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Hermione never likes alcohol, not even one bit.
Her first taste of a malt-flavoured drink was at the age of 8. She was looking for a drink in the kitchen, and she remembers vividly that her mother had told her there was a can of soft drink in the fridge. She cracked open the colourful can named Shandy and took one big gulp. She instantly regretted not reading the labels or taking a sniff before putting her lips on the metal rim. It was easily one of the worst things she had ever tasted, and she has since categorised the event as her childhood trauma.
Then there was Butterbeer. She was terrified when she heard Ron mention it before their first-ever trip to Hogsmeade. But being the brilliant persuader that he was, she gave in and tried it. To her surprise, it didn’t taste anything like the terrible Shandy. Instead, it was sweet with just enough hint of bitterness cutting through. There was no malty aftertaste that she couldn’t get rid of. She considered it a teenage sweet drink and happily ordered it again every time they visited Hogsmeade. It was also something she could easily get away with when they were old enough to order proper alcohol.
Champagne is the unavoidably unpleasant work drink. It isn’t as bad as beer or whiskey, but the hint of yeast is enough to make her dislike it. The fruity and sometimes floral scent is the only thing that helps her tolerance. But when she applied for a position in the Ministry, she didn’t expect it to come with a requirement of knowing how to handle glasses of champagne. And to her dismay, the higher the position, the more galas she had to attend, and the galas meant constant toasting.
Firewhiskey is the worst kind of alcohol she has ever tasted. She hates the bitterness and the strong, lingering aftertaste. She hates how it burns her throat and makes her stomach boil. But most of all, she especially hates the reasons she has for pouring down glass after glass of Firewhiskey. The first time was Ron’s sudden departure during their Horcrux hunt. The second time was discovering Ron’s affair. The third time was their fallout after she confronted him. She still hated how the liquor burned her, but it did its job well, masking the irritation in her eyes and the sharp pain in her chest.
Beer and all the other kinds of cocktails are never in the equation. She is never interested in tasting them at all. So it is pretty safe to say she is bad with alcohol.
“I need a drink.” She hisses under her breath, which causes Harry to back up a few steps instinctively.
“Coffee or—”
“Rum. Alcohol. Anything. I don’t know.” That’s his cue to visit the minibar—the weirdest and most unharmonious corner inside her small townhouse. She has assigned it to the back corner of her living room instead of somewhere next to the kitchen island. She barely uses it, unless something is stressing her out. And a stressed Hermione is never a good sign. “Something on the rocks? It’s fucking hot in here.” She demands, or rather shouts, from the kitchen.
When Harry returns with two glasses in hand, the invitation on the kitchen island has been aggressively crumpled into a ball. Hermione snatches the glass from him and downs the liquor in one go, her brows snapping together. “It’s disgusting."
He isn’t sure if she is describing the whiskey or the invitation—maybe both. Either way, she is definitely pissed.
“How dare he send me an invitation?” Her arms brace against the marble island, and her eyes still lock on the crushed wedding invitation with blazing flares.
Not that she still has feelings for Ron—she has long ditched her love for him; she just hasn’t quite forgiven him for all the lying and cheating. And now, he has reignited her anger.
Ever since they split up, she has had a long argument in her own head about whether she would have felt better if he had sat down and been honest with her. She has been telling herself that she knew long ago they weren’t meant for each other and that their relationship could never work out. But she thought their years of friendship would mean something to him, and he would respect her enough to break up with her before entering another relationship. His reasons were complete bullshit: couldn’t find the time to tell her the truth, afraid of breaking her heart, didn’t want to strain their relationship.
His apology came after a little over a year, which was terribly late in Hermione’s opinion. She wasn’t planning on accepting his apology, but he had come to her office with flowers on his own birthday. All she did was nod before leaving the scene. She never gave him an official word of forgiveness.
But they have been on good terms—okay terms; good is definitely an overstatement. They don’t hang out together anymore, barely even talk. Their only interaction is him giving her a timid nod when they bump into each other at the Ministry, but that happens less frequently now that he quit his Auror position last year. Hermione never returns the greetings. She considers herself quite civil already for not bursting into a ball of anger. That’s her definition of okay.
Until Harry delivers Ron’s wedding invitation with only three days' notice.
Lavender Brown and Ronald Weasley, together with their children Rose and Hugo, invite you to…
“We broke up less than three years ago, and now they have two children.” Numbers are running through her mind. The youngest child in the drawing on the invitation is standing, so he should be at least two years old. Then there should be about a one-year gap between each birth. She tries her best not to guess the age of the oldest child through the drawing, knowing how inaccurate it can be, but even her logical self can’t control her brain. “Did you know about this?”
“No. You know Ginny and I stopped going to the Burrow after you two broke up, and he never mentioned anything about Brown.” His grip tightens around his glass, disappointment reflecting in his glasses.
“I’m going with Ginny. It’s her brother after all. Are you going?”
“Careful. She is pissed. Very pissed.”
Draco leans back in his chair, tossing his memento Golden Snitch while pondering over what Potter just said to him. He knows very well who she is; he just needs to know why she is pissed in order to properly assess his work priorities.
“Late night, Mister Auror?”
He almost drops the Golden Snitch. He turns to glare at the girl standing next to his desk. “Morning, Padma. You have her schedule?”
“Thank you, Padma, for personally delivering my work to my desk every Monday,” she mocks while slamming a piece of parchment on his desk. He takes a quick glance at it, but stops when his eyes land on the Wednesday schedule.
“A whole day in the vineyard in Gloucestershire on her vacation? What is she going to do there?”
“Attend her ex’s wedding,” Padma utters the words one by one in annoyance.
“You are serious?” Draco snaps at her in disbelief, only to receive a disappointing nod.
“I’m going to talk to her.” His work becomes at least ten times harder when Hermione is in a bad mood. Now that he has a brief idea of what causes her distress, taking out the explosive flame has become his top priority.
“Careful. She is pissed.”
“Funny how you and Potter said the same thing to me.”
“You’re the one who is spending the most time with her. Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck—”
Padma slaps the schedule to his chest, mocking him with a smirk. “It doesn’t matter if you’re the so-called Granger Whisper. You will need the luck this time.”
The walk to Hermione’s office is his favourite daily routine. When she became the Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, he was assigned as her bodyguard. He didn’t beg Potter for the position; he pressured Potter into giving it to him. Since then, he has always been by her side during work and travels. He just wishes he could be there all the time instead. He has been playing his cards slowly, and now, it seems his opportunity is finally here.
“Morning, Granger.” He pulls out the chair opposite her and settles in, cross-legged. His movements have drawn her attention. She eyes him from top to bottom for two seconds before snapping her gaze back to her work. “I’m not in the mood.”
It’s fixable. She still peeks. His little scoff nearly slips out. He immediately covers it up with a short cough. That laugh will definitely send her anger off the charts.
“Is it because of your schedule for Wednesday?”
Her eyes stay on her document. “Are you waiting for a prize for having a good guess?”
She is indeed extra feisty.
“I can go with you.” Her scribbling stops, and it takes her a couple of seconds to comprehend his suggestion.
“No. I don’t need a bodyguard for attending a fucking wedding.” She glares at him. “Besides, there are Aurors among the guests, Harry, your boss in particular. So thank you, but I don’t need your assistance.”
“I mean to go as your plus one.”
“I’m sorry. What?” She looks up, dropping her quill. He has her full attention, and he can no longer hold off his smirk.
“I’m serious. You need someone to go with you. Potter and Longbottom have their wives. Blaise is on a business trip, and Theo will beat the crap out of the groom.”
“Theo sounds like a good choice.”
“Mind you, there will be reporters.”
She does her iconic eye-roll, along with a scoff. He high-fives himself internally, knowing her mood has lightened.
She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, and asks with a raised brow, “What’s in it for you?”
“Weasley hates me, and he would loathe to see me as your plus one. I get to see him sulk at his own wedding. What’s better than that?”
She has never gotten this nervous, not since she sat under the Sorting Hat.
She puts on the dress, a gift she received from her bodyguard, and stands before her mirror. The beautiful purple silk dress hugs her body perfectly, as if it were tailored for her, and the idea makes her blush.
With one last adjustment, she steps out of her room, meeting her date. “How do I look?”
There is a moment of silence when their eyes meet. She notices how Draco freezes and swallows hard when she appears, and she likes to think she is the reason.
“You are gorgeous.”
His compliment feels like a charm, giving her goosebumps everywhere.
“I have something for you. May I?” He pulls out a box from his pocket and gestures to her neck. She pushes aside her curls. His cold fingers brush against her skin, sending her heart into a frenzy.
She looks down at her chest: his elegant Malfoy signet ring hanging in a simple silver necklace.
“What is this for?”
“To say you're mine.” He looks away, face turning pink. “It’s for the show. I’ll take it back after tonight.”
She presses her lips together, stopping her grin from escaping. A part of her wishes to abandon her original schedule and asks him to stay. She stops herself before the idea becomes too vivid. “Fair enough. Let’s go.”
Her hand finds his arm, and they apparate away.
Hermione thought the ceremony would infuriate her, but Malfoy puts her hand in his palm, making circles with his thumb against her knuckles, and everything is drowned out by her own heartbeat.
The ceremony goes by in an instant, and the party begins. He leads her to the dance floor, and they sway under the chandelier. Love songs are playing in the background as she dances in his arms like a fairytale. He never lets go of her hand, not until their dance is interrupted by her friend.
“So, your plus one is Malfoy.”
Ginny has snatched her away from Draco. He looks rather annoyed, and she wonders if he wants her to stay instead.
“Bad choice?”
“Brilliant choice. Ronald hates him, and you like him.”
“No, I don’t—”
“Come on, drop the act. I can see how you look at him.”
She gives up on her defences and giggles, blood rushing to her cheeks. They dance through the hall arm in arm as Ginny leads them to the bar. A table filled with beautiful champagne glasses sits at the centre.
“Gin, you know I don’t drink.”
“Mom made them. Said you deserve a good time and a drink.”
Ginny holds out a glass to her, and she reluctantly accepts it. She can never refuse Ginny’s or Molly’s warm gestures, the few things that still make her feel welcomed by the Weasley family. She swirls the glass and sniffs. The orangy pink liquid with a bright, zesty fragrance looks rather tempting, and she takes a small sip. Her brows shoot up in surprise.
“There’s alcohol?” She takes another sip. Sweet and fruity, a hint of floral, not bitter at all.
“Yeah, that’s what Mom said,” Ginny explains while toasting to her friend. “Her special mimosas blend, just for you.”
Hermione empties her glass and gets another. The cool liquid swims in her body.
It’s the best drink she's ever had.
His apartment comes into view with a sharp pop.
The wedding is supposed to last until midnight, but here he is in his own apartment right after dinner with a witch around his shoulder.
A very, very drunk Hermione Granger. The witch he wishes but dares not to approach intimately is now hanging in his arms.
Now that they are out of the sight of reporters, he gently picks her up, with her head resting on his chest. She is light as a feather, and she smells divine, even after the numerous glasses of mimosas. He is at the edge of occluding with the heat pouring down at his core. He quickly settles her on his bed and moves to remove the necklace, afraid it might graze her in her sleep.
“Let me take that off—”
“No!” She swipes away his hand, and wraps her hand around his ring. She is pouting with her eyes closed, looking absolutely adorable. “It’s mine!”
He huffs and gives up, knowing he has lost another argument to a barely conscious Hermione. He takes off her heels, and covers her with his blanket. Holding off the urge to brush her rosy cheeks, he turns to leave his room and sleep on the sofa.
Right before he closes the bedroom door, Hermione stirs and murmurs, “Draco Malfoy is mine—”
Hermione Granger is going to be the death of him.