Summary: Hermione Granger dreams of a time where she could be left alone to read her books of dubious knowledge in peace. However, Ginny has something else in mind, which leads to the confiscation of such simple pleasures: however, Hermione doesn't much mind. Femslash--HG/GW
Yes, slash. Don't love it, don't read it.
Disclaimer: I, J.K. Rowling, solemnly swear that I relinquish all the copyrights of my multi-billion dollar empire to this nerdy American girl, for no other reason except that she wishes it.
(When you see this in real print, I officially own Harry Potter. Until then...)
Hermione Granger did not mope, nor sulk, or do anything of the kind. She had decided, from an early age, surrounded by unicorns and smiling mushrooms and fluffy pillows, that she was strong enough to prevent herself to stoop to such a level;
such behavior did not befit the demeanor of a princess.
She had long since dropped the princess bit, but had kept up her vehemence against grumping; the teenage witch was heavily contemplating dropping such morals now, as they would probably be leaving with what remained of her sanity.
"It's not so bad," Ginny informed her, flipping scarlet locks behind one scantily-clad shoulder and checking her mascara in the reflection of a napkin holder. "Really, 'mione, you should learn to get out more. Y'know, get a tan, make out with some guys, that sort of thing. It's good for you. You're sixteen, after all. Try living life a little."
In reply, Hermione raised her head from where it had been resting on the bar counter (she did not let herself think about what had sat, oozed, or drooled upon the exact same spot), and let it fall back down, resulting in a lovely thudding sound from the probably rotting wood.
Ginny sighed. "Spoilsport."
Thonk.
"Party pooper."
Thonk.
"Honestly, no wonder I had to stop the twins from pranking you so much at Hogwarts."
Thonk.
At least, Hermionie reflected, the giant bruise that was rapidly forming on her forehead would scare off any would-be one-night-standers.
She honestly had no idea what possessed Ginny to go to these places, much less enjoy it. An hour ago, she had been peacefully tucked away in the world of text and dust, planning on reading, sleeping, eating, telling Ron off for falling off his broom for the eighth time this week, and then reading some more. It was a happy life, and one she enjoyed after a (understatement, she knew) rather stressful year.
However, her plans had been irrevocably killed by one Ginerva Weasely.
" 'Mione! I just had the best idea!" Hermione had not ever bothered to look up from her tomb of knowledge about magical ant farms in Nigera, which was large enough so she had to let it rest on the table in front of her: at that time cheerful in her cocoon of knowledge she would never need to know, she was peaceful with the world. This, obviously, would not last long.
"What?"
"Let's go clubbing!"
"What?"
Ginny sighed and rolled her eyes: it was at about this point that Hermione noticed that Ginny was wearing about as much clothing as she herself wore when about to bathe.
"There's this bar down at St. Catchpole: kind of dingy, kind of small, but there's some really...nice Muggle boys."
She gave Hermione a wink that didn't leave much to the imagination, and Hermione visibly winced.
"Your point, my dear flirt?"
"Stop drawling, Hermione. It's unbecoming."
Hermione snorted loudly, carefully bookmarking her book and letting it thud shut before turning to face the youngest of the Weasley clan.
"Look at the pot calling the kettle black."
Ginny shot her a look.
"Muggle saying," Hermione sighed.
"As I was saying," Ginny continued, shrugging off the remark as one of Hermione's idiosyncrasies, "you're coming with me."
Hermione idly wished, with the part of her that wasn't gaping like a fish out of water, that she hadn't slammed her book shut, so she could do it now for effect.
"You didn't say that."
"No, I didn't. That's why I'm saying it now."
"Well, thank you very much and all, but, as you can see, I'm busy, so I will have to beg off this time. I would say 'maybe next time,' but as I'd rather be--"
"Attacked by magical ant farms of Nigeria?"
Hermione nodded, relieved that she didn't have to think up a simile of her own.
Ginny sniffed.
"Well. To think that I once regarded you as a friend. Well. You'd rather read about the properties of magic ant eggs then go out to town?"
Hermione nodded again.
"Well," Ginny repeated. "Well."
Coupled with the fire beginning to burn in the redhead's eyes, Hermione began fearing for the worst.
"I think this calls for a little..."
Hermione instantly struggled to pick her book up to clutch to her chest for protection, but to no avail: seeing as she'd had to charm the book up to her table in the first place, it did not yield to the sanctuary of her open arms.
"..disciplining."
And, just as suddenly, the ants of Nigeria had bid her a cheerful farewell.
Hermione squeaked, her eyes bulging slightly.
Ginny pocketed her wand. "It's only until you come back."
And that was why, dressing in the most spinster-looking clothes she could find (a white collared shirt and a shin-length grey skirt), Hermione was currently slouched over a bar counter, while the witch she had once considered a dear friend and comrade-in-arms giggled and batted her eyelashes coquettishly at any male that happened past.
It couldn't, she thought, get much worse than this.
That was when the alcohol-infused breath washed over her, forcing her to pick up her head from the table.
"Hey, honey. What's your sign?"
"Go away," she groaned.
The man--though she did hesitate to call him that--leered.
"That's fine, honey. I like 'em feisty."
Hermione tried her Glare of Doom (pending patent), and wondered why she was only a scant month away from being able to hex Muggles at her leisure.
Life laughed. Loudly.
Hermione squeaked, and sat bolt upright. What that his hand on her--?
The beery blob laughed.
Hermione, one may surmise, didn't.
Though she was thankful that it was a shin-length skirt.
"Now, sweetie, want to take that nice ass home with me?"
Hermione choked. Loudly.
Loud enough that Ginny, flirting with the man staring unashamedly down her low-cut shirt, turned to see a very-red faced witch and a very drunk...drunk.
While the thing sitting next to her laughed loudly, Hermione ripped his germ-infested paw off of her leg, and said the first thing that came to her mind. Something that made her turn bright red, made the donkey next to her cut off in mid-bray, and that made it Ginny's turn to choke.
"I-I'm t-taken. I'm lesbian."
The drunk starting laughing again where he left off.
"You? Girl, you're the damn straightest woman I ever seen!"
Hermione looked at Ginny. Ginny licked her lips.
Some would have an epiphany at that moment: realize, in a burst of golden light, that they actually were of such sexual perusal, and snog the nearest person of the same gender.
Hermione did the snogging, but only to save her own skin.
It wasn't until some time later (after the bar had closed, and the man chasing after her affections had left some time ago, proclaiming that she could be lesbian all she liked, as long as she let him watch), rubbing lipstick off her lips that she definitely hadn't put there in the first place, that she realized that this bar thing wasn't so bad, after all.
Fin.