"Father." Draco gives a surreptitious thumb of his nose at society, needing to gain some semblance of control over the situation that is careening wildly out of control, with the arrival of two very unwelcome guests. Coasting his hand across the lowest curve of Astoria’s back—if she’d been blessed with any significant curves—he dusts the top of her bum and stares at his father, completely ignoring the ornamentation at his sire’s side. Propriety be damned, he clamps his hand firmly on the hip of his intended, aware of the attention sure to be drawn as he boldly begins to trace through the delicate pattern of leavers lace.