*She's right, of course; he is watching her move across the floor with practiced efficiency. There's a tiny tiredness to her stride, the faintest suggestion of something that will become a limp in twenty years, and of course a faint pinkness in her cheeks. It's all really quite precious juxtaposed against her businesslike demeanor. He has anticipated all of this, but he had not anticipated the pleasure it gives him to watch it.

His hand on his chin, Evan outlines his lower lip with a thumb and catches her fingers with his other hand, gently, with no force at all in his grasp, as she deposits the drink. She could disentangle him at any time, but--knowing the thrall of the ring as well as he does--she probably won't.*

Forgive me for being so forward, but--I could swear that I know you. Hogwarts?