The manor gates loomed ahead, wrought iron twisted into serpents that seemed to watch the arriving guests with a hunger that had nothing to do with appetite. Carriages and sleek black cars lined the drive, dropping off figures in gowns that glittered like captured starlight and suits tailored to within an inch of their lives.

The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and expensive perfume, and somewhere beyond the hedges, a string quartet played a waltz that drifted through the open windows of the manor.

Inside, the foyer was a cathedral of marble and crystal. Chandeliers dripped with candlelight that made every surface shimmer. People moved in clusters, laughing too loudly, shaking hands too firmly, each conversation a performance.

And at the top of the grand staircase, flanked by portraits of ancestors who looked down their painted noses at the crowd below, stood Narcissa Malfoy. Her gown was silver, her hair a pale curtain, her smile a masterpiece of careful warmth.

Further down the hall, leaning against a pillar with a glass of champagne he hadn't touched, Draco Malfoy looked like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth. His formal robes were immaculate, but his tie was slightly loosened—a small rebellion no one else seemed to notice.