Tumbling Truths

By: Discord

A/N: Someone spikes Hermione's drink at Malfoy's party, and Harry escorts her home. He suspects the altered recipe includes a touch of Veritaserum when her idle comments take an unexpected turn. [Post-war. Hhr. Drabble-length chapters.]

Chapter one breaks the usual 1,000-word-limit prescribed for drabbles simply because it decided to be difficult. It's lack of cooperation hasn't extended to other scenes (yet), so subsequent chapters conform to my self-imposed length requirements.

Read, review, and enjoy!

Chapter One: Predicament

His best friend staggered toward him in borrowed heels, and Harry could tell right away her teeter had nothing to do with her alarmingly high footwear.

"Hermione?" He left the wall he'd been leaning against, arms extended. There was something off – more than the rarity of her aberrant attire – and he took in familiar features slack and disoriented with an Auror's scrutiny.

Brown eyes widened in muddled surprise before recognition sparked their depths. "Harry!" She hissed with an odd squeak. "Where've you been?!"

"Just here," he pointed at the discreet corner he'd found twenty minutes ago, and Hermione scowled, rallying further acumen.

"You left me," she accused. "Prat. You promised we'd only stay an hour before heading to Hogsmeade!"

Harry had convinced her to be his date for the Malfoy-hosted Ministry-event, but hadn't anticipated the flock of Chosen One Hunters (self-named) who'd crashed the party, interspersing among invited officials and catching their target at the food table, the bar, even the veranda. This last decade of post-war fame was—impossibly—even more taxing than the acclaim of his Hogwarts years.

Harry had dodged unwelcome advances from several of the fans with his usual civility, but had retreated from the entire affair after a cloying witch in the Wizarding-World's-Tightest-Dress had proposed marriage while making a grab for his belt.

His only consolation would be Draco's mortification when he found out the admirers had gotten through the manor's numerous wards. The once-rival was nowhere to be seen, but Harry had already caught Narcissa Malfoy's eye while sidestepping the trespasser, and her fair cheeks had paled to absolute alabaster as she watched Miss Tight Dress pout and attempt a second lunge.

Harry had whispered Immobulus and left the girl standing in a half-hunch, a determined gleam in her frozen gaze.

The angry witch before him now, tamed hair beginning to frizz as her beauty charm waned, needed no revealing frock or master break-in strategy to be a constantly sought out companion by the Boy Who Lived.

Such favoritism was not reciprocated at the moment however.

Hermione's angry huff was followed by a wagging finger. "Some best friend," she muttered. "Abandoning me."

There was that squeak again – almost like a hitched hiccup, and Harry studied her as she rocked back and forth, finding her balance only by fumbling for her hips. Hermione could warm to a legendary rant with the best of them, but wasn't usually prone to dramatic hyperbole (except in mentions of death versus Hogwarts expulsion).

She also didn't nearly fall over from the taxing demands of simply standing.

"Are you alright?" He asked, gauging her over the top of his glasses.

She nodded heavily. "You haven't even offered me a dance."

Harry lifted his eyebrows high.

The witch gestured to herself, motioning down the length of her short, strappy dress as if that clarified anything.

"You look nice?" He ventured, careful to keep his voice even. He'd stowed away a secret hope – sprung from long tent nights after Ron had left – and never risked taking it out for air.

Never.

Hermione blew her bangs away. "Merlin, help me," she grumbled, punctuating her point by pitching forward into a graceless stumble without warning.

Harry reached out and caught her before she fell, drawing her back to the safety of his corner with a gentle pull.

His mind was already whirling. One of the 'hunters' could have hexed her beverage if she'd set it down – Hermione was always getting hate mail and threats from his supposed fans.

"How much have you had to drink?" He asked, feeling her forehead and then cheek with the back of his palm.

"Hardly anything," she pinched her thumb and pointer close together, bringing them up to her eye for emphasis. "A few sips of something strong and foul tasting."

"Who gave it to you?"

Hermione's brow crimped as she struggled to remember. "Dunno," she wobbled, and Harry returned a hand to her waist to steady her.

"I've got you," he said, scanning the crowds with a frown he couldn't quite hide.

Her expression grew somber. "You're angry."

He tried waving her away and throwing on an empty smile, but the half-hearted attempt waffled almost immediately. "I think someone's tampered with your drink," he confided.

Her jaw fell. "Who?"

"Not sure," he curled his fingers above her hip in a clutch Rita Skeeter and her exaggerating Quick-Quotes Quill might call 'possessively protective' if they'd been nearby. "But we should probably go home."

"Yes," she agreed, bobbing her head. "Together."

Harry gaped – together? – and the secret hope wrestled against its cage, fighting its confines. "W-What?" He sputtered.

Hermione blinked owlishly. "What?"

"Did…?" He trailed off. "Did you just—?"

She turned her head, clearly confused, and he could tell she'd already lost the thread of the conversation.

"I don't feel well," she supplied instead, wincing.

"Okay," Harry wiped a suddenly sweaty palm on his pant leg and slid his other up to her back. "Let's get you out of here."

Hermione plunked her head on his shoulder as he began steering them for the room's perimeter. "This rescue is late," she turned into his collar, nosing against his crisp dress robes. "And I had to badger you for it."

"Not true," he quipped, recovering from his misinterpretation and pulling her towards a row of columns. He thought he'd outgrown the urge to read too much into innocent references in seventh year, but evidently hadn't. "I've been the recipient of true Hermione Granger badgering before."

"Be nice," she clicked her tongue. "I'm sick."

Harry maneuvered them away as he spotted Kingsley Shacklebolt wading through party goers with a foreboding amount of purpose. A drawn-out run-in with the Minister of Magic was not going to help the situation. "Is that a whine I hear?" He joked, walking faster. "Is a library somewhere closing too early?"

Hermione elbowed his side. "This isn't how you apologize to a woman for leaving her alone at an event you asked her to come to."

"You know my experience mostly just consists of unhinged individuals pledging devotion while springing out from bushes."

She scoffed. "I've given you plenty of proper experience."

Harry chose not to comment, guiding her towards the door. He was so focused on escape, he missed the glare of one such individual from across the ballroom, watching their departure with narrowed eyes.