dedication: to being so close to summer that it hurts! to philosophical discussions which... somehow turns into plots about Dramione. Go figure. :) To our fellow AAG-ers for being awesome, & Saraa for her alcohol knowledge.
disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.
notes: Hey, this is Selene (seleneswan) & Sonya (pandastacia) of the Author's Appreciation Guild. For an explanation of what Prismatically Inked is, look to our profile. The shorthand explanation is that PI is a collaborative account that we use when we want to practice our writing skills and just have fun writing together without creating a million different accounts every time a different combination of writers want to work together.
This particular drabble series is Dramione, as you can see, and we hope you enjoy!
Hermione could tell she wasn't in her own room the moment she returned to consciousness.
She may have been part of the famous (or infamous, depending on who you asked) Golden Trio, but she was careful with the money gained from the fame to the point that she could feel how much smoother these sheets were - they didn't catch on her fingertips as she greedily grasped at the pillow, rubbing her cheek against it. If it hadn't been for the sunlight streaming through the curtain-less windows, she had no idea how much longer she would've laid there.
Luxury, after all, was rather nice.
So nice, in fact, that it had escaped her mind completely, those implications of why she was in someone else's bed.
There really was ever only one answer for that.
Jolting up, Hermione nearly shrieked as she realized her state of undress and jerked the sheets sprawled around her to cover up everything she deemed private and pertinent.
What in Merlin's fugly green jumper happened?
As she squinted in the general direction of the light, she winced at the headache that came with it and tried to suppress the raging desire to hide her head under the pillow.
And possibly never return to society.
She dove under the blankets and pillow.
The last thing she remembered... It had been Harry's twenty-second birthday, and the conclusion of his first year as an official Auror at the Ministry - a night of heavy celebration, heavy drinking, and lightweights were all around. They'd played some drinking game involving a hippogriff, a Hungarian Horntail, and three Nifflers, which had turned out to be a bundle of laughs surprisingly. She was pretty proud of herself. Eight shots at least, before her mind had slid under the table, so to speak. Ron had been drooling under the table around... oh, five shots, and Harry had been as ridiculous as her.
Now, the only question was... what happened between that eighth shot and this morning? From her state of undress, something... naughty had transpired. After all, there was a sticky substance on her stomach. Peeking her head out from underneath the pillow, Hermione saw brown.
Was that what she thought it was?
She poked it tentatively before taking a small sniff and lick off off her right pointer finger.
Just as she had thought-
Chocolate body paint.
Now, to find out where she was or stay in the bed...
Considering her hangover, it would be much more comfortable to just lie there and never leave. There were just a few birds outside the open window to disturb the peace, but rather than break the charm, they enhanced it. Nestled within the sheets (the thread count had to be at least 600 - whoever she had slept with last night, they were so loaded) sounded like a beautiful idea, but the sanctuary of the moment could be violated at any moment. If the owner of this place walked in, they'd discover her, just as bare as the day she was born.
Hermione growled some choice words under her breath.
Explore her territory it was, then.