A/N: I have so many barely-begun, unfinished stories. It's disgusting. But I keep getting these ideas that I can't ignore, and none of them merge, so… new story! Yay! Hope you like it!
The Hogwarts Class of 1998 ten-year reunion was in full swing. All around the Great Hall, former students danced, drank, partied, and partook in general merriment. It was fortunate, really, that the current students, and most of the teachers, had left the school a week prior—Professor McGonagall, in particular. Harry had a feeling she, above all else, would certainly not approve of the festivities. As it was, the few remaining professors providing "supervision" were engaged in the very activities they were meant to be preventing.
Hagrid sat in a corner with his new wife, Madame Maxime, both guzzling their preferred single-malt whiskey. Professors Flitwick and Sprout were drunkenly arguing over Quidditch, neither having the greatest knowledge of the sport to begin with. Only Madame Hooch remained sober, yellow eyes flitting over the throng, but never making any move to bring the madness to a halt.
For Harry's part, he was feeling pleasantly buzzed and warm, nursing his second glass of Scotch, while his best mate, one Ron Weasley, was just shy of dancing on tabletops. The repeated cries of "Slow down, Ron!" coming from all sides fell on deaf ears. Harry finally gave up, choosing to sit back and enjoy the show (and the blackmail to come).
Hermione Granger, best friend number two and girlfriend of best friend number one, scowled at him. "Are you really going to sit there and do nothing?" she asked accusingly.
"Yup," he replied with a grin, popping the "p" for emphasis.
Growling under her breath, Hermione shook her head. "Fine. I give up." Swiveling around on her stool, she signaled the bartender. "Vodka tonic, please."
Harry smirked. "Well, well, well!" he drawled. "So you do know how to loosen up."
Had he been sober and in his right mind, Harry might have known better than to make such a comment. And had Hermione not known how not-sober he was, she might have made it abundantly clear just how little she enjoyed his comment. However, as she did know his state of intoxication, she settled for a scathing glare, then a satisfied grin when he recoiled.
"Sorry," he apologized lamely. "I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did," she cut him off. "And for the record, the only reason I don't drink is because I'm always too busy to save you and Ron from whatever drunken escapades you've managed to concoct."
He had the decency to look sheepish. "Well… it is a full-time occupation, I'll admit."
"Which I don't need, since I already have a job," she added.
Her drink arrived, and Harry picked up his own, holding it out to her. "To drunken escapades."
She rolled her eyes. "Cheers."
Following the hearty swig of Scotch, Harry asked, "Have you actually had a drunken escapade?"
"I thought we'd established that I don't get drunk."
"You don't get drunk with us," Harry pointed out. "But you don't spend every waking moment with Ron and me. How do I know you haven't gone on a pub crawl with Ginny?"
Hermione snorted. "Ginny would. But no, I haven't."
"Hm."
"What?"
Harry shrugged, taking another drink, then looked sideways at her. "Just think it might be fun to see."
"Oh, yes, loads of fun. Especially when you're not the one hiking up your skirt in public."
"That's why you don't wear a skirt when you drink."
Hermione rolled her eyes yet again, but Harry didn't miss the discreet look she cast toward her legs, which were clad in the trousers she'd presumably been wearing to work. He also didn't miss the relief in her eyes when she saw said trousers, which stated plainly that she was actually considering his words.
Scooting closer, Harry donned a challenging smirk. "Bet you couldn't make it past the first round of shots."
His words had the intended effect. Hermione was, after all, a Gryffindor. And Gryffindors never back down from a challenge. Turning steely eyes toward him, she matched his smirk. "You're on."
Oh, Merlin, that was a bad idea…
Hermione groaned in bed, her skull pounding with a hangover of monumental proportions. She put one hand to her forehead, the other to her lips as a wave of nausea struck. What on earth had she been thinking? And exactly how many shots had she taken? She remembered five… and she remembered the tingly, warm feeling that came with those first five… but after that, nothing. Another groan escaped her lips. It was bad enough knowing she'd had a drunken escapade, but it was far worse to be unable to remember it.
At least it's Saturday, she thought gratefully. I have all weekend to recuperate.
With the intent to curl up in a ball and sleep for another six hours or so, Hermione turned onto her side—only to come in contact with something beside her. Something that felt startlingly like rock hard abs…
Hermione's eyes flew open, and she screamed.
The sleeping form beside her cried out at being woken, then moaned in pain. "Blimey, my head…"
"Harry!"
One green eye peered at her, then widened. "H-Hermione?"
The friends gawked openly at one another for a long moment, before scrambling out of bed. Hermione, realizing the state of their undress, yanked the sheet off her bed and wrapped it securely around her, while Harry blindly clutched her duvet cover against his groin. Washing that later.
"Oh, Merlin," she moaned.
"Yeah, that about sums it up," he muttered.
"Damn tequila!"
"Erm… Hermione?"
"What?" Harry didn't respond, and she reluctantly looked his way. His face was white as the sheet around her naked form, and she frowned in concern. "What is it?" Swallowing thickly, Harry lifted his left hand, showing it to her. Her eyes darted to the unmistakable band of silver around a very important finger, and her heart sank. Shakily, she pulled her own left hand out from within the folds of the sheet, stared down at a matching silver band, and uttered a phrase she had never before used in her life.
"Fucking hell…"
A/N: I was giggling through this whole chapter. What do you think? Review, please!