Chapter Text
Dracos thumb was moving back and forth over her spine. Every pass felt like an eternity, and not just a second with them waiting for her to speak. She pulled her hand back slowly. Oh, the ring, she would tell them about the ring. The ring.
He had presented it like a joke.
They’d gone out to the pub with her friends for quiz night. All eight of them had crammed into a booth, elbows bumping, laughter spilling over. Malfoy was pressed next to her, his sharp black coat contrasting with the mismatched rainbow of her friends’ knit sweaters and scarves, but in a just come straight from work way that really worked for him after he had taken off his tie and popped the first couple of buttons. He was getting along surprisingly well with everyone. That was nice. Probably helped that he’d bought the first two rounds of pints.
He was deep in conversation about Quidditch with Angelina, gesturing animatedly, when Ginny wove her way back from the bar. She squeezed in between the boys, and leaned over the table with an impish grin. —so tell me about the proposal… she asked but not quite loud enough to cut through the chatter. She repeated the question, a touch louder, her tone laced with mischief.
He blinked, caught off guard. —Sorry?
Ginny’s grin widened. —Hermione, you proposed.
Malfoy cocked his head. —Oh, I mean… not properly. Hermione could feel the moment he decided to play along, his tone taking on that maddeningly self-assured drawl. —Besides, she said no.
Then, like the absolute menace he was, he threw an arm around her shoulders and shook her lightly, like they were sharing a pint and not… this. —You know she nearly fainted when I asked last time. He continued to tease. A little to loudly.
—Fainted? Harry piqued up —Malfoy proposed. —What to who? —Hermione. —Hermione!?
She winced. Of course, that got everyone’s attention. Everyone seemed to join this conversation, great, and they were all talking over each other.
—Proposed? —Not properly. —Properly? —I’m confused.
—Proposed. —Proposed? —What?
—And then she fainted? —Hermione? Ron asked at last.
Her face was burning. —Not like a real marriage thing, it was just for work. She tried to explain. That didn’t help. The confusion—and the slight outrage—on her friends’ faces made her certain that had been Ginny’s plan all along. —A work proposal? Ginny repeated, her grin so wide it threatened to split her face. —What sort of work are you doing? Ron demanded, practically choking on his pint.
Hermione buried her face in her hands. Malfoy’s quiet laugh buzzed through Hermione’s shoulder, and she resisted the urge to elbow him. Instead, she tried again, her voice higher and tighter now. —It was just a joke. No ring, no kneeling. Nothing like that.
Ginny said, tilting her head. —Sounds like a story.
—It is not. Can we please move on? Hermione said firmly, shooting the conversation down with a pointed look at Ginny from behind her fingers. And for once her friends showed her mercy and the conversations did move on. Hermione exhaled, picked up her pint, and made a proper dent in it. Then another, and for one blissful moment, she thought that was the end of it.
—Would it make a difference? Malfoy asked quietly, just loud enough for only her to hear.
—Would what? she replied, shifting in her seat to frown at him.
—A ring? Hypothetically speaking, of course, he said, smirking.
Then the tosser pulled a small silver ring from his pocket. Round top with his seal. A Malfoy family signet. Thankfully not a real engagement ring. Although It did look like it would fit her perfectly, which made her laugh. —What to seal the deal? —Or all your bills of law and your personal correspondence as the lady of the manor. —lady of the manor? She laughed sinking back in her seat, realizing how straight she’d been sitting. Shaking her head, she joked, and this one was really on her, —please if I’m gonna accept it would have to be diamonds.
He pretended to pout, slipping the ring back into his pocket. —How about this one, then…
He nudged her with his elbow, reaching into his breast pocket. This time, he pulled out a little green box, its faded velvet surface dusted with faint specks of gold. He placed it on the table, the movement deliberate, positioning it just behind her pint so her friends wouldn’t see.
She blinked, her breath catching. He nudged her with his knee. —Open it.
She glanced up, scanning her friends for any sign that they’d noticed her sudden shift. But no one seemed to be paying attention. Ginny was laughing at something Neville had said, Harry and Angelina were debating an answer, and the din of the pub swallowed everything else.
Even the box was pretty. It was like something out of an antique shop. He had not bought a ring just to mess with her. Had he?
—If you won’t, I will, he said, leaning ever so slightly forward.
—No! she blurted, faster than she meant to, snatching the box off the table before he could. She shoved it into her lap, fingers curling tightly around it as the soft velvet pressed into her palms.
He was laughing again. That low, infuriating chuckle that always seemed to worm its way under her skin. —What are you doing? Stealing it?
—Don’t be ridiculous.
—Well then you have to open it, his smirk audible now. She stared at it, she felt like a pixie struck by Immobulus.
—You have to open it, he repeated, voice dropping to a teasing murmur. You can’t just sit there hiding it.
He shifted beside her, and she tightened her grip on the box, holding it out of his reach.
—Fine, she muttered under her breath. How bad could it really be?
With a furtive glance at the table—no one seemed to be watching—she tilted the lid open just enough to peek inside.
Merlin-Morgana-McGonagall.
The ring was gorgeous. Truly, it was the only way to describe it. Perhaps even the most beautiful ring she’d ever seen.
A thin gold band cradled two large, clear trillion-cut diamonds and one teardrop-shaped one, arranged like a moth in flight, with a sapphire for its head. Art deco. Radiant. Mesmerizing. Not at all the sort of ring she’d have picked for herself—she thought she wanted something silver and square, clean and simple.
But Merlin, this thing.
She could barely tear her eyes away from it. The way it was sparkling even in the dim, yellowish pub lighting. And just as she was about to snap the lid shut, there was—a flicker of movement.
Her brow furrowed.
No, she must’ve imagined that. She thought she saw it flutter its wings. Like it was alive.
The wings twitched again. Hermione blinked. It had to be enchanted. If it was, it was a masterpiece of spellwork: subtle, elegant, flawless. She was almost convinced it was just a trick of the light when the moth’s wings gave a deliberate flutter. Unmistakable shimmer of movement.
She caught herself from reaching out to touch it and squash that movement down. She felt slightly ridiculous. Was she really about to sit here gawking at a ring? Like she was going to say yes to getting married—to spending her life with Malfoy—just because he gave her a dazzeling sparkling magical ring? No. She was a strong, independent woman. She was above sparkling things. Right?
She snapped the box shut and sat bolt upright, cheeks flaming, and prayed that no one had noticed her gaping directly at her lap. Merlin how must that look. Above her, Malfoy’s low chuckle confirmed that yes, he absolutely had.
—No, she muttered, snapping herself out of it, and set the box back on the table. —And I hope that’s a heirloom and not something you bought for a joke because she said—or started to.
But then it all went to hell.
She should’ve shoved the box back into his pocket under the table. She should’ve thrown it across the room. She should’ve done something. Instead, she’d put it down, and now Ron had noticed. His head snapped toward her, toward it.
—Damn it, she whispered.
And then Ginny was turning, her sharp eyes catching on the little box. And Angelina, too. And Harry, frozen halfway out of his seat on his way to the loo. Now they were all staring at the fucking box.
—Can we see it? Ginny asked excitedly. Malfoy started laughing.
Of course he was laughing. He always laughed at her expense. She’d known he enjoyed embarrassing her, but now it felt like his favorite pastime. Not just here, but in meetings, in the canteen, in the Ministry halls when they passed each other—he’d call something embarrassing after her for no reason at all.
—No, Hermione began, but Malfoy was already obliging. He reopened the box with a flourish, spun it dramatically, and slid it into the center of the table like a showman unveiling his prize.
—You can’t say yes just because of a ring, Ron said, offended.
Hermione bristled. To be fair, he had reason to be upset. She’d said no to his proposal, hadn’t she? And why? Because it had been too much, too soon. But now here she was, staring at Malfoy’s ring like some magpie.
—You’re not actually gonna marry Malfoy, are you? Ron demanded.
Ginny snorted. —I’d say yes to that ring. She leaned forward, inspecting it. —It is gorgeous.
Hermione felt every single hair on her arms stand on end. Every nerve in her body buzzed with discomfort.
—Are you really that… vapid? Ron asked, narrowing his eyes.
That did it.
—What? No! I’m not— she stammered, heat rising in her cheeks. —I’m not getting married to Malfoy, first of all. And secondly… that’s none of your business.
—Oh, right, Ron said mockingly. —Won’t marry someone you love, but—yeah, sure, marry for money. Makes sense.
She flinched. She wasn’t having this discussion in public. She wasn’t having it at all. She thought they’d moved past this. —I didn’t— That’s not why we— That's rich coming form you. She stopped herself. The table went silent.
Okay maybe that wasn't the story to tell either.