A/N Sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. I've been sick and I can't write when I'm sick.

Chapter 7

This unpleasantness never seemed to end. Ache radiated up from her feet stuck in ridiculous shoes. They were a work of art, but they weren't friendly to her feet, and there was no way she could alleviate the pain.

At least the pain distracted her from what was going on around her. This was as deep into enemy territory as she could get. Even if the war had never happened, a salon like this would never be somewhere she'd be invited to.

A mixture of dirty and curious looks were thrown her way, but she spoke to no one. She was here to be seen, not to mingle.

Standing behind Flint like this provided some modicum of safety. It was an illusion, of course. Safety was a relative thing. However, she did feel she had a certain understanding of his intentions. What intentions others had, she didn't know. Bad to none, she would guess.

Then there was Draco. His hair was longer than she remembered. Not that she kept account of him, but standing here, oppose him as they played cards, she saw a scar on his neck, protruding just over the collar. At some point, he'd been hurt with something that hadn't healed well.

He wasn't happy, but then it was hard to tell. Draco's emotions weren't always easy to read. There was definitely an energy between him and Flint, as expected. This was a direct challenge. There was noting to say he wouldn't win in the end. Unease crept up her, because she didn't understand his intentions. There clearly were some.

In the past, it had been to humiliate her, primarily. But there had been points where he'd had other intentions when things had been dire—actions she hadn't been able to account for. There had been hints of times when he'd acted for her and not against her. He'd been a child then, and he was not a child now. He was an important man in the ruling class. In fact, he even had the role within the Ministry that she'd dreamed for herself at one point. He'd just swept in and taken it. His heritage and connections allowed him to take what he wanted. A point he'd always tried to make to her.

Both Marcus and Draco lost the game and neither of them were happy about it.

"I think perhaps my lovely companion should get me a drink," Flint said and Hermione nearly startled when she realized he was speaking about her. Lovely companion, what a curious phrase. As Hermione walked away to find one the of the servers, she now wondered at the strategy Flint was choosing in labelling her a companion. It could be simple manners rather than a strategy, but the Slytherins didn't always go in for manners.

"A fire whiskey," she said to a young man who wore server's robes. A muggle. They were slaves in this society as much as she was. Held here against their will. Had he answered an employment ad and been deceived, or had he simply been grabbed off the street. How did the wizard society gain their slaves? Could be that they'd been judged for some minor infraction to someone related to this community, and this was their sentence.

The man disappeared and Hermione waited. She felt less safe away from Flint, but this was her task.

"My, my, look what the cat dragged in. Trussed up like a whore." Daphne Greengrass. They'd hardly ever spoken, but now she came across with familiarity as if they knew each other. "We always knew this would be how you'd turn out. We had bets, you know. Grasping climber like you, it was just a matter of time, and here you are. Like a bad penny."

It wouldn't serve her at all to speak. It wasn't her place to defend herself. She was here to serve Flint's purpose, not her own.

The woman's sister joined her. "Beautiful dress," Astoria said. "I wonder if she's wearing anything underneath. They like that, don't they, with cheap slags, easy access. I suppose he uses you to relieve himself any time he likes."

The vileness of this turned Hermione's stomach. Even so, she couldn't defend herself, and she repeatedly told herself that she didn't care what they said. It was a mantra that went back years. And most of the time, she managed to convince herself. But just like them to pounce when she was weak and restrained. They certainly hadn't dared to come near her during the war. They picked when she was at her weakest, and she could very well manage to look down on them for it. Because the truth was that she outclassed them as a fighter.

The young man returned with a large crystal tumbler, a third filled with whiskey. "Thank you," Hermione said and took it. Without word to her companions, she walked back to the cards table and placed the glass down next to Flint's hand, then returned to her post.

The Greengrasses weren't happy with the lack of response, and that suited Hermione just fine. She was never going to make friends in this crowd, so why bother pretending to be polite. It would never get her anywhere.

McLaggan watched her most openly of all of them, but she didn't expect any loyalty to come from that quarter. He couldn't afford it, even if he wanted to—and she doubted that.

If this night would just end, she prayed. But for what? There were no greener pastures to come. No, she couldn't think like that. Nothing lasted forever. Even Draco's intentions. Granted, it was hard to see change for the better anytime soon. There were no precursors in place for it. But there were still good people out there—somewhere. And that was something to hang onto.

For now, she focused on her pain because it was tangible and constant, and it didn't require anything from her other than just experiencing it. Much better than the people here who all wanted deeper things from her—humiliation, sorrow, regret and self-depreciation. Physical pain was much easier to bear, because she didn't want to give anyone here anything.

This night would end. Tomorrow might not be any better, but tonight she could dream, and sometimes that was all she had.

The new game went on and finished, Flint then rose and walked around the room, chatting to whoever he wanted to and Hermione followed. No one spoke to her and she remained silent, like a ghost in the room. No everyone ignored her, some watched her quite blatantly. Perhaps they were watching for anger in her. She gave nothing.

"I think it might be time to go," Flint said. "Never serves to linger at a party."

Hermione knew that he wanted to leave before Draco did, and she didn't mind one bit.

The hallway plunged them into darkness after the light of the brightness of the salon. She took his offered arm and they walked. To where, she wasn't sure, but a figure opened the door for them and they were outside where a car waited for them. It was warm inside and a pale light shone.

"I don't like to apparate after a night out. It makes me sick," Flint said.

They sat on opposite benches in the car. It was luxurious by anyone's standard. Leather and chrome, and shininess.

"That went well, don't you think?" he said and watched her.

He was waiting for a response. What could she say? "You showed off your prize."

"Yes," he said with a smile. "He wasn't happy at all. I think the dress was the perfect touch, wouldn't you agree?"

"It is a fine gown."

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say if you enjoyed yourself."

"No."

Now he didn't answer. There was always something awkward and direct about him. He didn't care the least bit if she'd enjoyed herself, so why was he asking? "You caused quite a bit of stir, I think."

"I made people uncomfortable."

"Don't flatter yourself. No one's uncomfortable because of your presence."

McLaggan was, she thought, but held her tongue. There were likely others who didn't like seeing their former classmates paraded around like prizes. Slytherins not included, of course.

"But I think he's out of moves just now," Marcus continued. He was talking about Draco.

"He will think of something."

"Well, that all depends on how deep his interest runs. That remains to be seen, doesn't it? He could see you as all used up now and that's it for him."

Clearly it was Marcus' intention to let an impression exist that wasn't true. Flint hadn't shown any interest in her, and had certainly never touched her. A mercy she couldn't fully comprehend. Maybe he truly did see her as so beneath him, he couldn't bare to touch her. She wasn't going to rattle that cage.

"We'll see," Marcus finished. "We need to get you some more dresses."

Internally, Hermione groaned as there would be more evenings like this in her future.

Underneath the skirt of her dress, she took her shoes off and stretched her feet, trying to alleviate the pain.