Chapter Text
“To Hermione!” Harry drunkenly shouted, foamy beer spilling from his lifted mug, splashing down onto the table below. No one seemed to care or notice but joined in by raising their mugs and shouting along in a mismatched chorus of cacophony.
Hermione even caught a few other variations of her nicknames, ranging from “’Mione’”, to “The Golden Girl”. One being the lesser of her preferred nicknames, but anything was better than the coined ‘Brightest Witch of her Age’.
Certain things were just overused. And that was one of them.
“What’s the plan now, Granger? Off to save House-Elves?” McLaggen shouted, despite sitting directly across from her. Hermione pursed her lips and lifted her chin, ignoring the laughter that erupted around the table.
“Remember, what was it? Spit?”
“No, it was Spurt.”
“S.P.E.W.,” Hermione corrected, lifting her drink to her lips. If she was going to enjoy herself without strangling one of her friends, she needed to catch up with her peers. She was far too sober for this conversation.
“Gods, I can’t believe I forgot about Spew,” Seamus Finnigan laughed, shaking his head at the memory.
“She was always a leader, even then,” Ginny spoke up, trying to bring the conversation back to a positive note. Hermione didn’t mind the teasing, but appreciated Ginny, nonetheless.
“We’d be nowhere without her,” Ron said, tipping back his mug and emptying it in one swift chug. Hermione eyed Ginny with concern, and Ginny shrugged as if to say, he was beyond their help.
His drinking had gotten increasingly worrisome since their very public, very emotionally taxing breakup. It was all over the tabloids, thanks to Skeeter. Unfortunately, all of Wizarding Britian was invested in their relationship. All the Golden Trio had a sort of celebrity status since becoming war heroes. That meant their every move was scrutinized and publicized. It was Fourth year all over again, the tabloids painting Hermione as a cold, heartless woman that enjoyed ripping the hearts out of men that dared to be attracted to her.
It was the furthest thing from the truth.
“We’d be dead, truthfully,” Harry jostled, bringing Hermione out of her reveries.
“You lot had some heroic moments, I was only purely logical,” Hermione laughed, polishing off her mug and standing to fetch another. “Anyone else fancy another round?” she called out to the overly full table, half of which were not seated with them upon arrival. More pulled up to the table once word got around that Harry Potter and company were at the pub. It was a blessing and curse.
“Aye!” called out everyone, holding up half empty or empty mugs. A barista passing by winked at Hermione, conjuring up a tray to collect the empty mugs. Hermione swayed on her feet and a giggle bubbled up to her lips. She hadn’t eaten a full dinner, only grazed her leftovers from the night before during her lunch hour. If she wasn’t careful, the next day was going to be a rough ride. She dismissed the thought, knowing she had the proper potions at her flat to curb the more unpleasant side effects of a hangover.
“Rosie, bring us Fire Whisky!” Ron called to the barista, his eyes glassy and smile lopsided. Hermione’s stomach fluttered nervously at the thought of Whisky. Beer was enough to get her somewhere nice and bubbly. Whisky was dangerous.
“Ron,” Hermione started, but Rosie had already walked away, and the rest of the table was hooting and shouting in excitement. Hermione sat back down, giving Ginny shrug. The conversation around the table quickly turned into a heated debate about Quidditch, and Hermione was able to zone out. That was when she noticed him. From across the pub.
Draco Malfoy.
She could spot his platinum head through the crowd, and even easier with his staggering height. He was standing at the bar, seemingly alone. He was always alone, nowadays. He was pardoned during his trial for his crimes committed during the war, and a big part of it was Harry’s testimony. Not only was Draco saved from a sentence in Azkaban, but his mother was also. It was only Lucius that was sentenced to life in Azkaban, and rightfully so, in Hermione’s opinion.
Draco received backlash from his former group of Pureblooded cronies. He was coined a “sympathizer” and “blood-traitor”. But not shortly after his pardon, many of those same Pureblooded families began donating to causes that supported equal rights opportunities for Wizards and Witches alike. It was all a rouse for appearances, and everyone knew it. Whether or not any of Draco’s friends tried to reconcile with him was unknown.
It appeared not, however because he was always seen either alone or with his mother. Even his public betrothal to Astoria Greengrass had been called off but kept relatively short in comparison to Hermione and Ron’s sordid relationship. Not many people cared to read about Draco and his mishaps. No one seemed to care about him at all. He moved through Wizard Britian like an apparition. But he seemed no worse for wear. If anything, he seemed to be thriving in his personal solitary confinement. He could move easily with no audience. Hermione, for the first time in her life, felt envious of him.
As if he could feel her eyes on him, he turned, locking eyes with her from across the room. Hermione froze, and instead of looking away like a sane person, she found herself unable to break eye contact. Draco’s eyes narrowed as he brought a glass of amber liquid to his lips. Hermione could feel the flush creeping onto her cheeks, her stomach doing acrobatics. He broke contact first, turning back to the bartender, holding his empty glass out to be refilled. Hermione let out a shaky breath, looking down at her hands to look distracted in case he looked her way.
She was unable to explain why she couldn’t look away, or why her body reacted that way to his scrutiny. It’s been years since she’d even uttered a word to him, possibly in Potions class asking for a vial or ingredient to which he ignored her. She was too below him to ever be graced with a response. He would tease and harass Harry and Ron to no end, but Hermione simply didn’t exist to him.
That was fine. It was better that way.
“’Mione, your Whisky isn’t going to drink itself,” Ron called to her, bringing her back to the table, with her friends. Hermione internally cringed at the pet-name he’d made up for her during their relationship. It had stuck, and even worse, more people kept catching on and using it. She knew better than to react poorly, as it would only backfire if they started a row in public.
“Right,” she said, downing the glass in one gulp. She shuddered as the bitter liquid burned all the way down her esophagus. She had no idea how anyone drank the stuff regularly or even enjoyed the taste of it.
“That’s the spirit,” Ron lifted his glass as if to toast, and everyone followed suit. Once everyone around the table had downed their drinks, Ron called out for another round. Harry was too lost in his heated discussion with Ginny to notice, and everyone else was too eager for another drink to care. Hermione knew she should care. She knew she shouldn’t drink the next round, or the one after that, but she continued to drink what was given to her.
She was allowed to have this. If everyone else could have fun, so could she. Besides, she was celebrating her promotion. She was now the Head of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She was well on her way to making a real change in the Wizarding World, and once she paved the way, more Muggleborn witches and wizards could follow along. It was everything she had worked so hard for since the war ended. She could celebrate and enjoy just one night of carefree fun.
As the Whisky began to settle into her bones, the giddier she felt. The weight of all the stress and worry on her back lifted, and she felt completely weightless.
“Are you alright?” Ginny asked, her voice near but somehow far away at the same time. Hermione flashed her a large grin, one she could feel splitting her face.
“I’m fine,” Hermione reassured Ginny, accidentally knocking over her glass, spilling Whisky all over herself.
“Oi! Hermione is hammered,” Finnigan said, McLaggen and Dean Thomas joining in laughter. Hermione banished the mess from her robes with her wand but still let her Ministry robes slide off her shoulders. The alcohol was making her hot, and the bite of the air on her bare shoulders was a palpable relief. Ron’s eyes were immediately drawn to her exposed skin, and Hermione felt a wave of shivers roll through her body.
She tried not to think about the way Ron used to touch her. The way his hands would linger on her skin and the way his body would feel pressed against or on top of hers. Hermione stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her chair in the process. She needed air, fresh air in her lungs to clear her thoughts.
This is why she shouldn’t have gotten too drunk. She knew there was a reason, aside from her overwhelming need to be good all the time. Drinking when her feelings were still jumbled up in her head would only bring them to light, and she wasn’t ready to face any of it. Not now, and not here.
“I need the loo,” Hermione announced, not waiting to hear any response. Hermione pushed her way through the crowd of people dancing, and through the line for the Women’s restroom. She heard people shouting at her, but she didn’t care. She needed to escape.
She went straight to the sink and splashed cold water on her face, hoping it worked like she had always seen in Muggle films. It did not. She tried closing her eyes and counting to ten. She could still hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She chanced a glance at herself in the mirror. She looked as disheveled as she felt. Her curls were falling out the tight bun she had secured hours before; her cheeks were tingled pink and her dark eyes had that same glassy look that Ron’s had.
Ron.
Her stomach dropped to her toes. She needed to get home. Everything would be better in the comfort of her flat. She pulled her hair free and attempted to put it back into some semblance of control. Stubborn curls framed her face in a way she hoped was endearing. Either way, she was going to tell Ginny she got sick and needed to go home. She didn’t care the backlash she may receive from the group for being a lightweight, she needed to be alone with her thoughts.
One last deep breath and Hermione left the loo, pushing her way back through the crowd of women waiting in line.
“Isn’t that Hermione Granger?” someone asked loudly, and Hermione ducked, cursing her damn hair for being so noticeable. The crowd seemed to thicken, and so did the anxiety piercing through her chest. She tried taking deep breaths, but oxygen wasn’t hitting her brain fast enough. Dark circles spotted in her vision, her balance going off kilter. A strong hand grasped her upper arm, yanking her upright, through the crowd, and out the pub doors.
Once the cold night air hit her lungs, Hermione took in large gulps, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Alright, Princess?” the agitating voice of McLaggen found her ears, and she audibly groaned. At least it wasn’t Ron, she reminded herself. In her time of desperate need, she couldn’t be choosy.
“I think so,” Hermione gasped, a sudden wave of nausea hitting her. “I think I need a moment,” Hermione whispered, crouching down and pressing her head between her knees. She wasn’t sure if five or ten minutes had passed, but the spinning in her head calmed as did the nausea rolling in her stomach. She attempted to stand but her legs were still weak. She reached out for McLaggen, the only solid thing she could hold onto in her perimeter.
“I need to get home,” Hermione said, ignoring the way McLaggen’s hands had gripped her around the waist a little too low.
“I can get you there,” McLaggen whispered, his lips just inches away from her ear. The closeness of their bodies sent a jolt through her, the alcohol still weakening her senses. She hadn’t realized how it might seem to a drunken wizard that she was throwing herself at him. She was unprepared for McLaggen’s hands to slip lower, his large hands gripping her bottom tightly. Hermione shrieked, pushing at his chest with both her hands. He was like a tall, wide boulder towing over her. He didn’t move an inch from her shove. He chuckled, closing in on her again.
“Cormac, stop,” Hermione bit out, startled when her back met a brick wall behind her. McLaggen closed in around her, the scent of sweat and liquor overpowering in her nostrils. She gagged, pulling her knee up and hoping it contacted him somewhere. A groan met her ears and a flood of relief washed over her. She only needed to reach down for her wand, tucked into her skirt pocket. As her fingers brushed the handle on her wand, another shout startled her.
“I believe she asked you to stop,” said a cool voice, and McLaggen shouted again, followed by a dull thud. Hermione looked up to see Draco Malfoy standing not three feet away from her, his wand out and pointing at McLaggen, who was now slumped on the ground next to her. Hermione looked from McLaggen to Malfoy, and back again before she leaned forward and vomited.
If Hermione could disappear on the spot, she would. She had half a mind to try and Apparate but knew doing so while in her state of mind was only asking for a splinch. Malfoy cleared his throat and Hermione peeked up at him through her lashes, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Malfoy was holding out a white handkerchief, and Hermione flushed deeply.
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking the hanky, even though she had already wiped her mouth. It was a polite thing to do, and she wasn’t used to politeness from Malfoy, of all people. He wasn’t looking at her in disgust, like she assumed he would be. Instead, he looked impassive, as cool and collected as he did whilst hexing McLaggen.
As if reading her mind, Malfoy spoke.
“He’s stunned. He’ll likely wake in a few minutes, if you need to go before he does.”
If Hermione wanted to go home, she needed to go back inside and find Harry or Ginny. But going back inside meant having to explain to them what had just happened, and she felt exhausted by the thought of it. Before she could think better of it, Hermione looked back at Malfoy, studying his face.
He looked the same, yet completely different than from what her memory could recall. He’d always had a sharp nose and jaw, but now he’d grown nicely into his angled features. He looked like a sculpture, chiseled and aristocratic. She knew he was tall but up close he was towering over her and broad-shouldered. If she was meeting him for the first time, she would say he’s handsome. Her stomach did a nervous flip-flop as she opened her mouth to speak.
“Uhm, I’m not in the right state to um, Apparate on my own,” Hermione stumbled on her words, her face burning hotter as each second passed. Malfoy’s eyebrows rose, seemingly as surprised as she was of what was coming out of her mouth.
“I just need to get to my flat. I-I don’t want to go back in there,” Hermione spoke quickly, still trembling over her words. Malfoy seemed to be calculating something, his jaw rolling. Then he sighed, banishing her sick off the ground in front of them with a flick of his wand.
“Come on, then,” he said, holding his arm out for her. Hermione hesitated, locking her eyes on his. He waited patiently, as if waiting for her to back out of her own request. Hermione swallowed back the bitter taste in her mouth, promising herself a potion and her warm bed the moment she reached her flat. If she wasn’t so befuddled from the alcohol and incident with McLaggen, she couldn’t imagine a scenario where she’d be asking Malfoy to take her home.
Hermione took a tentative step forward, lacing her arm with his. She gave him her address and closed her eyes. The unpleasant sensation of being pulled from one place and into another was even worse while under the influence. If she hadn’t vomited already, she would have now as she and Malfoy landed on the street in front of her building.
It was quiet on her block; a quaint and cozy area of London tucked away on the outskirts of the bustling city. One day, she was going to move to the countryside. Once she’d made enough Galleons to buy herself a cottage, she would flee London and only return for work. She didn’t mind living amongst Muggles, and the ones she did live near were all elderly and kept to themselves. No one questioned her odd choice in clothing, or her odd friends that stopped by from time to time.
“This is me,” Hermione said lamely, unsure of what to say to Draco sodding Malfoy. The alcohol in her system was still buzzing, but clarity was starting to kick in. She became so horrified with the sequence of her night that she may never leave her flat again.
“Do you need, erm, anything else?” Malfoy asked, pulling his arm from hers and straightening his black robes. She took in his attire, his robes an immaculate shade of black and visibly expensive. His black shoes were shining like they’d never been worn, as she looked sheepishly down at her own loafers that had seen better days. Thankfully they were not speckled with vomit, as far as she could tell.
If he wasn’t, well, Malfoy, she might’ve wanted to invite him upstairs. It was a polite thing, how she was raised. If someone saved you from a slimy drunk git, you repaid them with a warm cuppa. But this was Malfoy, and she wasn’t exactly sure on how to invite her old Hogwarts bully into her flat.
“No, I’m alright now,” she managed instead, looking up into his cool grey eyes. She’d never stood this close to him before, and looking at his eyes now, she could see specks of steel blue in them. They were so unique, like a stormy sky.
“Alright, well. Goodnight, Granger. Try not to get yourself into any more trouble without Potter and Weasley around to help you.”
He was teasing her, but it wasn’t cruel, like their Hogwarts days. The corner of his lips turned upward into his signature sneer, and Hermione could’ve sworn they’d time traveled. It had been a long time since she’d seen that signature smirk, and never once had it been directed at her.
His cool gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned away.
“Wait,” Hermione called out, wanting to say one last thing before he left and she’d be unlikely to see him again soon.
“Thank you. For everything.”
He looked back at her and nodded, an expression on his face that Hermione couldn’t quite place. If she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought he looked remorseful, but she couldn’t imagine why. He didn’t give her another backward glance as he disappeared into the night.
Hermione thought she must have dreamt the whole thing except for when she looked down at her hand, she was still clutching his handkerchief, embroidered with his initials.
D.L.M.