XIX. Dancing
Daphne was sitting in the corner of the room, staring at the people who were already dancing. Men had been asking her to dance all evening, of course they had, but she had yet to get up. She was quite content to stay where she was. Why should she have to dance with every man who asked her?
"You're being terribly antisocial, darling," her mother snapped, the blue and purple robes she was wearing making her look for all the world like a rather irritated peacock. "Why don't you go and dance? You usually love dancing."
"I'm afraid I feel a little ill tonight, Mama," Daphne replied.
Her mother glared coldly at her, apparently entirely unsatisfied by her excuse, but swept off anyway because she didn't want to cause a scene in front of their guests.
Daphne wasn't feeling ill at all; she was just waiting for him to come over and ask her to dance. He had been sitting with Theodore Nott for most of the evening, a wicked grin on his face and a stolen bottle of firewhisky half-hidden under the table. She would have gone up and asked him to dance if she could have, but of course tradition wouldn't allow it.
Damn tradition, Daphne thought. Damn tradition and damn Blaise Zabini; the boy was the most oblivious person she had ever had the misfortune of meeting.
She took the next dance she was offered; she was bored of having to wait.
