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The music in the club is loud and Hermione sips at her drink, relishing, just a little, in the way the bass alters her pulse and the alcohol clouds the corners of her mind. The lighting is dark and blue, and the air is thick with the hazy pink smoke from countless pixie dust blunts being passed around.
Hermione watches with lazy eyes as Pansy sucks at her straw over-dramatically, trying not to grin.
The pair of them are sitting across from one another at a raised table, a half-eaten platter of sushi in between them, and Hermione can barely take her eyes off of the woman in front of her, the blue high-necked lace top and, below the table, the tight leather mini skirt exposing a pair of the nicest legs in the wizarding world. Hermione’s far from Pansy’s only admirer and there’s some element of pride surging in her veins, knowing she’ll be the one to get to go home with her.
Yet another pair of cocktails get floated over to their table only seconds after Hermione’s drink is finished and Pansy smirks at her. Hermione hadn’t really doubted Pansy’s insistence that the pair of them would make out like bandits sitting, apparently unaccompanied, at Diagon’s newest bar, but everything was more fun as a competition.
“No one’s approached us yet,” Hermione reminds her. “Points for drinks is negligible when we keep getting them in pairs.”
“So how will we know who’s won?” Pansy asks, playing at coy as she stirs her newest drink with the straw, the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth. Hermione blinks at her, already a little tipsy.
She’s not quite sure what her answer is, but fortunately they’re both proven wrong when Fleamont Davies, a few years older and one of the busiest reps from the Games’ department swaggers his way over to their table.
“Witches,” he greets them, and doesn’t seem to notice the way Pansy’s nose wrinkles or Hermione’s lip curls.
Still, Pansy is an expert. “Well hello, Davies,” she says archly, straightening up and tipping her head to the side so that the blunt edges of her famous bob tickle at her collarbones.
Hermione can tell that Pansy is excited for a few minutes of meaningless flirting, but Fleamont goes and ruins it the next time he opens his mouth. Abruptly, it’s like Hermione can smell the Pixie Rum on his mouth, though she thinks it could just be her imagination.
“You ladies interested in a third?”
Pansy’s mouth literally falls open, but Hermione’s the one who scoffs loud enough that Davies is now looking fully at her. He’s not the only one. Most of the patrons in the bar had watched Davies’ approach, but a pair of slate eyes near the entrance make her feel hot all over and brave enough to say quiet thoughts out loud.
“Sorry,” Hermione says, blunt. “We already have a third.”
Across the bar, Malfoy’s lips curve into a smug grin.