Title: Mishaps in Potions
Author: Christelle
Fandom: Harry Potter
'Ship: Draco/Hermione
Challenge: D/Hr, using words "knarly," "righteous," and "dude."
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: PG-13
It was really too thick, he reflected. Too thick for classical beauty, anyhow. But he liked it, despite all that. A man could really get his hands tangled up in hair like that.
He caught himself staring for the third time in the past five minutes and jerked his gaze back to his food. Suddenly it didn't look so appetizing as before. He set his fork down, letting annoyance creep into his expression as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"Draco, what's the matter?" simpered Pansy Parkinson on his left.
"It's the idiot Gryffindors again, isn't it, Draco?" said Blaise Zabini from his right. "I saw you looking. We'll beat them into the ground next time, don't worry."
Draco snarled. He'd nearly forgotten about their last Quidditch match and hadn't appreciated the reminder. Harry bloody Potter. He inspected the bespectacled Gryffindor. Potter was busy offering Granger the cinnamon buns, while Ron Weasley handed her her schedule from her other side.
He snorted with disdain. Anyone could see they were both mad about her, fawning over her like that.
God, to think he wasn't any better than Potter and his loyal sidekick. He glared back at his food, wishing the bell would ring. He looked along the table for his schedule, and realized he'd thrown it away.
He cleared his throat, and the table quieted. "What," he said, "is the next class?"
"We've got Potions with Gryffindor first today," answered Blaise at once.
Well, that was bloody lovely. Perhaps he'd skive off class. Snape would understand, he was sure. No one with self-respect could stand to be around Gryffindors for long, after all.
He let his eyes turn back to the Mudblood and watched her from underneath his pale eyelashes. She was smiling at something Harry had said. His eyes narrowed. If she had to choose one of the two idiots, he wished she'd choose Weasley. Draco could deal with Weasley, easy. Weasley was hardly a threat.
The bell rang out, horribly bright and cheery. He winced, set down his goblet, and rose to his feet, his robes rippling around his ankles. A Malfoy always exudes grace, his father had told him. Well, fine.
He stalked down the stairs, Blaise, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle hurrying behind him.
When he reached the Potions classroom, he received the shock of his life. Snape wasn't there. In his stead was Professor McGonagall, standing as though she had a board strapped to her back, as usual.
"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," said McGonagall crisply. She nodded to each of them in turn. "Mr. Zabini, Miss Parkinson, Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle. Vincent, straighten your tie."
"Professor," acknowledged Draco coolly, sweeping past her. A Malfoy does not show surprise, his father always said. Well, fine.
He sat down, and his posse fluttered down around him.
By the time the rest of the class had filtered in, Draco had resigned himself to being denied the pleasure of watching Gryffindors receive detention and lose points.
"Professor Snape is ill," said McGonagall when they were all seated. "It is not serious, but he is not well enough to teach. I am sure he will be fully recovered in time for your next class. For today, I will be your instructor."
Draco decided that the Gryffindors looked far too happy. He was quite unused to seeing smiling red-and-gold faces in this classroom. He shifted in his seat like a ruffled eagle.
"We will be making Personality Potions today," McGonagall continued. "The instructions—" she waved her wand, "—are on the board. I will split you into pairs.... Potter, Finnigan. Weasley, Thomas. Brown, Bulstrode. Patil, Zabini. Malfoy, Granger."
Draco's jaw nearly dropped, but he caught it just in time. Of all the luck! Was that a smirk on McGonagall's face? He glared at her suspiciously. There it was! It was definitely a smirk.
Granger picked up her things and waltzed over, setting herself down beside him. "Hello, Draco," she said brightly. She was obviously trying to make the best of the situation. He rolled his eyes—well, in his head, at any rate. She was going to be unbearable. Sure, she had nice eyes and her hair was pretty and her laughter was infectious and bubbly and he loved the way she was the only girl he'd ever known who'd ever really stood up to him; but the girl herself... well, that was another matter.
"Hello, Granger," he answered, making sure to use his most supercilious voice.
She slung her cauldron on top of the desk and began to dice bat eyes, humming a tune under her breath.
He heaved an internal sigh and pulled the dried bloodroot towards the cauldron. It was going, he felt, to be a long class.
An hour later, they had brewed the base potion, let it simmer, poured half into Draco's cauldron, added the ingredients for different personalities, and let them simmer again.
"You should be ready to drink them in four minutes," McGonagall called over the noise.
Four minutes later, Draco drank Hermione's potion and she drank his.
Twenty seconds later, he noticed that a whole lot of little green men with big, painful sparklers were having a party in his stomach.
A minute and fourteen seconds after that, he felt very strange indeed.
And then he didn't feel like himself at all.
When his head had cleared as much as it was going to, he looked around, blinking sleepily. Grang—no, it was Hermione, wasn't it? Hermione was staring down at her breasts in surprise. She reached down to tweak open her blouse into a more revealing position, crossed her thighs, and leaned across the desk like a hooker.
"Hey, baby," she purred, looking at him beneath her lashes, which should have been heavily coated with mascara.
Draco turned to Neville Longbottom, who was sitting across from them. "Dude," he said, drawing out the word. "Did you hear that?"
Neville looked scared. "No," he said shakily, staring at Draco. "Hear what?"
"Listen to this, dude," he said. Something was wrong with his tongue—it was moving far too sluggishly. And Neville's voice was fuzzy in his ears. He turned back to Hermione.
"You wanna get busy?" she asked. "I'll go down, but it'll cost you."
Draco turned back to Neville. "Knarly, huh?"
"Hermione, snap out of it," said Lavender Brown, who was fidgeting compulsively. Millicent Bulstrode may have been unimaginative, but she was cruel.
"Hey, for a looker like you I might even do a few things for free," continued Hermione.
"Righteous!" exclaimed Draco, nodding enthusiastically.
"Hey, Hermione," said Harry Potter, coming over. Ron, catching on to Hermione's new personality a split second after Harry, came rushing over.
"Surf's up," said Draco happily, although he had no idea what it meant.
McGonagall strode over, attracted by the disturbance like a moth to light. "Miss Granger," she snapped, "close your blouse. Mr. Malfoy, do try to stop your head lolling around like that, please?"
"Dude," said Draco reproachfully.
"Your ordinary personalities should be returning shortly," said McGonagall briskly, walking back up to the front of the room. "The better you made your potion, however, the longer it will last. The bell will ring in five minutes, but I must ask you to remain in this room until you are back to normal."
Five minutes later, Draco was still wondering where his surfboard was, whatever that was, and Hermione was still flirting promiscuously with Seamus Finnigan. The rest of the class had returned to themselves and were having fun laughing at Draco and Hermione—the Slytherins at Hermione, the Gryffindors at Draco and Hermione.
The bell rang, and the room emptied in a matter of seconds. Draco and Hermione remained, and McGonagall looked impatiently at her watch.
"I'm afraid I have a meeting with the headmaster to attend," she said after two or three slow minutes had passed. "I have left passes for you to excuse your tardiness from your next classes. I trust you will stay here until you are quite recovered?"
Without waiting for an answer, she gathered her things and left the room.
"What a rotten old orange," said Draco, more or less to himself. Hermione turned.
"You know, you are so sexy," she answered.
"Righteous!"
He felt a sudden galoomph in his stomach, the way thick soup boils. An icy wave swept through his body, and he shook his head to clear it. He curled his lip. Oh, yes, he was back. And he was irritated.
He glared at Hermione. "You turned me into some kind of idiot!" he snapped. "What was that?"
Hermione grinned. "I have an American cousin," she said. "He's a surfer. Californian, you know. Anyway, I modeled your personality after Rick." She looked pleased with herself. Then she turned on him. "And you! Turning me into some kind of—of prostitute! What was that all about?"
"I've got this cousin," said Draco cattily.
"Oh, shut up."
She turned to pick up her cauldron at the same time that he reached for his starmoss and their hands brushed. She smiled shyly at him, suddenly blushing lightly.
A Malfoy always accepts what he is given and acts on it with dignity and clarity, his father always lectured.
Well, fine.
He cupped her face in his hands. "I want you to know," he said, "that I am suffering from temporary insanity, probably thanks to you. This is just a side effect of your horrible potion, and reflects in no way my personal feelings."
So saying, he kissed her soundly. And then she was kissing him back.
Righteous, he thought to himself. Very... righteous.