It was nine of the clock. The dancing was beginning to get underway; the hall was filled with laughing, chattering, swaying guests. Hermione had just made an unobtrusive sweep of the dancefloor. She was forcing herself not to stare at Draco, who was resplendent in robes of stark black that set off his alabaster skin to perfection. They had not exchanged words so far tonight, but his gaze had dropped to the necklace as soon as he had seen her. He kept glancing at her, as though to assure himself she was still wearing it, and it seared her every time.