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Hermione sat in the basement of a local fraternity house, loud music in the background emanating from above. Having taken refuge downstairs, where the sound level was muffled into a steady thrum instead of the sonic warfare going on above, she could ponder how she let Harry and Ron talk her into attending a frat party on her birthday. Yes, she had already completed most of her assigned readings and assignments for the week, and didn’t have that as an excuse to say no. Still, they are getting one of her more forceful lectures on Monday. Mostly for each of them ditching her barely 35 minutes after arriving, but just as much for the pure audacity of wanting to bring her in the first place. She may love her friends, but those boys can be so dumb from time to time. She would have rather spent the evening with a romance novel and her cat than be subjected to drunken propositions and the questionable smells of a house populated mostly by unsupervised boys. It was clear to her that even the lower thumping beat from the music would be enough to give her a horrible migraine tomorrow. Thankfully, it would be Saturday, and the migraine would give her an excuse to ignore the homecoming football game in favor of her bed, soft music, and her current novel from The Pile™️.
Her thoughts turn next to the watered-down beer in her cup, left unattended next to her after the first few swallows. The room temperature liquid held no interest to her, though not for any concern about getting drunk. The drink hadn’t enough alcohol, barely enough to taste, let alone get anyone drunk in any low quantity. Yet somehow, people here managed that feat. And with the volume she had seen some of her peers chug it down, it’s a wonder they can walk straight. However, unlike others, she has no desire in experimenting with her fine motor coordination under the influence, nor stress testing her liver with a large quantity of low-strength beer.
Her distaste for beverage also couldn’t be blamed on insufficient peer pressure, given the endless amount of empty red cups scattered about and the number of her peers drinking like it was going out of style. Indeed, almost every media and cultural reference she could think about frat parties or campus life pushed the trope of barely legal or underage drinking as a right of passage for young college-aged adults. Her views also persisted despite Ron’s insistence that there was some wonderful world of flavors in the drink, along with his copious attempts at proving it to her. So far she had yet to find any beer that she found tolerable, let alone enjoyable. However, it did make her ponder that if the university’s hospitality management program offered a degree in brewing or becoming a cicerone, perhaps it would be easier to convince Ron to attend his classes more often. At least Harry seemed to take his business and media classes seriously when he wasn’t at practice for the upcoming basketball season or drinking with Ron at parties like this.
And, contrary to what others might accuse her of being straight-edged, or afraid of beer, her reticence was a straightforward matter of personal preferences, as simple as having an intense dislike for the earthy and bitter taste of most beers. When she drank, she preferred her poison of choice to be sweeter, more fruity or floral or nutty, like a rich aromatic wine, or better yet a very nicely aged bourbon or whiskey. She tried her best not to be a snob about drinking, but the cheap and watered-down beer in a red plastic cup was definitely pushing that sentiment to its limit.
She would much rather head home and pour her own drink from the options that she has carefully and discretely hidden in her apartment for a relaxing night of reading by herself. A fire was optional, as it was still early autumn and not quite chilly enough to justify the extra work of turning it on yet. On the other hand it would add to the atmosphere she was going for. However, before she could give much further thought to her planning a cozy birthday party for one while everyone was out at the football game getting drunk again, she noticed that the music upstairs had changed.
Since she had arrived down in the basement it seemed to be taking on a more sensual sound, or at-least that how it felt to her now. Even if it was still loud enough to hear the beat through the ceiling it seemed more distant, less pounding, and more like a softer steady thumping. She also began to recognize that her headache was going away. Her impression of the air in the room had also changed from a more oppressive musty smell and now felt thicker around her and like her thoughts were wrapped in woolen blankets. Everything was coming to her slower, but she still understood what the collection of effects meant - a floating feeling, slower more profound thoughts, light pain relief, and a subtle lowering of her inhibitions and mental filter. She now figured that the musty smell she first encountered wasn’t eau d’underwashed-fratboy, rather it was more likely the secondhand smoke from people smoking pot of dubious origin, wafting from one of the bedrooms and being circulated in the air around her, inadvertently getting her high. The recognition of this fact brought her a an uncontrollable giggle for a few moments and added yet another reason why the boys wouldn’t escape their impending Monday fate.
Now with that realization out of the way, her less inhibited and impulsive attention began spiraling out of her control, before her focused turned to the shared library that dotted the shelves of the common room she had taken shelter in. Trying to push away the immediate revulsion for the organization, or lack thereof, and back to her previous line of thought is only partially successful. The chaotic placement of movies between the books, and outside of the conveniently labeled movie shelf, and the lack of impulse control she is now enjoying, sparks a need to fix the mess.
Before she can realize it fully she is sorting out the books and movies and returning them to their proper place. Shortly into her self appointed organization, she is caught off guard by a hand on her shoulder. Turning around with a clutch of books in arms, and surrounded by piles of books like a dragon in the middle of its hoard, she focuses on the tall blond woman who got her attention. Seeing a designer, fine tailored power-suit, unmistakable icy blue stare, and wryly amused smile, she has no trouble recognizing the campus's star law student Fleur Delaclour. Quickly taking in her appearance she notices that the older student has loosened the top buttons of her blouse leaving the collar a bit intentionally unkempt under the jacket and giving her a more relaxed first impression, while still being better dressed than anyone else she had met here tonight.
Uncertain what to say, and still a bit dazed from being startled and her appreciation of the other woman’s appearance, and probably the lingering effects from being high, the best she can muster in that moment to reply is a half mumbled: “eh what?”
The wry smile turns into a quick laugh, before Fleur replies: “Want to get out of here and get come pancakes cutie? I was asking if you had seen my friend Claire down here, but you’re lost in your own thoughts, so probably not. Also I can smell the pot, and it does not look like its yours. So how about we get out of here, I doubt you came here to organize books while everyone else is letting their ears bleed upstairs?”
Hermione is very eager to accept, only doing the bare minimum to put the books in her arms back on the shelves. The sarcasm about the party is what first catches her interest, clearly mirroring her own feelings from earlier and reminding Hermione of her abandonment by her friends prior to her impulsive organization effort, but it is the flirty tone coming from Fleur that has her hooked. She remembers the crush she developed on the other woman during a shared arts elective last year, that she thought had passed, but now returns stronger than ever before.
Once she grabs her coat she remembers to introduce herself, “I’m Hermione, by the way. Thank you for rescuing me, you mentioned pancakes right? I’m starving. You have pretty eyes. I’m craving pancakes. Can I kiss you?”