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If there was ever a good way to blend Pureblood aesthetics with Muggle traditions, Dean and Pansy’s wedding is it. Hermione isn’t quite sure how the two managed to pull it off, but the venue - a beautiful space inside a magically-expanded building - is bright and filled with flowers that seem to be charged to not wilt. Everyone in attendance is magical, but Dean had claimed he wanted to honor his mother’s Muggle heritage.
It was really just an excuse for a stag night of debauchery, a DJ set-up being run by the Weasley twins of all people, and this exact moment that Hermione is absolutely dreading.
She doesn’t want to go to the dance floor but Fred is calling out names of all the single witches in the crowd. “Hermiiiiiiiione Granger, we see you! You may be the Brightest Witch but there’s been no one to turn on that switch of yours in a while!”
She is going to kill them.
The Greengrass sisters are the ones who finally yank her onto the dance floor. Astoria’s eyes are gleaming with determination as she pushes a path to the front. Music starts and Pansy sends a wink Hermione’s way before she turns in her sleek, white dress, and shimmies her shoulders and hips.
“Here we go!”
There is laughter and playful catcalls, and then there is a bouquet of purple and white flowers in Hermione’s hands.
Daphne is laughing, Harry is waggling his eyebrows at her from the side of the dance floor, and Astoria is seething with annoyance.
“I’m going to kill her,” Hermione says flatly to Harry when she walks over to him. “She aimed for me.”
“You don’t know that.” The mirth in his voice is clear though and she hits him on the shoulder with the bouquet. “Here, have a shot.”
The Firewhiskey burns as it travels down her throat but it’s a great distraction from the men gathering as Dean twirls the green and silver garter on a single finger. She’s not a prude, but Dean’s extraction of the garter from Pansy’s leg earlier made her cheeks flush with heat. The music was slow and sultry, and Pansy had let out a squeal when Dean’s hands had disappeared beneath her dress.
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
Harry’s eyes are wide as he stares over Hermione’s shoulder. She turns just in time to see the garter fly through the air. Like a movie playing in slow motion, she watches as Teddy Lupin dives for the piece of fabric.
Teddy.
Teddy is 15 and slightly drunk because the Gryffindors in attendance thought it would be fun to give him alcohol for the first time and Remus and Tonks are watching him carefully. He’s holding the garter up in the air, pride practically bouncing off of him. The group of men surrounding him look unsure. Seamus is the one who finally goes up to the teen and whispers in his ear. Whatever he says makes Teddy’s face contort into a look of horror and throw the garter across the floor. When it slides to a corner of the dance floor, Hermione is reminded of a small snake.
Of course.
Dean is speaking to the twins, gesturing wildly with his hands. Next to him, Pansy stands with her hands on her hips.
“It seems,” starts George.
Fred continues, “We have a problem.”
“We need -”
“- a volunteer!”
“The marriage -”
“- between Pansy -”
“- and Dean -”
“- depends on you!”
Bugger off , Hermione thinks. After watching Pansy and Dean fall in love, she knows nothing will ever end their marriage. They’ll be together for years and it won’t be because of some stupid Muggle tradition that she’s hated since she was a child.
“I got it, I got it.”
Hermione looks toward the voice and immediately blushes. It’s one of Pansy’s childhood friends who stood as one of her attendants during the ceremony. They’d grown up together but he attended Beauxbatons when his mother moved back to Italy right before proper schooling began. She thinks his name is Blaise.
“Blaise Zabini to the rescue! Million thanks to you, mate!” Dean is more than a little drunk. He looks around and finds Hermione. “Mione! Let’s go!”
Her heart flutters wildly. The skin of her arms pebbles and no no no she does not want to do this. Harry - the traitor - is pushing her back onto the dance floor where Pansy is now crooking a finger at her before she points down to a chair someone has set in the center of the floor.
“Dean told us -”
“- the saying for Muggle weddings -”
“- is The higher the garter -”
“- the longer the marriage!”
Hermione hates everyone right now. She hates the twins who are so full of glee, she thinks they might actually burst into fireworks themselves. She hates Dean who is lifting a bottle of Ogden’s in the air before tipping its contents into his mouth. She hates Pansy who grabs her by the hand and drops her onto the chair, saying, “My marriage depends on you, Granger!”
She hates these stupid traditions that are completely untrue.
A familiar beat begins to play and Hermione’s jaw drops when she realizes Dean has chosen the theme song to Mission: Impossible for this moment. All the Muggleborns and Half-Bloods in the room hoot and holler, especially when Hermione realizes what is happening at the other end of the dance floor.
It seems like Blaise’s level of inebriation matches his friends. To the beat of the music, he bares his teeth toward Hermione before spinning in a circle. Slowly, he unbuttons the top button of his dress shirt, then the next, then the next. When he turns to face Hermione, his shirt is completely undone, the sides blowing back against the sides of his body.
What a body.
Wind swirls in her air, and that’s when Hermione realizes a few wedding attendees are standing behind her, wands in the air, creating wind for what is basically becoming a striptease. She turns back around, her head practically snapping when she hears a growl. Blaise is slipping the garter from his wrist - when did it get there? - and bites it so that the fabric dangles from his mouth. He shakes his head like a playful puppy and Hermione wonders how in Godric Gryffindor’s name he makes that move look sexy.
“Merlin,” Hermione moans. She covers her face with both hands. “I can’t handle this.”
Blaise drops to the floor, crawling toward her slowly and like a sleek tiger - a drunk tiger. He stops a few feet away from her and lifts himself up to his knees. Hermione peeks through her fingers and lets out a squeak when he completely removes his shirt.
“Fuck. This is indecent. I’m warm. It’s warm. Who changed the temperature?”
Daphne appears next to her with a silver bottle of wine, a straw sticking out of its top. “Drink, drink, drink.”
She does because at this point, it makes all the sense in the world. The wine is fruity with just a hint of tang and Hermione stops sipping to look at the label. It looks to be some elf-made wine from Italy, one she’s never heard of, and she wonders why no one told her about this. She curses Harry for giving her Firewhiskey earlier when this beautiful wine exists.
In her perusal of the wine, Hermione misses the fact that Blaise has crawled through the remaining space between them and is now kneeling in front of her, a smirk on his face. She grabs the bottle of wine and sucks the straw frantically. Up close, Blaise is fucking beautiful how is he real . Though his eyes are slightly glassy and his smile is a bit crooked, he looks like he’s having fun.
Far too much of it.
Blaise reaches for the hem of Hermione’s dress and moves it upward slowly. She wants to say stop but then his eyes clear and he gives her a wink. “Drink some more of that wine, sweetheart.”
Hermione does as he says, but only because the wine really is delicious and she can’t find the taste that’s making it so unique. The straw is between her lips and she’s feeling much more relaxed. She watches as Blaise flips the bottom of her dress up so that the hem of it lies across her knees.
Thank Merlin she shaved her legs.
Her breath hitches when his fingers undo the buckle at her ankle and she tilts her head when he slips her shoe off, flinging it behind him. Vaguely, Hermione thinks she hears Harry yell “Ow, what the bloody fuck?” but she pays him no mind because Blaise is speaking to her.
“The higher the garter, the longer the marriage, eh?”
“Drink, Hermione, drink,” Pansy urges her. “Let him take it all the way!”
That’s absolutely absurd in Hermione’s mind, but she swishes the wine in her mouth, letting it linger on her tongue. It seems that with every sip she takes, Blaise - who has slipped the garter over her foot to her ankle - pushes the garter up her calf. He smirks at her just as he reaches her knee.
“USE YOUR MOUTH!”
Hermione is more than a bit horrified when she recognizes Mrs. Parkinson’s voice.
A robe is suddenly being draped over her lap. She looks up to see Draco Malfoy smirking at her.
“Wha -” The straw falls from between her lips and what in Slytherin’s name is happening?
Her voice is bordering on shrill when she screeches out, “What are you do- you can’t be there!”
Blaise’s head is beneath the robe, practically bobbing in an obscene motion. For a moment, she can’t breathe, but then realizes he’s not actually using his mouth. He is, however, still pushing the stupid garter up past her knee, up onto her thigh. This is possibly the best and worst thing that can happen at the moment as Hermione remembers she doesn’t actually have any knickers on.
It’s as if Blaise realizes it at the same time because he’s gone still in the space between her legs. Hermione freezes right before Blaise pops out from beneath the robe and flips himself so that he’s lying on the floor, his upper body propped up on his elbows. He crosses his ankles and lifts his chin at Dean, who now stands next to his bride.
“I swear that it is as high as it can go!” His voice is loud, boisterous, proud .
Hermione doesn’t know whether she wants to run in embarrassment or say fuck it all and go for the prize. So despite the flush she feels growing warmer on her neck and reaching up to her cheeks, she stands up and leaves Malfoy’s robe on the chair. Her hands grasp the sides of her dress to lift it up, before she steps toward the man lying on the floor and with an exaggerated move, lets her bare foot hover above his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
Blaise visibly swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He can see up her dress where no fabric hides her from his view anymore. It’s like the room around them freezes. Shifting his weight, Blaise reaches out a hand and wandlessly summons her shoe without a word. He places it back onto her feet, slightly trembling fingers buckling it up once more.
“You can get me a drink for that show,” Hermione tells him. All Blaise can do is nod as she drops her foot to the side of him and lets her dress fall back down. “If you’re lucky, you can see me again.”
Now a bright red - did she really just do that? - Hermione scurries off of the dance floor. She rushes to the bar, ignoring everyone calling her name and laughing good heartedly.
The man behind the counter hands her a glass of wine and smirks. “Same wine as you were drinking on the floor, ma’am.”
“Tha -”
“No, not that one,” a smooth voice cuts in. It’s Blaise, shirt back on but still unbuttoned. “Let her try the Reserve.”
They don’t say anything to each other until two glasses appear in front of them, the liquid practically shimmering. Hermione takes a sip and almost moans, the smooth clean taste sliding across her tongue and down her throat.
“Hermione, right?” Blaise asks over the rim of his own glass. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Blaise Zabini.” He nods toward her glass. “From my family’s private vineyard.”
She is so fucked.