Sloe Comfy Screw Up Against A Potions Bench

A Sloe Comfortable Screw Up Against The Potions Bench - Chapter One

This is a response to the WIKTT What Kind Of Drunk Are You? Challenge*.

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Molly Weasley was nothing if not generous. So, when her only daughter announced her engagement to childhood sweetheart Harry Potter, nothing would satisfy Mrs. Weasley’s desire to celebrate short of throwing the largest blow-out bash the Wizarding World had seen since Voldemort’s defeat five years before. Harry generously opened Grimmauld Place to the hordes of well-wishers who came, first, to congratulate the newly betrothed couple and secondly, to soak up a generous allotment of free alcohol.

Ginny had started the evening off with a bottle of champagne and flitted from person to person, laughing and hugging everyone as they came through the door. “Oh, Hermione!” Ginny squealed happily. “You made it!”

“Of course I did, Ginny!” Hermione handed the girl a wrapped present with a big department store bow on the top. “Congratulations to you both. And I mean that.”

Ginny accepted the present, bouncing on her toes. “Oh, Hermione!” She threw her arms around her friend and hugged her tightly again. “You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you.”

Still sober, Hermione patted the affectionate red head and smiled as Ginny danced away to share the glory of fancy wrapped presents with her fiancé.

“Hermione!” Ginny’s brother Ron rushed forward to give her another enthusiastic Weasley hug. “Can you believe it? My little sister Ginny’s all grown up and she’s going to marry my best friend! Isn’t it wonderful?” He was beaming from ear to ear. “Well, my other best friend. You’re my best friend, too, aren’t you Hermie?”

“Of course I’m your friend, Ron.”

Ron took a step back and held Hermione’s shoulders. Waggling his finger, Ron admonished her affectionately. “I think you’re not entirely in the party mood yet, am I right?”

Hermione felt it safer to agree and let Ron draw his own conclusions.

“I know what you need! You need a little drinky-winky to get you in the proper celebratory spirit! Come on, Herm!” Ron dragged his unresisting friend to the large and very well stocked bar Harry had thoughtfully transfigured for the occasion. “What was that muggle drink you made for us the last time we all got together?”

“Which one?” After buying “The American Bartender’s School Guide” from a secondhand bookstall, Hermione had committed the unorthodox textbook to memory.

“You know, the one from that book?”

“Which one?” Unsatisfied with only one source, she’d begun picking up other drinks guides the way some people collected stamps or ugly knick-knacks. She found the art of mixing drinks to be a quite soothing occupation. She was fond of experimenting with new techniques and making her friends drink the results. Drinking alone wasn’t nearly as much fun.

Ron waved his hands, cheerfully oblivious to Hermione’s sarcasm. “You know, the yummy one I liked so much!”

“Sure, Ron. I’ll mix you a yummy drink.”

The high polished wood bar looked like it had been transplanted from some upscale pub. Six bar stools stood up along one side. Brightly colored liquids in bottles proliferated on the shelves behind it, and to the side Hermione found a huge bin of ice, a stack of clean bar towels and all the garnishes and accessories she’d need for a variety of mixed drink creations.

Ron stood smiling blankly at Hermione without giving her a hint about what he wanted, enjoying the warm party atmosphere swirling around him. His resemblance to Gilderoy Lockhart after that botched memory charm was uncanny. It was clear that Ginny wasn’t the only person in the house who had started celebrating early.

Hermione shook her head and began rummaging through the well stocked bar’s equipment. Transfiguring a few spare spoons into specialty devices she liked to use, Hermione found a good vodka and some peach schnapps and layered the second on top of the first in two small glasses. “You like Silk Panties, right?”

Ron’s eyes glazed over and that inane grin grew even wider. “Sure! Who doesn’t?”

Hermione wasn’t sure he understood that she was offering him a drink, not a flash of her knickers. She handed one glass him and hoisted the second one herself. “Cheers!” Ron and Hermione each downed their drink.

“Wow. That was great! I’ll have to tell Harry you’re here.” Overcarefully, Ron returned his glass to Hermione’s hand. “You’ll get people sorted out, right?” He turned and toddled away, weaving slightly.

Hermione didn’t mind mixing the occasional drink, but if she was going to be stuck here the entire night, she wasn’t going to do it sober. She poured herself a straight shot of the very excellent vodka and down the hatch it went. Looking around, though, she realized that there was nobody she particularly wanted to talk to, so she went rummaging again, to see what trouble she could get into with exotic bottles of alcohol.

“Hiya, Hermione.”

“Harry!”

The Boy Who Lived had defeated Voldemort five years before. Since then, he’d been rather aimless. He had enough money that he didn’t have to work if he didn’t want to, and he’d missed enough of his childhood that he wanted to indulge in all the wild university antics of the truly mature. He knew how to hold his liquor, but a gleam in his green eyes told Hermione that Harry was probably the one to break open the champagne earlier. And he certainly seemed to know everything necessary to stock a professional bar. He greeted Hermione with a kiss on the cheek. “You don’t have to mix drinks all night, you know.”

“I know.” Secretly, Hermione was rather relieved to have an excuse not to put herself forward. Harry’s parties always got a little wild. Even though he seemed ready to settle down at last, Hermione had no reason to believe this party would run much differently than his others. “I’ll just make a few drinks to get people lubricated and when the party gets going I’ll mingle, I promise.”

Harry knew Hermione too well. “Promise?” She nodded firmly. “Okay, but you have to promise to socialize some, or I’ll feel like a bad friend.”

“Sure thing. Now, what can I get you?”

Harry thought for a long moment. “Can you get me one of those drinks you use the blending charm on? Maybe something with salt on the rim?”

Hermione saw limes and tequila and knew an excellent margarita recipe. While Harry watched, Hermione mixed the ingredients in a large glass pitcher. A few deft passes with the wand and she’d combined the perfect blender margarita the magical way: no blender required. “Ta-da!” Pouring the resultant mix into two glasses, she saluted her friend. “Congratulations, Harry! Now get potted!”

Harry accepted the glass and toasted Hermione. “On the eve of my engagement, let me say only this: you’re next!”

To cover her embarrassment, Hermione drank off half her margarita.

“I mean it! We’ll find the perfect man for you, I promise.”

Hermione waved him away and turned her attention to the next lost soul. “Hullo, Professor Dumbledore. What can I get you?”

The venerable wizard stroked his long white beard, deep in thought. “Lemondrop?”

Some things never changed. Remembering the old man’s sweet tooth, she sugared the rim of the glass before mixing vodka, triple sec and lemon juice and adding a small twist of lemon to garnish.

“McGonagall? Hermione is mixing muggle drinks for us. Can she get you anything?” Dumbledore inquired solicitously.

Starchy Minerva McGonagall pursed her lips and tsked softly. “You know my tastes, Albus. Would I really want a mixed drink?” Her arch inquiry sent Dumbledore scurrying for cover. When the Headmaster was safely out of earshot, McGonagall leaned close and whispered. “Can I have a Hot Screaming Orgasm?”

Biting her lip to keep from laughing, Hermione conjured a pot of hot coffee from the kitchen and started adding ingredients. “Would you like it in a mug?”

“As long as it’s opaque.” McGonagall checked for eavesdroppers before admitting, “I wouldn’t want to startle Albus by breaking with tradition, but at an occasion such as this, plain Firewhiskey loses a little of its allure.”

Nodding sagely, Hermione poured the Hot Screaming Orgasm into a coffee mug that proclaimed “Quiddich Players Grip With Their Knees” and set it on the bar in front of her former teacher.

“Thank you, dear. Don’t spend the whole party in the corner, now. It isn’t healthy in a witch your age.” With that final admonishment, McGonagall disappeared into the growing sea of bodies.

Mixing drinks kept Hermione busy for another hour. She didn’t stint with the alcohol, and before long everyone was roaring drunk and didn’t care who knew it. Tonks was entertaining a small crowd transforming her hair into unusual colors. As Hermione watched it go from deep raspberry sherbet pink to the pale straw green of a young white wine to wizard purple flecked with silver glitter like stars.

Hermione thought she\'d kept her senses fairly well, though she’d had plenty to drink herself. She needed steady hands for some of the more fiddly layered drinks. But on an attempt at mixing a screwdriver she accidentally substituted pumpkin juice for the orange juice. “Hey! I just invented a new drink!”

“I want one!” “Me, too!” “Sure, what’s the new drink called?”

Hermione thought a moment. “Well, a screwdriver is orange juice and vodka. So, pumpkin juice and vodka would be a brewdriver, right?” She mixed up a pitcher of the new drink, intending to pour it around, but decided it was too far to walk around the bar. “Hey, will someone take this?” she waved the full pitcher around, sloshing only a little of it.

Her cry was ignored. Harry was deep in philosophical discussion with Neville Longbottom, who responded to every convoluted point in Harry’s argument with the irrefutable statement: “I’m drunk!” Lavender was earnestly making a pass at a floor lamp in the shape of a satyr. Fred and George were busy doing something best not looked at too closely, but that was true of them at the best of times.

Giving up on the idea that her friends might come to her rescue, Hermione shucked her shoes and tried to climb over the tall bar, short skirt, silk stockings and all. After all, it had to be quicker than walking around the bar, right?

She was awkwardly straddling the bar, arse end up, when the latecomers straggled in.

Draco Malfoy had lost nearly everything. His parents were dead, his fortune gone and the last battle had scarred him badly, ruining his once angelic good looks. But he still had his godfather, Severus Snape, and he still had Albus Dumbledore willing to look out for him. He’d been teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts for the past three terms, on Albus’ theory that work is the best therapy for a grieving heart. It may have worked to gentle his nature but for the fact that Draco Malfoy’s grieving heart like to fill the intervening spaces of his life with alcohol.

When Professor Malfoy made his grand entrance he was already pretty smashed.

“Hello, mudblood!” he waved to Hermione’s bottom end. “Oops! That’s not your face. My mistake. Much prettier from this end.”

Professor Snape, supporting his godson by the elbow, glared coldly at anyone who dared meet his eyes, lowering the temperature in the room by several degrees.

Abandoning her plan to crawl over the bar, Hermione sat on top of it. She found the extra height made it much easier to glare at Draco. “Hello, shite-for-brains. What brings you here?”

Draco bared his teeth in something resembling a grin. “I was invited. You, on the other hand, appear to have been hired. Going to entertain us with your bar dance, are you?”

She didn’t think. She grabbed the nearly full pitcher of pumpkin juice and vodka and dashed it directly into Draco’s sneering ruin of a face. His shrieking outburst when the cold liquid hit him caused every head to turn.

Muttering a cleaning charm, Snape cleaned the pumpkin juice drink and tried to move Draco out of the spotlight. Draco didn’t want to go.

“This is a party, isn’t it? Well, I want a drink!”

Hermione refused to serve him, sitting like Cleopatra on the transfigured bar, her disdain fully apparent.

Susan Bones offered Malfoy a hardly touched drink. “Here, you can have this. It’s too sweet for me.”

Draco looked at the brown sludgy mixture in the glass and recoiled. “What is that disgusting mess?”

Tilted to one side, Susan tried to think, frowning. “It’s called a… what was it? A mudblood?”

Draco looked at Hermione and grinned cruelly. “Granger, is this one of yours?”

“It’s called a mudslide,” Hermione corrected primly. “It has plenty of alcohol in it, just the way you like it.”

“How do you know what I like?” Draco leaned against the bar next to Hermione. He leered up at her. “Do you know what I’d really like, Granger? I’d like you to give me a blow job.”

It was possibly the most offensive thing he could have said. But Hermione just laughed. “You want me to give you a blow job? Sure thing, Draco. Just give me a minute to prepare.”

She hopped off the bar, feeling smug and safe behind the transfigured structure of gleaming wood and brass. Into a small glass went a measure of Kahlua. Over a spoon, Hermione dripped an equal measure of Bailey’s Irish Cream, keeping the Kahlua layer and the Bailey’s layer separate. The final touch: a gloppy spoonful of cream whipped to a frenzy with a variation on the blending charm, made the third discrete layer of the drink. Smirking, she tapped the glass gently onto the bar surface in front of the nodding Professor Malfoy, half asleep now that the excitement had ebbed. “Here you go, loverboy.”

Draco jerked, startled. “Huh? What?”

“You said you wanted me to give you a blow job. Well, there it is.” She gestured to the drink. “Enjoy!”

Malfoy stared at the striated drink, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “It’s poisoned, isn’t it?”

Hermione chuckled. “Well, they say alcohol is a sort of poison.”

Frowning determinedly, Draco lifted the little drink up to the light. He sneered at Hermione. “If you knew what I liked you would have put a cherry on top.” He downed the whole thing in one swallow. The whipped cream left a rime of white foam around his lips. Without another word Draco tapped the glass firmly onto the bar, turned on his heel and staggered erratically into the thick of things.

“Well, that answers that question,” Hermione said to nobody in particular.

Snape lifted one eyebrow towards the woman. “What question would that be, Granger?”

Hermione was inebriated enough not to care if she offended her former teacher. She answered him boldly. “Whether Draco swallows.”

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A/N:

No, this isn\'t the end. Probably two more chapters, maybe three. I tried for a quickie, but Severus wanted to take it slow and comfortable.

For those of you playing the home game, I give you:

* The WIKTT Drunks challenge (paraphrased):

Fic can be of any length. Elements include Hogwarts hosting a hell of victory party (I believe an engagement counts as a victory, of sorts, and I stretched “Hogwarts” to include Hogwarts alumni at Grimmauld Place) where everyone is invited and everyone is drunk, except for one person who must remain stone sober. Snape and Granger must get together or are outted as being a couple. Furthermore, at least five of the following type dru drunk must make an appearance.

- the funny drunk
- the happy drunk
- the frisky drunk
- the affectionate drunk
- the quarrelsome drunk
- the sad drunk
- the philosophical drunk
- the honest drunk
- the sloppy drunk
- the mysterious drunk
- the stupid drunk
- the foreign drunk
- the naked drunk
- the return-to-adolescence drunk
- the pyromaniac drunk
- the hungry drunk
- the hyper drunk
- the sick drunk

I don’t think I will use all the suggestions, but I certainly plan to use more than five. Some characters will display more than one of these attributes. Some are obvious, some are not. Hope you like it!