Draco Malfoy stood near the refreshment table, a flute of champagne dangling from his fingers, his silver mask doing little to hide the boredom etched across his features.

Not dramatically. Not with fanfare. But as if the room itself recognized something worthy of its attention.

She stepped through the archway.

Ivory velvet pooled at her feet, lace cinching her waist, sleeves slipping off her shoulders like an afterthought. Her hair was swept up in an elegant bun, and a mask—delicate, embroidered with tiny flowers and stars—hid her face from view.

Draco's glass stopped halfway to his lips.