New LJ, New Fic!
I felt it was appropriate to begin my LJ career by posting a fic! Of course, as I'm posting this, no one will be reading it. But to you, gentle reader from sometime in the future, I hope you enjoy!
Title: Wedding is a Seven Letter Word for Shame
Author:imogen_penn
Rating: R
Pairing: D/H
Summary: A wedding! During which many helpless martinis give up their lives, Hermione forgets her knickers, and Draco innapropriately wears a tie.
Hermione looked into the mirror with despair.
This. Is. Humiliating.
She fruitlessly attempted to re-adjust her dress into some semblance of decency for the Merlin-only-knew-how-manyth time.
It wasn’t so much that it was short. From the left side the floor length skirt could even have been called conservative. The thigh high slit on the right side, however, was more likely to be called shocking and inappropriate.
It wasn’t even that it was all that low cut either, although Hermione wasn’t sure that “keyhole” was the right name for a neckline that required her to forgo a bra in favour of a carefully placed lifting charm. More like “hole you could drive the knight bus through” neckline.
Hermione even kind of liked the color, a deep midnight blue. No, the real problem was the fit. Tight didn’t even begin to describe it. The thin cloying material showed off absolutely everything. So tight that you could count ribs. So tight that her “assets” were clearly discernable. So tight that she had had to leave her knickers at home.
She wondered, rather nastily, if Parvati had decided to dress her bridesmaids like slags in an attempt to make everyone forget just how many notches were on her own bedpost.
She sighed. “Not nice Hermione” she muttered to herself. Taking a deep breath, she walked out of the toilet and back into the “war room,” as she had taken to calling it. Parvati, she had to admit, looked splendid. Her contrastingly tasteful white gown stood out among her bridesmaids.
With one final tug at her neckline, she swallowed her pride, told herself to remember how happy she was for her friend, and waded into the haze of hairspray and tulle.
“Darling, you look radiant.” She said with a smile, kissing Parvati on the cheek. “Are you ready?”
“Have been for ages.” Parvati said with a blissful smile. “Now lets get this show on the road!”
*****************************************
Walking down the aisle on the arm of Parvati’s older brother Pindar was sort of like walking down memory lane. A bizarre, bi-polar memory lane. To her right, on the bride’s side, were many old school chums. Harry and Ron were there, along with Neville, Dean, Seamus, Lavender, and a host of other Gryffindors. Padma, of course, was walking down the aisle in front of her. Colin was snapping photos like a maniac.
On the left side was everyone who had ever made her miserable.
No, she thought, that wasn’t entirely fair. It wasn’t as if Voldemort himself was there. Pretty nearly though. Blaise Zabini was there, looking bored. Crabbe looked hungry, Pansy looked…well, drunk actually. That was interesting. The whole lot of them seemed remarkably uninterested in the proceedings. Even the groom, Marcus Flint, was looking stoic and silent.
Every single one of them seemed to find something more interesting than the wedding party to look at.
No, she thought, that wasn’t entirely fair either. One set of cold grey eyes were focused, with upsetting intensity, on her. If she wasn’t so sure he was trying to set her on fire with his thoughts, she would suspect that he was undressing her with his eyes. Not that he really needed to try very hard. She tugged subtly at her skirt.
Draco sodding Malfoy. Like she needed ANY more help feeling ridiculous. However, never one to let a silly thing like crippling shame stand in the way of her pride, Hermione pulled herself up, stuck her nose ever so slightly in the air, and glided past him with far more grace and aplomb than she felt.
She tried not looking at him, but he was directly in her line of sight from where she stood on the podium. It wasn’t like she could move. Parvati had been very clear about the importance of the lining up of everyone’s shoulders to the ultimate success of her marriage. But it was very distracting the way he kept staring.
Frankly, it was making her paranoid. Was she showing too much hip? Could he see that she wasn’t wearing knickers, was her lifting charm starting to fail? With almost inhuman self control, she refrained from reaching up to see if her hair was still in place. Instead, she satisfied herself by staring back at him, trying to communicate her irritation with her eyes while maintaining an appropriately nuptial smile. The result must have been somewhat amusing because one pale eyebrow rose up and his lips curled up into the smirk she remembered so well from Hogwarts.
Shoulder angles be damned. She resolutely shifted ever so slightly so that she was now looking more or less in the direction of Ron and Harry. To her chagrin, she found them both staring fixedly somewhere distinctly below her face. Honestly!
*************************************
Halfway through the reception, Hermione was unsure whether to burn the buggering dress or have it bronzed. She had never received so much male attention in her life. However, much of it was awkwardly unwanted. When Marcus Flint’s father attempted to cop a feel in the buffet line up, she decided burning was the way to go…followed by several long showers.
She retreated to a corner with a glass of wine, hoping to go a few moments with out being ogled, accosted, or propositioned. Fate, it seemed, was game for a few more tries.
Draco buggering Malfoy walked through the hallway right beside her, nearly flattening her against the wall with the force of the swinging door.
“Oi!” she cried in annoyance, “Watch yourself Malfoy!”
Malfoy, who was clearly well and truly soused at this point, leered at her. “I can watch myself anytime Granger, whereas I haven’t seen so much of you displayed since…” he paused, considering, “ever.”
Without a second thought, she tossed the contents of her glass of wine in his face and stormed off. She found it oddly satisfying that, rather than a cutting remark, only a bemused gaze followed her exit.
**************************************
“Hermi’nee,” Harry warbled, lounging across two chairs at the head table,
“Hmmm?” she responded, over the rim of her eleventh…no wait, was it twelfth martini?
“I’m drunk!” He finished with gleeful enthusiasm, nearly falling off his chair in the process.
“Thatsh nish Harry” she replied absently, her attention focused on what were apparently fascinating floor tiles.
“you look quite alright in that dress y’know,” Harry continued, propping himself upwards with a rather disturbing look of consideration on his face.
“Oh brother,” muttered Hermione, pulling herself to her feet unsteadily, “I,” she announced dramatically, “am going for a walk.”
**********************************
She tottered out of the reception hall into the garden beyond until she found a bench, upon which she collapsed with a thud.
“Careful there Granger,” A much soberer looking Malfoy strolled down the path. Correction, much soberer that her, which wasn’t really saying much at all.
“I’m not sure that dress will stand up to much vigorous activity.”
“It’d be your own rutting fault if it did fall off you tosser.” Hermione said inexplicably.
“How’s that?” said Malfoy with an amused smirk.
“Staring at it with your stupid beady eyes…prolly weakened the fabric…” Hermione trailed off, her own argument no longer making sense to her.
“Oh, that,” the bastard looked completely unfazed. “Patil may be a Gryffindor, but she has excellent taste in dresses. Even you look like a ten in that one Granger.”
Maybe he wasn’t as sober as she thought. Come to think of it, she didn’t think ties were supposed to be worn around one’s head.
She paused a moment. Then, “too bad her taste doesn’t extend to men.” It felt triumphantly like wit for a moment, but then she realised that she didn’t actually mind Marcus that much. “No wait, I don’t think I mean that…” Malfoy was watching her with what she was sure was a nasty smirk hovering around his lips.
She had a sudden image of herself on a ship with water pouring in over the sides. She may not be sober, or witty, or even coherent really, but she still knew when to make an exit.
She stood up in a fashion that was meant to be dismissive, but abruptly overbalanced and went toppling towards Malfoy. He caught her easily and set her on her feet.
“Alright there Granger,” drawled Malfoy with a smirk.
She chose not to dignify that with a response and pulled herself up to make a composed exit. She took one step and nearly turned her ankle.
“Blody Buggering hell,” muttered Malfoy, “For God’s sake Granger, let me help you.” He offered her an arm.
She looked at him for a long moment, trying to determine exactly how he was going to turn this rather chivalrous gesture into humiliation for her. She couldn’t for the life of her figure it out and it was unlikely that she was going to make it back uninjured without his help. She let out a long suffering sigh and took the proffered arm.
He was warm and surprisingly well built underneath his impeccable dress shirt. Up close, she thought, his eyes weren’t really grey at all. They were kind of a stormy blue, with little gold flecks. She reached up and flicked his tie, inexplicably tied around his forehead, out of the way to get a better look.
“What are you doing Granger?” He asked, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time that evening.
“Looking.” She said matter of factly. After all, it was her turn wasn’t it?
They had stopped walking, but neither really noticed.
“At what?” he asked, not really sure if he wanted to know, or why he was asking at all.
“You have beautiful eyes,” she said by way of response. Even through her liquor addled haze she knew that this wasn’t entirely appropriate. She couldn’t remember why though, so she brushed the thought aside.
“Oh,” he said.
And then they were kissing.
She was kissing Draco Malfoy. Some distant, long forgotten, sober part of her brain was telling her that this was bad and wrong and disgusting.
Unfortunately the way his lips felt against hers and the way he tasted and the way his tongue was flicking across the roof of her mouth set her nerve endings to singing in a way that was much louder than her common sense. Singing things like good and right and fantastic.
Of course Draco Malfoy would have to be an excellent kisser, just to show her up.
And just like that, the last remaining bastion of good sense left in her was overrun and she decided she had to prove that she was just as good at this as he was.
She pressed herself closer, one hand tangling itself in his longish, perfectly manicured hair, the other tucking itself underneath his Italian leather belt.
she thought to herself. Rather than saying this aloud, however, she let out a surprisingly wanton moan as he sucked on the column of her neck in a fashion that was sure to leave obvious marks.
She felt one of his hands sliding under the slit in her skirt and travelling up her thigh. With rather detached surprise, she hiked her leg up around his waist, giving him better access. Any minute now, he would discover that….
Malfoy’s sharp intake of breath indicated that he had indeed discovered that a certain piece of clothing was missing. He let out a low groan that made her tremble. His hand moved higher, cupping her hip where it met her leg, sliding it under.
She kissed him with an intensity she did not remember having; their teeth clicking and bruising in unstudied enthusiasm. She silently begged him to keep going, aching for him to touch her. She would never give him the satisfaction of begging aloud.
“Hermione!” A voice called out in the still night air. They froze.
“Hermione, where are you!” It was Padma, “Parvati’s about to leave!”
“Buggering shite,” Hermione exclaimed to herself in a whisper, disentangling herself with remarkable speed and readjusting her wardrobe. There was nothing she could do about the bite marks without a mirror.
They stood there for a moment. Hermione couldn’t read Draco’s expression. She supposed she was similarly inscrutable at the moment, given that even she hadn’t a clue what she was thinking.
He spoke first. “Bloody fucking hell Granger.” It was part surprise, part frustration, and maybe even a little bit of admiration.
She knew just what he meant. The corner of her mouth turned up in a wry smile. Then she shrugged, turned away, and made her way carefully back towards the party.
He must have left, because she didn’t see him again that night. In fact, she was fairly certain they would never run into each other again. That was fine by her. A stupid drunken encounter at a wedding didn’t make him any less of a shite.
However, the fact that he was a shite who she didn’t care if she never saw again didn’t change the fact that she had taken to leaving her knickers at home more often, or that Parvati could pry that dress from her cold dead hands.
Title: Wedding is a Seven Letter Word for Shame
Author:imogen_penn
Rating: R
Pairing: D/H
Summary: A wedding! During which many helpless martinis give up their lives, Hermione forgets her knickers, and Draco innapropriately wears a tie.
Hermione looked into the mirror with despair.
This. Is. Humiliating.
She fruitlessly attempted to re-adjust her dress into some semblance of decency for the Merlin-only-knew-how-manyth time.
It wasn’t so much that it was short. From the left side the floor length skirt could even have been called conservative. The thigh high slit on the right side, however, was more likely to be called shocking and inappropriate.
It wasn’t even that it was all that low cut either, although Hermione wasn’t sure that “keyhole” was the right name for a neckline that required her to forgo a bra in favour of a carefully placed lifting charm. More like “hole you could drive the knight bus through” neckline.
Hermione even kind of liked the color, a deep midnight blue. No, the real problem was the fit. Tight didn’t even begin to describe it. The thin cloying material showed off absolutely everything. So tight that you could count ribs. So tight that her “assets” were clearly discernable. So tight that she had had to leave her knickers at home.
She wondered, rather nastily, if Parvati had decided to dress her bridesmaids like slags in an attempt to make everyone forget just how many notches were on her own bedpost.
She sighed. “Not nice Hermione” she muttered to herself. Taking a deep breath, she walked out of the toilet and back into the “war room,” as she had taken to calling it. Parvati, she had to admit, looked splendid. Her contrastingly tasteful white gown stood out among her bridesmaids.
With one final tug at her neckline, she swallowed her pride, told herself to remember how happy she was for her friend, and waded into the haze of hairspray and tulle.
“Darling, you look radiant.” She said with a smile, kissing Parvati on the cheek. “Are you ready?”
“Have been for ages.” Parvati said with a blissful smile. “Now lets get this show on the road!”
*****************************************
Walking down the aisle on the arm of Parvati’s older brother Pindar was sort of like walking down memory lane. A bizarre, bi-polar memory lane. To her right, on the bride’s side, were many old school chums. Harry and Ron were there, along with Neville, Dean, Seamus, Lavender, and a host of other Gryffindors. Padma, of course, was walking down the aisle in front of her. Colin was snapping photos like a maniac.
On the left side was everyone who had ever made her miserable.
No, she thought, that wasn’t entirely fair. It wasn’t as if Voldemort himself was there. Pretty nearly though. Blaise Zabini was there, looking bored. Crabbe looked hungry, Pansy looked…well, drunk actually. That was interesting. The whole lot of them seemed remarkably uninterested in the proceedings. Even the groom, Marcus Flint, was looking stoic and silent.
Every single one of them seemed to find something more interesting than the wedding party to look at.
No, she thought, that wasn’t entirely fair either. One set of cold grey eyes were focused, with upsetting intensity, on her. If she wasn’t so sure he was trying to set her on fire with his thoughts, she would suspect that he was undressing her with his eyes. Not that he really needed to try very hard. She tugged subtly at her skirt.
Draco sodding Malfoy. Like she needed ANY more help feeling ridiculous. However, never one to let a silly thing like crippling shame stand in the way of her pride, Hermione pulled herself up, stuck her nose ever so slightly in the air, and glided past him with far more grace and aplomb than she felt.
She tried not looking at him, but he was directly in her line of sight from where she stood on the podium. It wasn’t like she could move. Parvati had been very clear about the importance of the lining up of everyone’s shoulders to the ultimate success of her marriage. But it was very distracting the way he kept staring.
Frankly, it was making her paranoid. Was she showing too much hip? Could he see that she wasn’t wearing knickers, was her lifting charm starting to fail? With almost inhuman self control, she refrained from reaching up to see if her hair was still in place. Instead, she satisfied herself by staring back at him, trying to communicate her irritation with her eyes while maintaining an appropriately nuptial smile. The result must have been somewhat amusing because one pale eyebrow rose up and his lips curled up into the smirk she remembered so well from Hogwarts.
Shoulder angles be damned. She resolutely shifted ever so slightly so that she was now looking more or less in the direction of Ron and Harry. To her chagrin, she found them both staring fixedly somewhere distinctly below her face. Honestly!
*************************************
Halfway through the reception, Hermione was unsure whether to burn the buggering dress or have it bronzed. She had never received so much male attention in her life. However, much of it was awkwardly unwanted. When Marcus Flint’s father attempted to cop a feel in the buffet line up, she decided burning was the way to go…followed by several long showers.
She retreated to a corner with a glass of wine, hoping to go a few moments with out being ogled, accosted, or propositioned. Fate, it seemed, was game for a few more tries.
Draco buggering Malfoy walked through the hallway right beside her, nearly flattening her against the wall with the force of the swinging door.
“Oi!” she cried in annoyance, “Watch yourself Malfoy!”
Malfoy, who was clearly well and truly soused at this point, leered at her. “I can watch myself anytime Granger, whereas I haven’t seen so much of you displayed since…” he paused, considering, “ever.”
Without a second thought, she tossed the contents of her glass of wine in his face and stormed off. She found it oddly satisfying that, rather than a cutting remark, only a bemused gaze followed her exit.
**************************************
“Hermi’nee,” Harry warbled, lounging across two chairs at the head table,
“Hmmm?” she responded, over the rim of her eleventh…no wait, was it twelfth martini?
“I’m drunk!” He finished with gleeful enthusiasm, nearly falling off his chair in the process.
“Thatsh nish Harry” she replied absently, her attention focused on what were apparently fascinating floor tiles.
“you look quite alright in that dress y’know,” Harry continued, propping himself upwards with a rather disturbing look of consideration on his face.
“Oh brother,” muttered Hermione, pulling herself to her feet unsteadily, “I,” she announced dramatically, “am going for a walk.”
**********************************
She tottered out of the reception hall into the garden beyond until she found a bench, upon which she collapsed with a thud.
“Careful there Granger,” A much soberer looking Malfoy strolled down the path. Correction, much soberer that her, which wasn’t really saying much at all.
“I’m not sure that dress will stand up to much vigorous activity.”
“It’d be your own rutting fault if it did fall off you tosser.” Hermione said inexplicably.
“How’s that?” said Malfoy with an amused smirk.
“Staring at it with your stupid beady eyes…prolly weakened the fabric…” Hermione trailed off, her own argument no longer making sense to her.
“Oh, that,” the bastard looked completely unfazed. “Patil may be a Gryffindor, but she has excellent taste in dresses. Even you look like a ten in that one Granger.”
Maybe he wasn’t as sober as she thought. Come to think of it, she didn’t think ties were supposed to be worn around one’s head.
She paused a moment. Then, “too bad her taste doesn’t extend to men.” It felt triumphantly like wit for a moment, but then she realised that she didn’t actually mind Marcus that much. “No wait, I don’t think I mean that…” Malfoy was watching her with what she was sure was a nasty smirk hovering around his lips.
She had a sudden image of herself on a ship with water pouring in over the sides. She may not be sober, or witty, or even coherent really, but she still knew when to make an exit.
She stood up in a fashion that was meant to be dismissive, but abruptly overbalanced and went toppling towards Malfoy. He caught her easily and set her on her feet.
“Alright there Granger,” drawled Malfoy with a smirk.
She chose not to dignify that with a response and pulled herself up to make a composed exit. She took one step and nearly turned her ankle.
“Blody Buggering hell,” muttered Malfoy, “For God’s sake Granger, let me help you.” He offered her an arm.
She looked at him for a long moment, trying to determine exactly how he was going to turn this rather chivalrous gesture into humiliation for her. She couldn’t for the life of her figure it out and it was unlikely that she was going to make it back uninjured without his help. She let out a long suffering sigh and took the proffered arm.
He was warm and surprisingly well built underneath his impeccable dress shirt. Up close, she thought, his eyes weren’t really grey at all. They were kind of a stormy blue, with little gold flecks. She reached up and flicked his tie, inexplicably tied around his forehead, out of the way to get a better look.
“What are you doing Granger?” He asked, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time that evening.
“Looking.” She said matter of factly. After all, it was her turn wasn’t it?
They had stopped walking, but neither really noticed.
“At what?” he asked, not really sure if he wanted to know, or why he was asking at all.
“You have beautiful eyes,” she said by way of response. Even through her liquor addled haze she knew that this wasn’t entirely appropriate. She couldn’t remember why though, so she brushed the thought aside.
“Oh,” he said.
And then they were kissing.
She was kissing Draco Malfoy. Some distant, long forgotten, sober part of her brain was telling her that this was bad and wrong and disgusting.
Unfortunately the way his lips felt against hers and the way he tasted and the way his tongue was flicking across the roof of her mouth set her nerve endings to singing in a way that was much louder than her common sense. Singing things like good and right and fantastic.
Of course Draco Malfoy would have to be an excellent kisser, just to show her up.
And just like that, the last remaining bastion of good sense left in her was overrun and she decided she had to prove that she was just as good at this as he was.
She pressed herself closer, one hand tangling itself in his longish, perfectly manicured hair, the other tucking itself underneath his Italian leather belt.
she thought to herself. Rather than saying this aloud, however, she let out a surprisingly wanton moan as he sucked on the column of her neck in a fashion that was sure to leave obvious marks.
She felt one of his hands sliding under the slit in her skirt and travelling up her thigh. With rather detached surprise, she hiked her leg up around his waist, giving him better access. Any minute now, he would discover that….
Malfoy’s sharp intake of breath indicated that he had indeed discovered that a certain piece of clothing was missing. He let out a low groan that made her tremble. His hand moved higher, cupping her hip where it met her leg, sliding it under.
She kissed him with an intensity she did not remember having; their teeth clicking and bruising in unstudied enthusiasm. She silently begged him to keep going, aching for him to touch her. She would never give him the satisfaction of begging aloud.
“Hermione!” A voice called out in the still night air. They froze.
“Hermione, where are you!” It was Padma, “Parvati’s about to leave!”
“Buggering shite,” Hermione exclaimed to herself in a whisper, disentangling herself with remarkable speed and readjusting her wardrobe. There was nothing she could do about the bite marks without a mirror.
They stood there for a moment. Hermione couldn’t read Draco’s expression. She supposed she was similarly inscrutable at the moment, given that even she hadn’t a clue what she was thinking.
He spoke first. “Bloody fucking hell Granger.” It was part surprise, part frustration, and maybe even a little bit of admiration.
She knew just what he meant. The corner of her mouth turned up in a wry smile. Then she shrugged, turned away, and made her way carefully back towards the party.
He must have left, because she didn’t see him again that night. In fact, she was fairly certain they would never run into each other again. That was fine by her. A stupid drunken encounter at a wedding didn’t make him any less of a shite.
However, the fact that he was a shite who she didn’t care if she never saw again didn’t change the fact that she had taken to leaving her knickers at home more often, or that Parvati could pry that dress from her cold dead hands.