#hinted consequences

It was another late evening for Hermione and Draco; he at the cauldron mixing away, Hermione perched on her usual stool surrounded by open tomes about magical herbs and ingredients as she took over the research needed to ensure the brew would be stable and not cause any unnecessary interaction. They were working on improvements to the Pepper-Up potion, an idea brought to them by Blaise Zabini, who often had a nose for great ideas. If it is successful, it could do much better at offsetting the fatigue of late nights of research in the Department of Mysteries or the Archives and perhaps to better support Aurors in the field on long missions and stake-outs. For the right price. It was a corner of the market almost devoid of competition, or so Blaise had imparted when he brought the pitch to the pair; "No one has changed the Pepper-Up formula in ages. Such a travesty! Frankly, what we have pales in comparison  to a decent espresso, but you try and find a decent coffee shop this side of Magical London. There’s money to be made, my instincts never lie. You two would bear the brunt of the work and the reward. I’ll just negotiate a small percentage when the potion is successfully out to market. Another excellent collaboration for us, wouldn’t you say?”

It had been impulsive, swiping the heavy signet ring off the potions table and slipping it on her finger, but Hermione had done it anyway. Draco worked with his back to her at a cauldron on the opposite side of the room, distracted by the intricate steps involved in the latest brew he was working on. Hermione had been trying to get more comfortable with impulsiveness, with letting her hands fidget while she worked. In letting go and just doing, without any reason for it. Plans were well and good, but sometimes they kept her trapped in her head, second-guessing and locked in a cycle of analysis paralysis, as Luna had once called it, where she would overthink each tiny choice and action so much that nothing would get done and she would spend hours trapped in the same place. It has been a remnant from the war, she had said, from that survival need to make all of the plans and be in control of all outcomes, to mitigate anything and everything into the perfectly distilled plan, unable to fail. The habit had not been detrimental when the fate and safety of others depended so readily on her meticulous plans and knowledge. It had gotten so bad after the war that it hindered Hermione's ability to live in the moment. Now, she tried to act more often when the moment seized her. Especially when the outcome of any given choice was not the end of the world. So when the thought to take the ring had taken hold, seizing at the corners of her curiosity and desire, she had leapt at it without a second to stop and think of the consequences. Or, perhaps, because she knew the consequences could be in her favour. Draco was rather possessive of his things; from quills to candy, he would glare at anyone who dared think themselves entitled to touch or handle anything Draco considered his. He would scowl, his perfectly manicured eyebrows knitting together before he strode over to snatch back whatever someone was touching, before placing it pointedly back precisely where it had been taken from. There were a few minor exceptions; he would begrudgingly let Hermione sip his coffee on long afternoons, provided it wasn’t the last in the cup. He would let her steal his quidditch jersey when it got too cold while she was reading, so long as it was not a match day.  And when she decided it was much easier to slip into one of his button-down oxford rather than finding her scattered clothing around his apartment, his eyes would track her across the room intently. But the Malfoy signet ring was an absolute no-go zone. It rarely left his hand, and he certainly never allowed anyone else to handle it when he wasn’t wearing it. She wondered what he would do about it. The large silver ring dwarfed her slender finger, settling loosely at the base of it, half over the first knuckle. “The base of the proximal phalanx,” Hermione reminded herself as she ran her thumb along the smooth metal. The firelight of the lab caught on the ring and reflected, dancing as she turned it slowly until the Malfoy Family crest was facing inward to her palm. The silver is an odd change against her skin tone. She wore gold most days. The few necklaces and the ring from her grandmother that she wore frequently were all gold. It always seemed that gold was the colour that she purchased, or that was given to her, or gifted. While it worked well with her skin tone, she had to admit that, in this moment, there was something enthralling about the silver. Something is undeniably alluring about the contrast.

“It looks good on you, you know.” Draco’s voice in her ear is low and deep, and Hermione is shocked out of her contemplation. She hadn’t heard him come up behind her or even noticed him leaving his space across the room. His lips were so close to her ear, his breath warm, sending a thrill of goosebumps rising down her arms. She’s still looking at the ring on her hand as he reaches up with one hand and moves her hair away from her neck, feeling the arch of his nose ghost over the column of her neck as his other hand slips around her waist, pulling her back against him.

“I can see the appeal. But, I don’t know. I still think I like it better on you, especially when … well, you know. I suppose the scions of the most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy are rolling in their pristine marble mausoleums, aren’t they?" Hermione’s voice is low as she turns her face slightly towards him, their lips temptingly close, but still too far away for her sudden liking. Draco’s answer laugh is low, as his lips brush over the corner of her mouth. Dangerous.