FIC: Bad Company [Hermione/Draco - PG]
Title: Bad Company
Author/Artist: hiddenhibernian
Pairing(s): Hermione/Draco
Prompt: Another year, another Ministry Solstice Ball. Daphne is bored. Hermione is desperately trying to escape some tedious colleagues. They get tipsy together in a corner. (Feel free to use other characters)
Word Count/Art Medium: 2,300
Rating: PG
Contains (Highlight to view): N/A
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I raise my glass of Laphroaig to k_lynne317, my wonderful beta. Thank you very much for working with me on this; any remaining mistakes are my own.
Important life advice: don't get plastered at the office Christmas party. Trust me on this.
Summary: Another year, another Ministry Solstice Ball. Harry is drunk, Ron even drunker, and Hermione just wants to go home. But who is hiding in the corner?
“What are you doing here, Granger?”
She'd seen movement in the corner of her eye, and had her wand out before he'd even opened his mouth. Slightly embarrassed, Hermione shoved it back into her sleeve again. Old habits died hard.
“I work here,” she pointed out.
“I know. So do I. I mean in this corner, with me.”
“Oh.” Hermione shifted her weight to the other foot, trying to take it off the aching balls of her feet. Bloody heels. “If you must know, I'm hiding from the crowd over there.”
Malfoy peered above her head, towards the rambunctious group around the bar. There was a loud pop and a hiss, followed another salve of laughter and shouting: “Nearly took my eye out, Pucey!”
“I thought they were your colleagues. All part of the big, happy family that is Magical Law Enforcement.”
“Working with them doesn't mean I want to have Baby Guinness spilt all over my shoes. And it's only going to get worse. Chambers was just about to tell me why his girlfriend broke up with him.”
“At least you could entertain your coworkers with the latest gossip.”
Of course Malfoy would spot the gossip potential in the wreckage of someone's love life.
“It's been three months, he's told me twice before. Sobbed all over my robes, too.”
“I wouldn't have picked you for an agony aunt.” He looked as supremely unconcerned as only a Malfoy could. The only thing betraying his amusement was the way his lips were quivering slightly.
“I'm female - apparently that makes me more sympathetic.” Some of Hermione's irritation crept into her voice. Even in the wizarding world it was amazing how gender stereotypes persisted-
“Fool. You have all the milk of human kindness of a viper when you're crossed.“
Hermione chose to regard that as a compliment.
“Quite. To give Chambers credit, he's never allowed common sense to stand in his way. In his personal life or otherwise,” she said.
“Quite.” Malfoy's mouth had turned into one thin line of withheld amusement.
There didn't seem to be much more to be said, so they drank deep instead. Hermione grimaced at the sour taste of the wine. Several years ago, no expense had been spared at the Ministry Solstice Ball to celebrate the new era of freedom. Nowadays, you were lucky to still get free drinks. The Ministry had settled into the post-war reality and no longer tried to please; it made for better administration but far worse parties.
“Where have you put Saint Potter and The Weasel? Were they not allowed out?” Draco seemed to have opted for the mead instead, judging by the amber contents of his glass.
Sometimes, it seemed like Hermione spent the better part of her life listening to petty epithets from both sides of the Gryffindor-Slytherin civil war. Ignoring it had become second nature.
“Why do you think I'm still here? The Aurors went for drinks at the Hags' Head first - apparently it's tradition.”
“Checking out what miscreants are in store for the new year?”
“Aberforth hates it - he says they're the worst drunks he gets all year. Last year he had to break up three fights.”
They were standing with their backs to the wall, giving them a clear view of their dressed-up coworkers. Arthur Weasley and Perkins - who'd never got his tent back - were propping up the bar, surrounded by a collection of empty glasses. Arthur seemed to be leaning ever so slightly sideways.
Next to them, Gilbert Wimple was chatting to Romilda Vane, who was making increasingly urgent efforts to escape. Gilbert was not the most attractive of men, with the large tufts of white hair sticking out of his ears and his tendency to talk at people. Despite that, he might have stood a chance if he'd aimed a little lower and tried it on with Mafalda Hopkirk instead. At least she was his own age, not fifty years younger like Romilda was.
Gilbert obviously had more ambition than common sense, however, and Mafalda was nursing her cocktail alone.
Kingsley Shacklebolt had dressed up for the occasion, moving across the room like a beacon of good humour and leaving a ripple of laughter in his wake. Not for the first time, it struck Hermione how remarkable it was that he could be an excellent Minister for Magic as well as a thoroughly nice man.
“Where's your lot, Malfoy?” she asked. Every other department, Aurors excepted, had turned out in force. It was a rare occurrence for Ministry employees to turn down a free drink.
“Given that the average age down there is about a hundred and fifty, I've been dispatched as the official representative for the Department of Mysteries,” he explained. Malfoy did look rather nice in his dark blue robes, rather finer than Hermione's.
“Hence your continued presence among us, I'd imagine?” She'd noticed him when she arrived; it had seemed odd that he'd hang around when he hadn't spoken to anyone before she'd joined him.
“Exactly.” Malfoy didn't exactly look uncomfortable, more like he was on his guard. It had been ten years since the war and the Malfoys were again respected members of society, but their conduct in the war hadn't been forgotten. Not everyone was as forgiving as Harry.
It hadn't escaped Hermione that she'd been the recipient of a steady stream of nods and waves while they'd been standing there, while Malfoy had been completely ignored. He looked completely indifferent when someone ignored him - she assumed he must be used to it.
In a world where several grave injustices were allowed to persists (goblins still had no wands, just to mention one thing), it still grated on Hermione that Malfoy still was being punished for sins he'd committed before he'd even been of age. If she could forgive him, surely it wasn't too much to ask of the people who hadn't even been in the war.
When Bletchley pointedly addressed his “Good evening” to Hermione alone, she'd suddenly had enough.
“Evening, Bletchley. This is Draco Malfoy - have you met?”
Bletchley spluttered, while Malfoy looked down his long nose at the older man: “I wish you a pleasant evening.”
The last time Hermione had heard such freezing tones had been in Paris, where polite phrases can be yielded like weapons against those who transgress. Bletchley scuttered away and Malfoy immediately seemed to unclench.
“I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Hermione.” For once, he didn't sound either sarcastic or indifferent, and for reasons she couldn't quite untangle it made her blush.
“I wouldn't- It annoys me. The war was ten years ago, get on with it. And he's an idiot, too,” she hurried to say.
They quickly started talking about something else, and were in the middle of a libellous denouncement of the whole Committee On Experimental Charms when Hermione noticed that Malfoy was swaying slightly.
"Whoa, easy on the mead there." Hermione grabbed his arm to stop him from toppling over, spilling some of her own wine at the same time.
"'S not mead." There was a very slight slur to his words. Now that he'd righted himself, it was the only visible sign that he was quite a bit more drunk than he appeared. Hermione had tried valiantly, but she couldn't stomach getting even tipsy on the wine. She'd attempted the mead earlier; it hadn't been much better.
"I know it tastes like Kneazle wee, but I promise it's actually mead,” she said. “Percy got it cheap off Mundungus Fletcher. At least he made sure it was what Mundungus claimed it was before he paid up. The taste is another matter-”
“I'm drinking m'own stuff.” Malfoy waved his arm so much that he spilled most of the content in his glass. It was made of crystal and significantly grander than Hermione's plain drinking glass from the staff canteen. “Got a house-elf on stand-by at home. Watch this.”
He clicked his fingers, and his glass filled to the brim with golden liquid again.
“I don't believe it!” Hermione could hear she was almost screeching, but she didn't care. How could he-
“Don't get your knickers in a twist, Granger. Haffy is not actually standing up all night. Figure of speech.”
“Oh.” She looked at her decidedly everyday glass with distaste. What had possessed Kingsley to put bloody Percy in charge of the party committee, she wondered miserably.
“Allow me.” For someone as drunk as he was, Malfoy turned out to be a dab hand at Transfiguration. He vanished the remaining dregs of wine, turned her glass into a goblet and clicked his fingers again to fill it.
With a flourish he handed it back to Hermione, who sniffed warily at the contents. Her eyes watered.
“Firewhisky?”
“Eighteen year old Laphroaig. I find I prefer it before it goes a tad sweeter at twenty-five years.”
Cautiously, she took a very small sip. The smell had already filled her nostrils with tar and hay, and a faint trace of sweetness. Tasting it made her mouth burn pleasurably, until the flavour slowly faded to leave a trace of smokiness behind.
When she opened her eyes again, Draco was watching her.
“Vastly superior to the sulphuric mess Percy Weasley considers suitable for wine-drinkers,” Hermione said. It wasn't until he schooled his face back into the usual smooth expression that she realised Draco had looked unusually vulnerable, and she missed the hint of softness as soon as it was gone.
“It's lovely. Thank you,” she added, and for the first time noticed that Draco got little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes when he smiled.
The silence between them seemed as comfortable as slipping into your favourite slippers. They barely noticed the rowdy group spilling into the room before a woefully inebriated Harry stumbled up to them.
“We're- We're here now-” he stuttered before he seemed to recall he had somewhere to be. “I'll be at the bar, Hermione. Shee you there.”
“For God's sake stay away from the mead, Harry. And do try to drink some water - it'll help tomorrow.”
Harry had also ignored Malfoy, but Hermione was willing to forgive him for that given that he'd lost his glasses somewhere between here and the Hog's Head. It was a miracle he'd been able to pick her out in the crowd. The Hair, as bushy as ever, must have set him on the right track; he was far too drunk for direction spells.
“What about Weasley?” Draco asked.
“If Harry's that bad, Ron will be in a ditch somewhere. Hopefully, someone was sober enough to send a Patronus to Lavender.”
It wasn't the first time Hermione had been stood up by Ron, and it wouldn't be the last - at least it was only as his friend these days. Harry was obviously well past inebriated and heading manfully for absolutely sloshed, so there was little to be expected from him tonight either.
Draco seemed to have done the same calculations.
“Would you like me to fetch your coat? I trust Cattermole is at least able to match the correct tag to the hanger, no matter how woefully incompetent he is in the art of maintaining the lifts. I was stuck for half an hour yesterday-”
“No, thank you.” Hermione had made up her mind some time ago.
“No?” There was the same, almost hopeful look in Draco's eyes again.
“I'm surprised you haven't asked me the most obvious question yet, given that you've enquired about every other aspect of my evening.”
“Really? And which question would that be?” Draco looked like a different man when he smiled, all his hard edges melted.
“Why I picked this particular corner to hide in, of course.”
“Did you see-”
“I know!”
Demelza Robins and Kenneth Towler looked at each other, stumped for words. Hermione Granger kissing Draco Malfoy to within an inch of his life - at the Ministry Solstice Ball, no less - seemed to merit something more than a vocabulary used to everyday occurrences like dragon sightings or Spattergroit outbreaks could muster.
”It must be the mead,” Kenneth said, but without conviction. Everyone else was behaving normally, or at least normal for the occasion (Kingsley had just been helped down from the bar after an impromptu jig).
“No! I reckon she's doused him with a love potion!” Demelza whispered, after glancing around them to make sure she wasn't overheard.
“Surely he'd give her one, not the other way around?” Kenneth wasn't convinced, being immune of the charms of grey eyes and pronounced cheekbones. “Besides, I wouldn't think either of them'd be caught out that way. Paranoid, they are.”
They stared some more at the happily oblivious couple under the mistletoe. Kenneth was pretty sure it hadn't been there originally. For obvious reasons, mistletoes were not generally used for decorations at Ministry staff parties - alcohol caused quite enough mayhem on its own, thank you very much.
No, he decided, either Hermione or Malfoy must have conjured the mistletoe. Maybe this was True Love.
He nudged Demelza in the side. “D'you still have your camera?”
Wide, innocent eyes looked back at him: “You're not going to-”
“Remember when we had to put out a warning for Nogtails? I bet you that bloke from the Prophet would pay at least a hundred Galleons for a picture of Malfoy and Granger snogging. More, if you can make out who they are.”
“I'll get the camera. Don't go anywhere!” Demelza set off with a vengeance, purpose evident in each bouncing step.
“Will I hex them, or you?” Hermione mumbled in Draco's ear. “Actually, it'll be better if I do it-”
“Stop talking, Granger.”
“Done.”
Author/Artist: hiddenhibernian
Pairing(s): Hermione/Draco
Prompt: Another year, another Ministry Solstice Ball. Daphne is bored. Hermione is desperately trying to escape some tedious colleagues. They get tipsy together in a corner. (Feel free to use other characters)
Word Count/Art Medium: 2,300
Rating: PG
Contains (Highlight to view): N/A
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I raise my glass of Laphroaig to k_lynne317, my wonderful beta. Thank you very much for working with me on this; any remaining mistakes are my own.
Important life advice: don't get plastered at the office Christmas party. Trust me on this.
Summary: Another year, another Ministry Solstice Ball. Harry is drunk, Ron even drunker, and Hermione just wants to go home. But who is hiding in the corner?
“What are you doing here, Granger?”
She'd seen movement in the corner of her eye, and had her wand out before he'd even opened his mouth. Slightly embarrassed, Hermione shoved it back into her sleeve again. Old habits died hard.
“I work here,” she pointed out.
“I know. So do I. I mean in this corner, with me.”
“Oh.” Hermione shifted her weight to the other foot, trying to take it off the aching balls of her feet. Bloody heels. “If you must know, I'm hiding from the crowd over there.”
Malfoy peered above her head, towards the rambunctious group around the bar. There was a loud pop and a hiss, followed another salve of laughter and shouting: “Nearly took my eye out, Pucey!”
“I thought they were your colleagues. All part of the big, happy family that is Magical Law Enforcement.”
“Working with them doesn't mean I want to have Baby Guinness spilt all over my shoes. And it's only going to get worse. Chambers was just about to tell me why his girlfriend broke up with him.”
“At least you could entertain your coworkers with the latest gossip.”
Of course Malfoy would spot the gossip potential in the wreckage of someone's love life.
“It's been three months, he's told me twice before. Sobbed all over my robes, too.”
“I wouldn't have picked you for an agony aunt.” He looked as supremely unconcerned as only a Malfoy could. The only thing betraying his amusement was the way his lips were quivering slightly.
“I'm female - apparently that makes me more sympathetic.” Some of Hermione's irritation crept into her voice. Even in the wizarding world it was amazing how gender stereotypes persisted-
“Fool. You have all the milk of human kindness of a viper when you're crossed.“
Hermione chose to regard that as a compliment.
“Quite. To give Chambers credit, he's never allowed common sense to stand in his way. In his personal life or otherwise,” she said.
“Quite.” Malfoy's mouth had turned into one thin line of withheld amusement.
There didn't seem to be much more to be said, so they drank deep instead. Hermione grimaced at the sour taste of the wine. Several years ago, no expense had been spared at the Ministry Solstice Ball to celebrate the new era of freedom. Nowadays, you were lucky to still get free drinks. The Ministry had settled into the post-war reality and no longer tried to please; it made for better administration but far worse parties.
“Where have you put Saint Potter and The Weasel? Were they not allowed out?” Draco seemed to have opted for the mead instead, judging by the amber contents of his glass.
Sometimes, it seemed like Hermione spent the better part of her life listening to petty epithets from both sides of the Gryffindor-Slytherin civil war. Ignoring it had become second nature.
“Why do you think I'm still here? The Aurors went for drinks at the Hags' Head first - apparently it's tradition.”
“Checking out what miscreants are in store for the new year?”
“Aberforth hates it - he says they're the worst drunks he gets all year. Last year he had to break up three fights.”
They were standing with their backs to the wall, giving them a clear view of their dressed-up coworkers. Arthur Weasley and Perkins - who'd never got his tent back - were propping up the bar, surrounded by a collection of empty glasses. Arthur seemed to be leaning ever so slightly sideways.
Next to them, Gilbert Wimple was chatting to Romilda Vane, who was making increasingly urgent efforts to escape. Gilbert was not the most attractive of men, with the large tufts of white hair sticking out of his ears and his tendency to talk at people. Despite that, he might have stood a chance if he'd aimed a little lower and tried it on with Mafalda Hopkirk instead. At least she was his own age, not fifty years younger like Romilda was.
Gilbert obviously had more ambition than common sense, however, and Mafalda was nursing her cocktail alone.
Kingsley Shacklebolt had dressed up for the occasion, moving across the room like a beacon of good humour and leaving a ripple of laughter in his wake. Not for the first time, it struck Hermione how remarkable it was that he could be an excellent Minister for Magic as well as a thoroughly nice man.
“Where's your lot, Malfoy?” she asked. Every other department, Aurors excepted, had turned out in force. It was a rare occurrence for Ministry employees to turn down a free drink.
“Given that the average age down there is about a hundred and fifty, I've been dispatched as the official representative for the Department of Mysteries,” he explained. Malfoy did look rather nice in his dark blue robes, rather finer than Hermione's.
“Hence your continued presence among us, I'd imagine?” She'd noticed him when she arrived; it had seemed odd that he'd hang around when he hadn't spoken to anyone before she'd joined him.
“Exactly.” Malfoy didn't exactly look uncomfortable, more like he was on his guard. It had been ten years since the war and the Malfoys were again respected members of society, but their conduct in the war hadn't been forgotten. Not everyone was as forgiving as Harry.
It hadn't escaped Hermione that she'd been the recipient of a steady stream of nods and waves while they'd been standing there, while Malfoy had been completely ignored. He looked completely indifferent when someone ignored him - she assumed he must be used to it.
In a world where several grave injustices were allowed to persists (goblins still had no wands, just to mention one thing), it still grated on Hermione that Malfoy still was being punished for sins he'd committed before he'd even been of age. If she could forgive him, surely it wasn't too much to ask of the people who hadn't even been in the war.
When Bletchley pointedly addressed his “Good evening” to Hermione alone, she'd suddenly had enough.
“Evening, Bletchley. This is Draco Malfoy - have you met?”
Bletchley spluttered, while Malfoy looked down his long nose at the older man: “I wish you a pleasant evening.”
The last time Hermione had heard such freezing tones had been in Paris, where polite phrases can be yielded like weapons against those who transgress. Bletchley scuttered away and Malfoy immediately seemed to unclench.
“I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Hermione.” For once, he didn't sound either sarcastic or indifferent, and for reasons she couldn't quite untangle it made her blush.
“I wouldn't- It annoys me. The war was ten years ago, get on with it. And he's an idiot, too,” she hurried to say.
They quickly started talking about something else, and were in the middle of a libellous denouncement of the whole Committee On Experimental Charms when Hermione noticed that Malfoy was swaying slightly.
"Whoa, easy on the mead there." Hermione grabbed his arm to stop him from toppling over, spilling some of her own wine at the same time.
"'S not mead." There was a very slight slur to his words. Now that he'd righted himself, it was the only visible sign that he was quite a bit more drunk than he appeared. Hermione had tried valiantly, but she couldn't stomach getting even tipsy on the wine. She'd attempted the mead earlier; it hadn't been much better.
"I know it tastes like Kneazle wee, but I promise it's actually mead,” she said. “Percy got it cheap off Mundungus Fletcher. At least he made sure it was what Mundungus claimed it was before he paid up. The taste is another matter-”
“I'm drinking m'own stuff.” Malfoy waved his arm so much that he spilled most of the content in his glass. It was made of crystal and significantly grander than Hermione's plain drinking glass from the staff canteen. “Got a house-elf on stand-by at home. Watch this.”
He clicked his fingers, and his glass filled to the brim with golden liquid again.
“I don't believe it!” Hermione could hear she was almost screeching, but she didn't care. How could he-
“Don't get your knickers in a twist, Granger. Haffy is not actually standing up all night. Figure of speech.”
“Oh.” She looked at her decidedly everyday glass with distaste. What had possessed Kingsley to put bloody Percy in charge of the party committee, she wondered miserably.
“Allow me.” For someone as drunk as he was, Malfoy turned out to be a dab hand at Transfiguration. He vanished the remaining dregs of wine, turned her glass into a goblet and clicked his fingers again to fill it.
With a flourish he handed it back to Hermione, who sniffed warily at the contents. Her eyes watered.
“Firewhisky?”
“Eighteen year old Laphroaig. I find I prefer it before it goes a tad sweeter at twenty-five years.”
Cautiously, she took a very small sip. The smell had already filled her nostrils with tar and hay, and a faint trace of sweetness. Tasting it made her mouth burn pleasurably, until the flavour slowly faded to leave a trace of smokiness behind.
When she opened her eyes again, Draco was watching her.
“Vastly superior to the sulphuric mess Percy Weasley considers suitable for wine-drinkers,” Hermione said. It wasn't until he schooled his face back into the usual smooth expression that she realised Draco had looked unusually vulnerable, and she missed the hint of softness as soon as it was gone.
“It's lovely. Thank you,” she added, and for the first time noticed that Draco got little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes when he smiled.
The silence between them seemed as comfortable as slipping into your favourite slippers. They barely noticed the rowdy group spilling into the room before a woefully inebriated Harry stumbled up to them.
“We're- We're here now-” he stuttered before he seemed to recall he had somewhere to be. “I'll be at the bar, Hermione. Shee you there.”
“For God's sake stay away from the mead, Harry. And do try to drink some water - it'll help tomorrow.”
Harry had also ignored Malfoy, but Hermione was willing to forgive him for that given that he'd lost his glasses somewhere between here and the Hog's Head. It was a miracle he'd been able to pick her out in the crowd. The Hair, as bushy as ever, must have set him on the right track; he was far too drunk for direction spells.
“What about Weasley?” Draco asked.
“If Harry's that bad, Ron will be in a ditch somewhere. Hopefully, someone was sober enough to send a Patronus to Lavender.”
It wasn't the first time Hermione had been stood up by Ron, and it wouldn't be the last - at least it was only as his friend these days. Harry was obviously well past inebriated and heading manfully for absolutely sloshed, so there was little to be expected from him tonight either.
Draco seemed to have done the same calculations.
“Would you like me to fetch your coat? I trust Cattermole is at least able to match the correct tag to the hanger, no matter how woefully incompetent he is in the art of maintaining the lifts. I was stuck for half an hour yesterday-”
“No, thank you.” Hermione had made up her mind some time ago.
“No?” There was the same, almost hopeful look in Draco's eyes again.
“I'm surprised you haven't asked me the most obvious question yet, given that you've enquired about every other aspect of my evening.”
“Really? And which question would that be?” Draco looked like a different man when he smiled, all his hard edges melted.
“Why I picked this particular corner to hide in, of course.”
“Did you see-”
“I know!”
Demelza Robins and Kenneth Towler looked at each other, stumped for words. Hermione Granger kissing Draco Malfoy to within an inch of his life - at the Ministry Solstice Ball, no less - seemed to merit something more than a vocabulary used to everyday occurrences like dragon sightings or Spattergroit outbreaks could muster.
”It must be the mead,” Kenneth said, but without conviction. Everyone else was behaving normally, or at least normal for the occasion (Kingsley had just been helped down from the bar after an impromptu jig).
“No! I reckon she's doused him with a love potion!” Demelza whispered, after glancing around them to make sure she wasn't overheard.
“Surely he'd give her one, not the other way around?” Kenneth wasn't convinced, being immune of the charms of grey eyes and pronounced cheekbones. “Besides, I wouldn't think either of them'd be caught out that way. Paranoid, they are.”
They stared some more at the happily oblivious couple under the mistletoe. Kenneth was pretty sure it hadn't been there originally. For obvious reasons, mistletoes were not generally used for decorations at Ministry staff parties - alcohol caused quite enough mayhem on its own, thank you very much.
No, he decided, either Hermione or Malfoy must have conjured the mistletoe. Maybe this was True Love.
He nudged Demelza in the side. “D'you still have your camera?”
Wide, innocent eyes looked back at him: “You're not going to-”
“Remember when we had to put out a warning for Nogtails? I bet you that bloke from the Prophet would pay at least a hundred Galleons for a picture of Malfoy and Granger snogging. More, if you can make out who they are.”
“I'll get the camera. Don't go anywhere!” Demelza set off with a vengeance, purpose evident in each bouncing step.
“Will I hex them, or you?” Hermione mumbled in Draco's ear. “Actually, it'll be better if I do it-”
“Stop talking, Granger.”
“Done.”