Many thanks to those of you who started following this story and a special hug for hoshiakari7 and eliza6801 who made time to leave a comment.
Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" is the property of J.K. Rowling. This is written entirely for fun and I am not making any profit.
Rating: I would say a T
Thief
It was a general consensus Terry Boot gossiped like someone's sugar-high grandmother. And that morning, that fatidic morning in the November of their Seventh Year, something had him so eager and high-strung some people just couldn't help themselves anymore.
"Want me to fetch you some knitting needles, Boot? To better fit in your character and such?" Michael Corner asked in a rather self-important tone.
Two sits left, Padma Patil rolled her eyes. She had dated Michael at one point and knew he had no room to talk. The pot was, for all intents and purposes, making fun of the kettle. But she was a little curious herself.
As usual, Terry was unfazed.
"Did you people not hear?" He was bursting with so much barely-contained excitement Anthony Goldstein was surprised he was not yet setting off like one of Doctor Filibuster's fireworks. "Hermione Granger stole the Slytherins' coat of arms! The teacher are checking her trunk right now!"
A dozen pair of eyes turned towards him. The Boot kid might gossip like someone's sugar-high grandmother. But he always had the most delicious little rumors.
…
As it turned out, they did not find the coat of arms in the trunk.
They did not find the coat of arms anywhere near.
They did not find the coat of arms at all.
And they could not get a confession out of her.
Yes. Hermione Granger was rather pleased with her handy-work. Apart from a teeny-tiny, oh-dear-God-make-him-vanish detail.
"I know you have it, kitten."
Draco Malfoy was set to get it back.
…
She couldn't remember a time in her life she had been drunk. She had always been respectable, thank you very much. Poised. Self-controlled. A model of the perfect student, perfect Prefect, perfect Gryffindor. A model of the perfect Hermione Granger. She was a picture of respectability, Hermione Granger. If she hadn't in fact been Hermione Granger, she would've been the more hermione-grangerish non-Hermione-Granger ever. She was that good at being Hermione Granger.
She giggled and rocked on her heels, making the firewhisky splash over the side of the glass. Hermione Granger hadn't been drunk a day in her life. Until now.
…
It was not his fault.
Well, maybe.
Partially.
Possibly.
Probably.
It was his bloody fault, alright?
So shove it.
…
The obviously drunk, giggling Gryffindor trying to look inconspicuous in front of his entrance made Draco Malfoy all kinds of curious.
"Merlin, is that Granger?" Blaise asked from his right. "Didn't think she even knew what alcohol was for."
Neither had Draco.
And, judging solely by the fact she was hiding behind a see-through tapestry, Granger hadn't given the whole getting smashed business a second thought until tonight either.
"Go on," he told Blaise. "I'm going to have a little fun."
Granger's eyes followed him as he entered, muttering to herself
"Must get in," she mumbled. "Must complete dare. Must show them. Show them all."
She gave a drunk, maniacal laugh.
Subtle, Draco thought. But promising.
…
He was waiting for her at the bathroom door. That's what he been reduced to.
Bloody coat of arms.
Bloody alcohol.
Bloody Granger.
And bloody Boot kid watching him like a hawk. He reminded Draco of his Grandmother Malfoy after eating one-too-many cupcakes.