he isn't watching, and she notices, and it ruins her evening.