[It's a suitably romantic sort of embrace they're caught up in. Arms and hands tangled, emotions strewn every which way. Weights that are too heavy and reminders that are too much. Standing too close to the sun hurts. Staring into it blinds as little else can. Hermione's blinding in her own right, and he's too predatory by nature to ignore the catch in her breath. She'd look so beautiful torn in two. She looks beautiful even now, uncertain, unsteady, as they both are.

He suffocates in her and gladly so. Even knowing what he is, perhaps better than most, she lingers. Just as there was the Boy Who Lived, now there was the Girl, who stood too close to the sun and wore her survival as a prize around her neck. It is an accomplishment no one else can boast of.

The blood gem housed in the ring sings to life with the spreading of his fingers. It answers his call with a silent summon of his magic and shines.]

I can break it.

[An offer to undo, erase, turn back the clock. If she won't give it back by his own order, he can make it like it never even was. The sole kindness he has to spare. Brushing lips over her brow, he mutters beside her ear:]

I would never speak of it again. I would not come back if you willed it so. I would honor that. [Breathily:] Beautiful Marchioness, who heralds over me.