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Ring A Ring O' Roses	By : Gallivant Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 16640 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Life is unraveling fast for Hermione. A night out at 'Le Bonheur', the classiest restaurant in town, goes very wrong...

4. Le Bonheur

'Please, Mummy. Please wear the shiny gown. Please! Aunty Fleur bought it for you 'specially!' Rose begged, fingering the hem of a red silk gown hanging in Hermione's wardrobe.

Hermione struggled to control the scowl that threatened to cloud her features. She had already chosen her outfit for the evening: a decidedly more conservative, high-waisted sky blue satin which didn't cling to every curve in such a wildly suggestive manner. After all, even though the next few hours were supposed to be 'fun,' this was still, to all intents and purposes, a work do. The annual St Mungo's Charitable Association Dinner and Dance was an event where Ministry bigwigs and business professionals exchanged information, cut deals, and even greased palms, if the persistent rumours were to be believed. Most Ministry department heads and a number of highly influential wizards were set to attend.

As a major up-and-coming star – at least, until that memo had landed on her desk yesterday afternoon - she was expected to attend. Expected to circulate, exchange pleasantries, maybe get a teensy bit tipsy, just enough to look like a well-balanced individual, and not ja crazy-eyed workaholic.

'Please, Mummy,' Rose persisted, continuing to caress the red silk gown.

'I don't think it's my style,' Hermione countered.

'But it was a present for Beltane.'

'I know, Rose, but this is not the right occasion.'

'Yes, it is,' Rose said petulantly, her bottom lip jutting out peevishly. 'You never look nice, not really nice. Aunty Fleur says so. Aunty Fleur says you don't make the best of yourself.'

'Does she, now?' Hermione fumed.

She had always considered Fleur's little interventions rather rude. Fleur was always goading Hermione to 'liven up,' to 'be more herself' and occasionally act on instinct rather than endless procrastination.

Her meddling sister-in-law was all too keen to spruce up Hermione's admittedly drab, workaday dress sense, too, and, in this instance, she had insisted that vivid red automatically heightened a woman's sexual attractiveness. But, frankly, at this moment in time, Hermione felt so horribly burdened with worries, that 'heightening' her sex appeal really was her last priority.

Dressed only in her underwear, she gazed irritably at her reflection in the long, ivory-framed mirror that graced the wall of her bedroom. 'Not bad,' remarked the mirror, a little cheekily, Hermione thought.

But yes. It was true. 'Not bad for an old bird,' she repeated to herself in soft undertones. She studied her narrow, waspish waist, her flaring hips, and her strong, slim legs with mild approval.

She eyed the sleek scarlet robes dangling temptingly in the wardrobe. She even imagined a slight flutter of wind had rippled invitingly across the surface of its glossy fabric.

Maybe she could, just this once. Ron was coming with her, so it wouldn't look like she was on the pull, or anything idiotic like that.

She smiled at her daughter, whose watchful honey-coloured eyes met her own.

Hermione donned the red robes, then seated herself on a low stool at her dressing table, instantly aware that the hem raised a little too high, just grazing her thigh as she sat down.

Rose caressed a small velveteen latch on her mother's jewellery box. The lid sprang open. Rose squealed in delight, looping a string of pearls over her small, neat fingers, which she then passed to Hermione. She fastened the pearls around her neck, then coiled her hair into a chignon, fixing the knot in place with a delicate silver butterfly hairpin which her daughter had selected.

Hermione smiled inwardly. This was nice. This was how it should be, what she had hoped for. One of those private moments between mother and daughter that she hoped to remember and cherish. A moment which was all too rare, she pondered ruefully, between herself and Rose.

Rose was so unlike Hugo. Whereas Hugo, with his tufty earth-brown hair and perpetually scuffed shoes, was graced with a bouncy, unruly temperament and a cheeky grin, Rose's wild, red hair belied a self-contained and secretive nature. She was soft-spoken, bookish and shy, and altogether a little too in awe of her mother. She was much more at ease with her father.

Which was why Hermione was currently thrilled at her daughter's rapt face upon watching her mother apply her mascara and a dash of rich red lipstick.

'Your lipstick matches your dress,' Rose trilled.

'So it does, darling,' Hermione grinned, wrapping a black lace stole over her exposed shoulders.

XXX

The St Mungo's Charitable Association Dinner and Dance was being held at a glamorous wizarding restaurant, Le Bonheur, in London's West End. The main salon was decorated in an ornate Belle Époque style, replete with exquisitely carved marble statues, lush velvet drapes, and a vast, glittering chandelier hoisted high above a circular atrium. Le Bonheur was considered one of the classiest – and priciest – restaurants in town.

The restaurant had been enchanted to accommodate a plethora of round dining tables which encircled the atrium. One end of the atrium opened onto a deep, recessed bay window, and in front of this window was a long dais where the Ministry's chief dignitaries and St Mungo's senior executives and main benefactors were seated.

Hermione and Ron had been placed on a table that had been resplendently laid for dinner and positioned at some distance from the dais – a little too near to the Chamber Orchestra for Ron's liking.

'All that scratching and scraping,' he groaned, indicating the violins, 'they're going to give me a headache.' He'd been in a foul mood all evening.

'Just have a drink,' Hermione said, grabbing a flute of fizzing blue champagne from an enchanted, free-floating drinks tray which was passing by. Ron eagerly complied, draining the drink in a few short seconds.

As she'd hoped, the champagne was Exultante, meaning it had been pepped up with a hugely popular 'happiness' draught. Exultante was widely used at most public social occasions since the Second War against the Dark Lord, in an effort to ensure peaceable, pleasant occasions at all times. Ron was now beaming with delight, any vestiges of tired grumpiness instantly vanquished.

Hermione's relief was short-lived. A rotund, balding man joined their dinner table. Sporting a smarmy smile, he sidled next to Ron and Hermione, and, with a tone of unctuous familiarity, introduced himself to Ron as Mr Jinks.

'And Mrs Weasley,' he said a little nervously. 'What a pleasure to see you.'

'I wish I could say the same, Mr Jinks,' Hermione said in acid tones. 'But we both know that would be a lie.'

'I – I understand your feelings on this matter, Mrs Weasley,' he stammered. 'But you have to remember that I'm just doing my job. And I do happen to have some serious causes for concern, which do need airing… But this is not the time and place.'

'I don't see why not,' Hermione sneered, her hands suddenly itching to slap his flushed, flabby cheeks. 'The least you can do is give me an honest appraisal, face to face. Or are you too much of a snotty-nosed little coward?'

Mr Jinks was open-mouthed with embarrassment. 'There's no need for insults, Mrs Weasley,' Mr Jinks retorted, breathless with outrage. 'Rest assured, I'll be raising this… this ill-advised behaviour, with your superiors.' Beads of sweat had erupted onto his forehead as he spoke, which he now wiped away with a dramatic flourish of his napkin.

'Hermione,' Ron whispered urgently, aiming to steer her away from any further confrontation before she attracted too much attention. 'Leave it alone.'

'I don't like my abilities being questioned unfairly, Ron,' she said, a fiery expression in her eyes that Ron knew all too well.

'Of course you don't, dear, but he's right. This isn't the time and place. It's not worth it,' Ron said soothingly. 'Have it out at the hearing.'

Mr Jinks had already used this distraction to change tables and was now seated at the opposite end of the restaurant.

Hermione sniffed disdainfully and made a great show of studying the evening's menu although, inwardly, she was still seething.

She'd rationalised this Jinks business by now. She knew it was all rubbish, of course. An excuse to undermine her.

Privately, however, she wondered exactly who she had offended.

Or, indeed, if she was simply being made a high profile scapegoat, the direct result of the incipient anti-Muggleborn feeling she feared was making a comeback. In recent months, there had been insistent calls, usually aired in the Daily Prophet, for an end to what was called 'positive discrimination' favouring Muggleborns in the workplace.

One memorably vehement article, Hermione recalled, claimed that excellent pureblood candidates were being deliberately overlooked, and even edged out of their jobs, so that the Ministry, in particular, could install Muggleborns instead.

A flash of silver notepaper prominently sporting the Malfoy crest and which appeared to have been dropped onto her plate by an invisible owl, worsened her mood. She snatched it open, furious at Malfoy's temerity in communicating with her in public. She was even angrier, and a little rattled, when she read what the note said.

'I hope you wear something more suitable tomorrow night in Berlin. DM.'

Suitable? What a cheek. She was perfectly suitable. Okay, so her gown was a little shorter than what she normally wore, but, compared to a large proportion of the witches currently crowded into this establishment, she was the model of polite decorum.

And how the hell did he know what she was wearing anyway?

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, subtly tugging at the hem on her gown so that it was stretched southwards as far as was materially possible. Her eyes feverishly scanned the restaurant, seeking out Draco's foppish silver hair and indolent smirk. Where was he? How dare he?

But he was nowhere to be seen.

'What's that?' Ron asked, nodding at the note now crumpled in her hand.

'Nothing important,' she muttered, screwing it into a ball, and vanishing it with a sharp tap of her wand.

XXX

Dinner was a splendid six-course affair, but Hermione was wound so tightly that she could hardly swallow. Ron made the most of her disability, adding half her portions to his own.

The Jinks had been replaced by the Osgoods. Hillary Osgood was something senior in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, and happily engaged Ron in long conversation.

Hermione had known his wife Melinda at Hogwarts, and she now worked as a lawyer at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, although in a considerably junior capacity compared to Hermione. She had, however, recently been appointed chief counsel in a major property dispute, which seemed worth toasting with a particularly expensive bottle of Pink Exultante.

Melinda's conversation was stimulating and she seemed very pleasant, but, in her current mood, Hermione had precious little interest really in talking to anyone, and fervently wished she had stayed at home.

After dinner, Ron had spent a good twenty minutes engaged in a bout of hearty mutual backslapping and Butterbeers with some of the Senior Aurors from his new department. But even he was now looking a little lost.

He rejoined her at the table.

'Tony Goldstein's here,' he said, nodding towards a slightly built, dark-haired man in a smart black robe, standing alone at the bar. 'You can finally catch up with the guy.'

Tony looked to be scrolling through messages or text of some sort on what looked at this distance to be an enchanted parchment communication device. He didn't seem best pleased with what he read.

'I'm really not in the mood for all that rubbish tonight,' Hermione huffed. 'That's your territory from now on, Ron, and yours alone. If Padma was here -'

'Come on, Hermione, cheer up. You've got a face like a wet weekend. Look at the poor devil. Bit out on a limb over there, don't you think?'

'Alright,' Hermione said reluctantly, dragging Ron behind her. Best to be sociable.

Ron, however, had other ideas, slipping away to 'mingle' elsewhere, as he put it.

XXX

Twenty minutes of turgid social chitchat later and Tony Goldstein was fast proving himself to be the boring bastard Ron had originally trumped him up to be. Without Padma's cheery presence to smoothly manage their social interaction, conversation was stilted and slow.

Hermione was already onto her third Exultante.

'Padma was telling me how much you love your job,' she said brightly.

'Yeah. It's great.'

'Your lab… best lab in Europe, I hear!' she said, desperately trying to inject a note of enthusiasm into her voice.

Tony thought about this for a moment. 'Almost. Not quite as good as The Jeroboam Foundation in Geneva. Now that's super-cool.'

'Sounds splendid. Have you been there?'

'A few times. It's awesome.'

'Maybe you could work there one day?' Hermione asked. 'I've always thought it'd be great experience to work abroad for a while, get to see the world, don't you think?'

As she spoke she felt an almost tangible tug at her insides. God, she missed Harry so much. And, God, how she envied him.

There was a strange flicker of interest in Tony Goldstein's eye, which was quickly extinguished. 'I'm happy where I am,' he said with a nonchalant shrug.

'Sure,' Hermione said, nodding pleasantly, frantically scanning the room for somebody else to talk with instead.

She took a deeper sip of her Exultante and watched the restaurant manager swish his wand extravagantly, dipping the lighting and clearing a sizeable space in the atrium, at the heart of the venue. The orchestra was gone, and instead, a band was tooting and trilling in bursts, tuning up for performance; judging by the excitable gaggle of witches milling to the side of the atrium, dancing was soon to start.

Thinking about it, she could always use the dancing as a suitable excuse to wrap up this conversation. Maybe she could tell Tony she needed to 'powder her nose,' which she always found a particularly banal statement, truth be told.

Or she could say she needed to rescue Ron from making an absolute arse of himself. Having an inappropriately loud argument with an ex-Slytherin about the merits of Chudley Cannons manager Oliver Woods's new Beater system could only end badly.

The last excuse was true, of course, and Hermione was about to spring into action when she saw that Ron, face scarlet with outrage, was rapidly approaching, knocking into the dancers now thronging the dance-floor as he lumbered towards them.

How many drinks had he had this evening? Hermione thought wretchedly, her mood plummeting fast. Not just Exultantes, that was for sure.

'Slimy Slytherin pillock,' he snarled. 'Dared to suggest that Woods's new screw down system will decimate Chudley's score-rate ten-fold, and that Woods won't last the season.'

He halted his rant the moment he saw Hermione's eyes had glazed over and turned to Tony Goldstein instead. 'Oh. It's you,' he mumbled, barely able to conceal his disappointment.

He turned to the bar for inspiration. 'Just getting a beer.'

If Tony had indeed noticed Ron's rudeness, he chose not to show it.

'Sorry about cancelling our appointment,' Tony said suddenly. In the midst of events, Hermione had clean forgotten about it.

'That's okay. Don't worry about it.' She smiled warmly.

'Yeah. Things got kind of hectic at work.'

Hermione's ears pricked up at this point. She knew it probably wasn't true, but hadn't Draco and Ron inferred that Tony and his cohorts at Arcana might have been particularly busy because of the Dark Flux manifestation in Paraguay?

Or Bolivia, as it now turned out.

'Anything… exciting?'

'Yeah. The company got sold.'

'Sold?'

Tony clicked his fingers at a tray of gleaming blue Exultantes wafting past them at a fair lick. He snagged a glass for himself and Hermione.

'Yeah. This Yank chap, Ephraim Golowitz, bought the lot. Lock, stock and barrel.'

'Was that very sudden?' Hermione asked, beginning to wish she read the business pages in the Daily Prophet.

This was the only explanation she could think of for missing out on the incredible news that the Malfoys had ever been bankrupt. That, and her almost visceral allergy to the name whenever she saw it in print, of course.

'Yeah. Kind of out of the blue, actually,' Tony said. 'Saul… that's Mr Jeroboam… He's been the bossman at Arcana since I started there straight after Hogwarts. Well, he decided to move all his business interests out of the UK. He owns a major company in Switzerland. Red Star? You might have heard of it.'

Hermione hadn't, but privately decided it might be worth looking into. Ron, Draco, and Dark Flux aside, this mysterious magnate was increasingly piquing her own interest.

'What was so wrong with the UK?' Hermione asked. She took a long, deep sip of her Exultante.

Tony shrugged. 'He never said.'

'You've met him?'

'A few times.'

'What's he like?'

'He's… he's an awesome guy. Super-super-clever, you know what I mean? Brilliant wizard. But… you know something? I wouldn't want to piss him off. He's kind of a cold fish.'

'Really?'

'The new guy, Golowitz, he's completely different. Very friendly. Heads up Gilgad Inc, which is huge, and has stacks of money. He's promised me unlimited funding for my work on Gimlott's Disease,' Tony grinned.

'So you won't be whisking Padma off to Geneva in the near future?' Hermione laughed, beckoning one of the enchanted drinks trays with a cursory snap of her fingers. One more Exultante couldn't hurt, she thought. It had been a tough week.

Ron had returned from the bar clutching a large tumbler of Firewhisky. So much for sticking to beer, Hermione thought wearily. He'd have a sore head in the morning.

'Still hate Quidditch, then?' Ron said to Tony, a little too oafishly for Hermione's liking. Really, the man had no manners.

'Not my thing,' Tony sniffed. 'Mind you, a few years back, I came across some really intriguing statistical research that showed how a high percentage of Seekers happened to be Epsilon blood-types – which was kind of interesting seeing as Epsilon purebloods, and in particular Epsilon half-bloods, are the least common blood group variety in the wizarding world.'

'Really?' said Ron, rooted to the spot in surprise. 'That's fascinating.' Then, with even greater emphasis, after feeling the full force of one of Hermione's death-stares, he continued. 'No, really, it is fascinating.'

'Sounds a bit suspect to me,' Hermione muttered, pursing her lips tightly. If this was one of Jeroboam's research projects at Arcana, maybe she should be a little more suspicious, after all?

'But I'm Epsilon,' Ron said, obviously feeling peeved to have missed out on the greater celebrity status usually afforded a team's Seeker.

Oh, no. Wounded ego, here we come, Hermione thought contemptuously.

'Your siblings, Ginny and Charlie, both Seekers,' Tony pointed out helpfully. 'And the Diggorys have a well-known Epsilon bloodline. The Malfoys, of course, and the Blacks. Even Cho Chang… But then, the most talented pureblood wizards of Asian descent are more often Epsilon than Alpha or Beta, aren't they?'

Ron shrugged. 'No idea.'

'Then there's the true greats like Viktor Krum and Josep Wronski, both famously of Epsilon heritage.'

'What about Harry? Harry Potter?' Ron asked.

'Half-blood. So probably a rare Epsilon+,' Tony mused. 'Can he perform wandless magic?'

'I can perform wandless magic,' Hermione interjected, quietly seething at this ridiculous, racist conversation that her own husband was so happily contributing to. 'And I'm only a paltry little Gamma.'

Indeed, this had been confirmed by her blood tests at St Mungo's. The result was as expected. Most Muggleborns, with the rare exception, were Gamma.

'Hmmm… there's remarkably few Muggleborn Seekers, it must be said,' Tony said, oblivious to her sarcasm.

Hermione could feel hot anger bubbling up inside of her. So much so that the burble of voices, and muddle of bodies bustling excitedly onto the dance floor as the band upped its tempo and volume with a brash, jazzy number, seemed to fade out.

Or, at least, she wished it would. Sometimes she hated this place, this wizarding world, with its stupid, archaic notions. No, Hermione thought, she couldn't let this one go.

'Has it not occurred to you both, that Muggleborns are less likely to be picked as Seekers because of the ingrained prejudices of their Quidditch teachers and team selectors? Purebloods are expected to be more proficient, so there is a natural bias.'

Ron visibly flinched. He knew from bitter experience where this might be headed. Tony Goldstein, however, remained impassive, even curious.

'This research you're peddling, Tony,' Hermione continued, 'seems to ignore any sociological factors and their implications. It panders to nonsensical, bigoted notions that Epsilon blood types make better wizards.'

'That's not what he's saying, Hermione,' Ron sighed, rolling his eyes in Tony's direction in a show of solidarity. 'You don't need better magic to be a Seeker, just better reflexes, better flying skills. But seeing as you know absolutely fuck-all about Quidditch, you wouldn't know that, would you?'

'There's no need to be so rude, Ronald Weasley,' Hermione hissed, taking a deep swig of Exultante, Exultante that suddenly didn't seem to be working. She was feeling heady and loose, but without the happy, buzzy little vibe that usually came with it.

'And there's no need to keep seeing prejudice where none is intended,' Ron countered, his face flushed with irritation. 'You always do it, Hermione, and it's beginning to really wind me up.'

'In the spirit of academic fairness,' Tony said diplomatically, 'Muggleborns might well be at a disadvantage when it comes to Quidditch because of less practised flying skills. Pureblood wizards have the advantage of being reared on broomsticks from an early age.'

'And does this research you quote so authoritatively, happen to mention this little fact? It does seem rather relevant, doesn't it?' Hermione said, prickling with irritation.

'As it happens, sociological factors were excluded… and yeah, on reflection, that's kind of an oversight,' Tony said. 'Just to say, though, this research was part of an ongoing haematology project at Arcana. The objective at that time was not to allocate specific characteristics to different blood types.'

'What was it for then?' Hermione asked, uncomfortably aware that a shrill tone had crept into her voice and that fellow diners, who were now queuing for drinks at the bar, were being drawn into their conversation.

Ron was clearly very conscious of this fact, and had casually draped an arm around his wife's shoulders. 'Hey, Tony, fancy a proper drink?' he said with forced jollity, nodding at Tony's empty champagne flute. 'And you too, honey. How about another Exultante?'

'Get off me,' Hermione said, squirming free of his grasp.

She stumbled backwards, her limbs suddenly feeling cold and jellied, and collided with someone standing close behind her.

Something wasn't right, she thought, her heart racing wildly.

'Dear me, Mrs Weasley. Had a few too many this evening, have we?' came a familiar, sardonic drawl.

Well, now she knew something wasn't right. She had to pull herself together, and fast.

'Shut up, Malfoy!' Hermione snarled, spinning round unsteadily on her heel to face him. He was sporting his trademark smirk, and looking pretty dapper and self-satisfied with himself in a sprucely tailored charcoal grey gown. 'What do you want?'

Draco feigned a hurt expression although his eyes were twinkling with merriment. 'I'm here on a philanthropic mission, if you must know. You looked such a glum bunch that I thought some Cheering Charms might be in order.'

'We don't need cheering up,' Ron said. 'We were having a healthy discussion, that's all.'

Draco had switched his attention to Tony Goldstein who was shuffling uncomfortably, toying with his empty champagne flute.

'You look like a man in need of a drink,' he said firmly, signaling to the barman with one hand.

'No need. I was just getting the drinks in,' Ron said. 'Wasn't I, Tony?' he shouted, having to raise his voice a little to be heard over the music, which had suddenly cranked up in volume.

Tony nodded sheepishly, flicking his eyes nervously between Ron and Draco.

'Do what you like, Weasley,' Draco said, grabbing an Exultante from a floating tray.

'I'm getting a headache,' Hermione surreptitiously mouthed to her husband. And it was true. There was a sharp, insistent pain drumming at her temples.

Draco was clearly an adept lip-reader. 'Surely you're not leaving us already, Mrs Weasley? The party's just getting started.'

'I'm sure you'll survive without me.' Hermione turned to her husband. 'Ron?'

Ron had a pained expression on his face. 'But I've just ordered more drinks.'

'Oh come on,' Draco grinned. 'Don't ruin the poor man's fun.'

'Just go away, Malfoy! Nobody wants you here,' she retorted, furiously snatching a fresh Exultante for herself from the drinks tray, which was still hovering close by expectantly.

'I was just thinking,' Draco said, studiously ignoring her outburst, his eyes on the dance floor. 'I don't think I've seen you dance since Hogwarts.'

Not only was the music louder, but the lights had dipped. Constantly curling whorls of multi-coloured lights, swished and whirled high above the dancers, moving in rhythm to the band's pulsating beat.

'Don't hold your breath,' Hermione said brusquely, taking a large gulp of her Exultante. 'It's not my thing.'

'I can believe that,' Draco muttered under his breath.

'It's not that I can't dance,' Hermione said pointedly, rounding on Draco melodramatically. Draco instinctively stepped back.

'I'm just not in the mood.'

Oh, Merlin. Why was she even justifying herself?

'I must say, Mrs Weasley, that's a very short dress you're wearing this evening,' Draco said abruptly, overtly eyeing her up and down in a deliberately aggravating manner.

Hermione recoiled in disgust. 'How old are you? Twelve?' Darn it. She really was beginning to feel pretty bloody peculiar. Strangely hazy, as though a warm fuzz was creeping slowly through her body.

She could feel herself swaying and, for a moment, she felt overcome by a swooping sensation, like vertigo… she feared she might fall.

She planted a hand firmly on Draco's arm to steady herself, gulping for air.

'I'm just pointing out that you don't normally wear such revealing clothes,' he explained chirpily, his cool, grey eyes quietly appraising her. 'Doesn't mean I like what I see.'

'Shut up, Malfoy,' she snapped, instantly snatching her hand away from his arm, as if stung.

For the second time that evening, she was seriously tempted by violent outburst. Her fists were smarting to pummel the sneer off his face, to strangle him with that bloody silver rose chain dangling around his neck.

It must have shown in her face, or maybe she lurched a little aggressively towards him, because a glint of fear, even contrition, shaded his features.

'Okay,' he conceded. 'You look… nice. Alright?'

'I don't care what you think, Malfoy, and I never will,' Hermione countered, her eyes blazing with white-hot rage. Her head was drumming, throbbing. It felt like a burning hot band being wrapped tightly around her forehead.

'So why are you so angry?'

'Look. Leave me alone, will you? Why you talking to me anyway?'

Does he know about my Tribunal? she wondered, suddenly bristling with suspicion. It would be just like him, to want to gloat over her misfortunes.

Another wave of hot wooziness swirled through her with such force that she tottered backwards, instantly alarming Tony Goldstein, who dashed to her assistance. But she elbowed him aside, falling against Draco instead.

Draco eased her into a vertical position, then slid his arm around her waist to keep her upright. She lolled heavily against him.

'I fucking hate you so much,' she snarled, her face so close to his, she was half-tempted to bite a chunk out of his cheek. 'If you get my husband killed on this fucking stupid little adventure of yours, I'll hex your fucking balls off.'

There was a sickly feeling rising within her from the pit of her stomach. This was all wrong. This shouldn't be happening. But she seemed powerless to prevent it, almost like the real, sane Hermione had been locked deep inside of her.

'You're really not a fun drunk, Mrs Weasley,' Draco said. His mouth was so close; she could feel his breath on her face, ticklish and warm.

Yet another swirl of intoxication spiralled through her like a spinning top. She felt nauseous and a little clammy.

'I think… think someone spiked me… spiked my Exultante,' she stammered, her legs buckling a little. She scrabbled back into a standing position and held tightly onto Draco's robe with tight, screwed-up fists. Everything was beginning to fade a little at the edges. Hermione tried to tell them that she needed to get out of there, but this wasn't translating into words.

'You're paranoid, you know that?' Draco said in quiet, low tones.

'So are you,' she retorted, tipping forwards and leaning her forehead on his shoulder.

'You're not going to be sick, are you?' Draco asked, an undeniable frisson of alarm in his voice.

Hermione stared at his highly polished leather boots and, for a moment, thought it would be a wonderfully hilarious thing to do. She closed her eyes, allowing the thick swirling grey to momentarily envelop her.

'Let's sit you down,' Draco murmured hastily. 'Weasley!' he shouted in the direction of the bar, but it was Tony Goldstein who stepped forward instead.

'Where's that fuckhead Weasley got to?' she heard Draco ask Tony in low, urgent tones.

Fuckhead. She liked that. Hermione burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, which she promptly smothered into somebody's shoulder, though she wasn't sure whose. She was now sitting down, although she wasn't sure how she had got there.

It was dawning on her fast, through the mist of dizzying confusion, that she had to get home - home to her children. She had to get away from this place, away from prying eyes.

She hoped she looked normal. She really, really hoped she looked normal.

'Do I look normal?' she whispered, to the person next to her.

'Honest answer?'

Shit. It was Draco. How humiliating. Bet he's loving this, she thought miserably.

She prised her eyes open, which was much more difficult than she could have ever imagined. She was in a shadowy corner, that much she could make out… and the lights were low. That was good. Very good.

A shadowy figure standing before her offered her a glass of cold water, which she gulped back greedily.

It was Tony, she realized.

'Thanks, Tony. You know something… I thought, I thought you were really boring… but actually… you're kind of nice.'

Beside her, Draco was snorting with laughter.

'I like you very much,' she said, in a singsong voice she hardly recognised as her own.

What the hell was this? A mutated form of Veritaserum? Why would someone do this to her? She then turned to Draco, fired with fury by his mocking laughter, and grabbed him by the lapels on his robe so that his head was bent close to her own. 'But you… I don't like you at all,' she growled.

'I think we know that already.'

'You think you can do anything you like. You think you can get away with it. All these things you've done… You're… you're a prat, and you can steal, and cheat, and torture Muggles, and whatever fucking horrible stuff you want to… and… and… nothing. Nothing at all! Like you don't exist. Like a ghost… nothing. Your records. Blank. Like nothing ever happened…'

'Tony? Do you want to go get Weasley? I think this one's had enough tonight.' There was a silence. 'Run along, now. I won't eat her,' Draco said in fierce, wolfish tones.

Hermione heaved a huge sigh and collapsed against Draco, her head bouncing against his chest. 'And now you're going to kill my husband.'

His laugh seemed deeper, more rumbling than usual, but she realised that was because her ear was pressed to his chest. 'You are so going to regret this tomorrow,' he chuckled.

'You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

His chest rumbled with laughter again. 'If you say so.'

'I'm going to lose my job next week,' she groaned. 'And I love my job.'

'Don't be silly. You're just pissed.'

'No, it's true. Got a Tribunal hearing… in the dungeon.'

'What for?'

'… irreg… irreg-ul-ar-it-ies.' She pulled a face, vaguely making out Draco's silver hair in the shadows next to her. 'But it's not fair. I work so hard. All the fucking time. I hardly see my own fucking children… and now, all gone. All for nothing. And you know what?… Sometimes, sometimes, I just want to be a Muggle again. A nice, normal Muggle. Back in the real world… but you wouldn't know anything about that. You and your kind.'

'Hermione…'

'No. Don't shut me up. Don't even try… Because I want you to know, Draco. Want you to know that we – the dirty little Mudbloods you so love to hate – we get a second chance. Which is fucking great… another world, another life… but you… you have to live here forever, trapped behind your spells and your wards and your glamours… pretending you don't exist… with all your stupid little prejudices that mean jack shit… so sometimes…' She paused, touching his face, checking she wasn't alone, ranting into the darkness. 'Sometimes... I just want to go home.'

'Have you told Ron this?'

'Please. Please don't tell Ron.'

'Don't tell Ron what?' came Ron's booming voice.

Draco instantly stood up, leaving Hermione to slide slowly sideways, crumpling downwards, until warm hands – that she knew to be Ron's – saved her from cracking her head on the chair beside her.

'What you gone and done to her, you jerk?' Ron said gruffly. 'I've never seen her like this, ever. Tony, give us a hand, will you, mate?'

Hermione felt two strong pairs of arms hoist her from her seat. She nestled lazily against Ron, who roughly pushed past Draco in his eagerness to get them away. Hermione could distantly hear Draco calling after them.

'Hey, Mrs Weasley! I hope you behave better tomorrow night!' she heard, but his voice was quickly swallowed up by the clatter and bang of the band as the percussion burst loudly into life.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: "LONELINESS" by TOMCRAFT

& “THIS PARTY FEARS TWO” by THE ASSOCIATES

Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to Lupinswolfie, Apurva & Lou.
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