Harry watched with faint amusement as Hermione was met with yet another invitation from the opposite sex to join her for a drink.
And once again she shook her head.
But, the guy insisted. Something that tonight no “suitor” had ever done. Harry shoved away from his slouch against the wall. He knew Hermione could take care of herself, but if she had to use her wand, he could file a complaint.
“Excuse me,” he said as he came up behind Hermione. Both gazes locked on him. “Is there a problem here?”
“I’m just asking her for a drink,” the man drawled.
“And apparently, she refused.”
“Ah, all she needs is a little…persuading.”
Hermione spoke now, “Oh…yeah?”
A burning sensation began to eat at Harry’s gut as his best friend’s hands crept up the man’s shoulders.
“Here’s my answer,” Hermione whispered. The fire got to the edge of painful as Hermione drew the stranger’s face towards hers…
Then the sensation dissolved as Hermione’s knee rammed in the man’s groin. Looking down at the doubled-over wizard, she hissed, “Find some other toy, you miserable prick.”
She left with Harry, muttering, “Another reason why I won’t do that again.”
“Mate!” Ron lurched to a stop in front of the duo. “I got some…”
“Alcohol?” Hermione asked.
“Tequila!” Ron brandished his glass like his wand.
“Ron!” Hermione’s jaw dropped. “You know you hiccup when you drink that stuff! How many did you have?”
“A couple before the show,” Ron mumbled.
“Are you serious?” Hermione began, but was cut off.
“Mate, I got the worm this time!” Ron shoved it towards Harry. “Talk to it! Tell him I don’t wanna drink him!”
Harry gazed down at the worm curled up in the liquid, “Fine.” He muttered a couple of words and the worm stretched out, flopping over the rim of the glass.
“Thanks, mate!” Ron was grinning, but Hermione’s face was set, her arms crossed like she was cold—even though the club was a sweltering 75 degrees.
“The party’s over for you,” Harry said as Ron drank. “Time to go home.”
Ron stopped drinking and muttered, “Yeah, yeah…”
“Seriously, Ron,” Hermione grabbed his arm. “We need to go.”
Ron was just about to reply when they Disapparated.
“God, I haven’t drunken that much since the party for the defeat of Voldemort,” Ron staggered in Harry’s office. The black-haired man watched with amusement as his best mate slumped in a chair.
“You know you’re not the only one,” Harry informed him. “Lepus has a headache too. Apparently, she’s eager to please.”
“Yeah, but Lepus doesn’t have to have her ass kicked by her partner.”
“Ah, well…” Harry smiled. “At least you slept.”
“Did you?”
“Of course,”
“Please get me a vial of hangover medicine and entertain me with your dream,” Ron moaned.
Harry was motionless. In fact, the dream he had had last night was…inappropriate for the office. He had, in fact, dreamt about last night. Only this time a scantily-clad Hermione had pushed him backstage and—
“Mate?” Ron’s voice snapped Harry out of his recollections.
“Sorry,” Harry went to his medicine cabinet. “It was about last night.”
“What happened last night?”
Harry returned to his desk, vial in hand, “Oh, my God. Now, I know you were wasted,”
Ron gulped down the potion eagerly, “As you were saying…”
Harry gawked at the empty vial, “You like that stuff?”
“It’s not the best but I’ve grown used to it.”
“Man, I can’t even smell the stuff,” Harry shuddered.
“Neither can I,” Hermione had paused in the doorway. She was wearing a rather nice set of robes: lavender velvet with the silver nametag gleaming on her chest.
Hermione stepped closer to her boyfriend, “Trying to jog his memory?”
“You could say that,”
“Downplay the performance and I’ll buy you lunch.”
“With pleasure,”
“Thanks Harry,” Hermione headed towards the door.
“Anything for you,” Harry called. She shot him one last smile before she left.
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