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The tub of glacé cherries sat innocently enough on the kitchen counter. Hermione vividly remembered Draco’s disgust the first time he had seen them. How he had derided their luminous colour. She had made it her mission to convince him how utterly wrong he was about this particular muggle ingredient.
Weeks later it had devolved into this. Delicate fingers selecting the juiciest morsel. Soft lips enveloping the sticky, sweet treat. A pink tongue catching the last rivulet of syrup that had escaped a mouth made for sin.
“Are you going to share those cherries with me, Draco?”
“Not a chance.”