A/N: This little story is another that was originally written as part of a Fanfic competition on one of the numerous MSN Groups I'm a member of. I couldn't resist - just think of the possibilities! Although, I did end up changing something to fit in with the rating of the site. One day I'll get around to changing it...
Oh, and it's written in some particularly random style. I thought it was appropriate. And watch out for that whole one swear word... ooooooo
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or settings included in this story - they are the property of J. K. Rowling... except perhaps Chez Maurice, which is probably made up, I don't know.
Chez Maurice – one of the more up-market restaurants in the village of Hogsmeade. Sure, there was Madam Puddifoot's, but who in their right mind would go there (unless, of course, you happen to be Cho Chang on Valentine's Day…). Chez Maurice was the sort of restaurant that such stars as Celestina Warbeck, the Singer Sorceress, and the Weird Sisters often frequented, a restaurant of refinement and elegance, a place that said, if seen there, 'I've made it to the top!'
Why the Seventh Years chose to finish their Pub Crawl there was something that neither the owners of Chez Maurice nor any of the Hogwarts Professors had ever been able to work out – it had simply happened, and it had turned out to be a night that no-one (well, excepting those people who had passed out before the meal was finished) would ever forget.
"All hail the Magnificent Magical Monkey!" Neville howled, loping about the room in his best impersonation of an ape.
"Yo, Longbottom," the ever-gorgeous-even-when-half-drunk Draco Malfoy drawled over the loud music, "how about not proving us right about you being an idiot?"
"Aww, Draccy, loosen up and feeeeeeeeeel the music!" Pansy slurred, swaying over and planting herself firmly on Draco's lap, causing him to start caterwauling about being squashed.
"Pansy's got a point, Malfoy, now shut it!" Hermione told him fiercely, her usually bushy hair… even bushier than usual, thanks to falling down somewhere during the across-field walk from the last pub to Chez Maurice's.
Turning away from Draco, she made her way as elegantly as possible (read as: staggered and weaved all the way across the room) towards Harry and Ron, who were sitting at a table in the corner, trying to see who could shoot the most number of B52's. Considering there appeared to be more liquid on the table than was left in the bottles, it would be fair to say that they were missing more often than actually getting the alcohol in their mouths.
"Hey, 'Mione," Ron said, his words slurring together enough that the greeting sounded more like a simple statement of Hermione's name. "I'm a-winnin'"
"You are so not," Harry objected – apparently all the alcohol was making him talk like an American Valley girl… in fact, his voice seemed much higher than usual, too. His protest against Ron was far more like a girly squeal than a manly objection, so let's try that again.
"You are so not!" Harry squealed in his strangely girly voice. "I'm winning! Me! The Boy Who Lived!"
"Harry, do stop rubbing that in our faces, or you'll be The-Boy-Who-Used-To-Live-But-Was-Killed-By-His-Friends-For-Bragging," Hermione told him, sitting down and beginning to make herself a B52 very expertly – no, she doesn't drink them often or anything…
"But Hermy," Harry whined, pouting childishly, "I'm winning, and Ron's lying!"
"I don't care – I could drink both of you under the table any day," she replied, downing the B52 swiftly before moving off to the bar to find something stronger to drink.
Harry tutted and tossed his head, much the way some girls do. "She thinks she's soooooooo much better than us," he whined, folding his arms and glaring after Hermione.
"Dude, you have to admit it… she is better than us," Ron replied, a phrase that you would never expect to hear of him when sober, and let's face it, he's probably not likely to ever say it again, even if he was completely off his face.
Hearing a muffled squeak and the sound of a chair toppling over, they turned around just in time to see Pansy straddled over Draco, lips firmly locked against his in what some people would term a kiss. Others would merely observe that it looked like she was trying to eat him whole.
"They've closed the bar on us," Hermione complained, slipping back into her seat and clutching a Long Island Iced Tea.
"WHAT!" Ron bellowed, and the entire room fell silent, and even Pansy paused in her sexual harassment of Draco long enough for him to slip out from under her and retreat to a safe distance. Hermione nodded sadly, and took a long sip of her cocktail. "They've closed the bar," she repeated, more loudly this time.
Groans filled the air, and Ron climbed on top of the table to howl, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! My alcoho-ooooooooooool!" before falling off and collapsing into a sobbing heap.
"Honestly, Ronald, anyone would think you were a child," Hermione told him primly – apparently all the alcohol she'd had was only affecting her ability to walk, nothing else. "Next you'll be suggesting we play Spin the Bottle, or something else equally mature."
Silence suddenly fell over the room, and Ron sat bolt-upright, grabbing the empty bottle of Kahlua from the table, before hauling himself to his feet (but we won't mention how many times he fell over again before managing that incredible feat).
"Great idea, 'Mione! Ev'ryone, we're gonna play Spin the Bottle, only… not. It's, uhh, it's a, uhh… what's the word, 'Mione?"
"A variation?"
"Yeah, that! 'S variation on it, called Truth, Dare or Kiss. An' wha' you do is…"
"Shut it, Weasley," Draco snarled, striding forward and snatching the bottle from Ron's hand. "We all know how to play…"
And so it came to pass that, thirty minutes later (they're all drunk, how're they s'posed to form a circle quickly?), any observant by-passer would see the Seventh Year group of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry sat on the floor, staring at the bottle in the middle…
"Oh just kiss me, you big llama!" Hermione demanded, the alcohol finally starting to affect her speech – slow acting stuff for her, apparently.
Crabbe looked stupidly over at Draco, who, with an expression of resignation, gestured for the lad to do as Hermione said. When Crabbe continued to sit there, his usual stupidity written all over his face, Hermione tsked and crawled across the floor towards him, pressed her hands firmly on either side of his face and kissed him soundly. Just above the sounds of cheering and laughter that erupted from around the circle, Ron's yelling and fuming could be heard.
"He's stealing my girl! Mine! My own, my preciousssssssss!"
"Yo Ronnie, just breath, man," Harry suggested, now seeming more like himself, however amusing it had been for everyone else to see him acting so femininely. "You've never even dated once – don't be so jealous."
"Me, jealous? Pah!" Ron denied, and folded his arms crossly, looking remarkably red around the gills--… whoops, mixed up the metaphors. I mean, looking remarkably red in the face, yeah. He glowered slightly as Hermione returned to her place in the circle, looking pleased with herself, and sullenly watched her spin the bottle, only to have it land on Neville.
"Truth!" the round boy beamed, alcohol still racing through his system.
Raising an eyebrow slightly, Hermione pursed her lips and quickly ran through a list of possible questions, her expression brightening somewhat as she clearly came to a decision.
"Truth? Um, okay Neville, why were you caught by Malfoy rolling around with those fluttering ferns in Greenhouse Four?" she asked, and apparently everyone else appreciated the question, if one was to judge by the following noises of agreement and curiosity.
" 'S easy! I heard that they were a great aphro-…" he began, but our poor Neville was quickly shut up by peanuts suddenly being pelted at him by some of the less-drunk people in the circle, Hermione included.
"I'm sorry I asked," she muttered, rubbing a hand across her forehead, ignoring Ron's blank look in her direction – he was still too fuzzy from the alcohol to have quite grasped what Neville was meaning. "Neville, just spin the bottle – we get what you mean."
Not at all ashamed by his admission (although, guaranteed, he will be the next day, if he remembers), Neville reached out and gave the bottle a hearty spin, moving his head slightly as he watched it turn and stop on… Harry…
'Oi, who said that bottle could stop on me!' Harry thought frantically, staring wide-eyed at the now motionless bottle. 'Don't, I can't, I'm not-…'
"Harry, you've gotta choose!" Neville's whine pierced Harry's thoughts, and he stared dumbly across the circle, his green eyes widening further.
"T-truth," he stuttered finally, and then physically smacked himself in the head.
'Idiot!' one voice yelled at him, the sound reverberating through his mind.
'Dude, seriously… what else was he going to chose?' another voice asked the first one, and Harry's eyebrows slowly raised themselves to new heights.
'Great, I'm arguing with myself,' he thought, knowing for certain that he had to be a lunatic.
"Alright, Haaaaaaaaaary!" Neville chirped, his voice once again cutting through Harry's thoughts (or in this case, internal argument). "How about… who's your biggest-est, most secret-est crush-person-thing?"
Silence fell over the room once more, and Harry swallowed, knowing that a cat hair landing on the floor would be heard as loudly as a bottle of alcohol smashing in the sudden, empty silence.
"An unexpectedly good question, Longbottom," Draco drawled, hauling himself fully upright and looking over at Harry expectantly, a smirk creeping over his features. "Go on, Potter, unless you really are the pathetic, scared wimp I always knew you were…"
Hatred shining from his eyes, Harry fixed Draco with a baleful glare before turning his eyes to the ground and slowly going a bright red.
"M'l'cnt," he muttered unclearly, and, at the sounds of questioning from everyone around him, his temper suddenly and unexpectedly flared, and he snapped, "Millicent!" and flung his arm out to point at the girl Ron had once described as 'no pixie'.
A moment of stunned silence, followed by a loud shriek of, "I knew it!" from the, uh… lovely Millicent herself. Throwing herself across the circle, she bodily picked up Harry, turned to the middle of the circle, and dropped him on the ground again, looking down at him as he sprawled on the floor.
"Oh, this'll be good!" Draco said, sounding interested for the first time that evening. "Millie's always said how stupid and ugly Potte-…" He froze, staring at the sight in front of him.
Millicent Bullstrode. On Harry. Kissing. Passionately. Ew.
"Gah, fuck Merlin!" Draco shouted, leaping to his feet and running for the door, his voice trailing back to those still in the circle. "Damn it, I'm traumatised for life… scarred! Where's that hot poker, I need to stab my eyes out… NOW!"