It's a Long Story

She had been right, because of course she had! She was always fucking right. It irked him to no end. 

Someone he knew did, in fact, own a Muggle Pub. Someone he knew well and most certainly would make pay for making him look the fool. He just needed to come up with a clever idea for payback. 

But there would be payback. 

He would make sure of that…. 

Once he worked through the rather bewildering fact that Theo Nott was the proud owner of a Muggle pub, ironically named Nott Your Average Brew. Or the fact that it was ridiculously gimmicky and borderline outrageous. He was also sure there was a Statute of Secrecy violation somewhere… he just hadn’t found it yet. 

There was also the baffling fact that Granger knew about all of this before he did, which was something he just couldn’t seem to get over.

Theo was his best friend…. 

How could he not know this about his best friend? 

And how, or more accurately why, had Granger known this about his best friend? 

The whole thing vexed him greatly. Almost as much as her gloating ‘I told you so.’ 

Only, she didn’t gloat. Not at all. No knowing smirks, or smug glances with her bushy eyebrows raised. No backhanded comments or sarcastic quips. She was rather amicable about the whole thing, like their earlier argument had meant absolutely nothing to her. And somehow that pissed him off even more. 

He wasn’t entirely sure why, but it did. 

It was all rather… confounding… learning Granger was friends with Theo, that neither of them had ever mentioned it before. That she had not only known about the pub but had apparently been there on multiple occasions. Then, of course, there was the ridiculousness that was the pub, which didn’t seem to phase her insufferable morality and overwhelming sense of propriety. Which was… odd. 

Very odd. 

“It’s not exactly subtle, is it?” Potter mumbled next to him.

No, no it was not. Not even a little. 

The exterior might have been unassuming as far as Muggle Pubs go. It had a simple sign hanging above the door with the name painted in elegant, curling script and was otherwise rather boring. Well, besides the very large and snarly looking bouncer (who Draco swore had to be related to a troll by some extent). There was a line of patrons trying to get in that went around the block. Not that any of that mattered to Granger who was able to waltz (actually fucking waltz) up to the bouncer (who apparently knew her by name) and was granted instant access. 

For all subtlety of the outside, it was immediately abandoned the moment they stepped inside. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, rich and warm, giving the pub a cozy and inviting feeling that was rather posh. The bar itself was a masterpiece, a long, polished stretch of mahogany that gleamed under the soft golden lights of hanging lamps. Those were the only normal things about the pub. 

Or, the only Muggle normal things about the pub. 

Behind the bar was a plethora of bottles that lined glass shelves, their labels a mix of familiar Muggle brands and obscure (not to mention made up) magical sounding names. Such as, Gin and Rum alongside Double Double Boil and Trouble, Elixir Delight, and Fenix Fire Ale. Some bottles glowed faintly, others had swirling contents that changed colors, adding a touch of whimsy to an otherwise ordinary array of spirits. 

Each unique drink was served in cauldron-shaped cups, their black ceramic surfaces adorned with intricate silver runes (not real ones) that shimmered in the dim lights. They were also comically large in the hands of the patrons. Which was the opposite for the shot glasses that were instead vial tubes with their very own cork stoppers. If one chose to partake in even more ridiculousness then one could buy a ‘mixed drink’ which were actually beakers of different liquids one would then pour into a larger cauldron stationed at their table. Complete with something Granger called dry ice (how ice could be dry was beyond fucking him, but it made the drinks smoke which couldn’t be healthy) and a ladle to scoop out the drink. 

Granger called it ingenuity on Theo’s part. 

Draco called it ridiculous. 

He also called Theo a foul git and many other more colorful words. 

There were also bubbles, and the bubble machine (as Granger called it), that kept a steady stream of luminescent bubbles littering the dance floor. They were not ordinary bubbles, they shimmered with an almost magical-like quality and they floated lazily around the room before gently popping and leaving a faint sparkle in their wake. The effect might have been mesmerizing and dreamlike, but he was honestly waiting for one to pop in the eye of some blighter and the whole thing would be forced to shut down. Seriously, who wanted to dance in the middle of fucking bubbles anyways? 

The answer to that question was apparently Hermione Granger. 

Granger ordered them two vials each, and five different colored beakers she mixed into the large and completely impractical sized cauldron at the booth she also secured them. Then, she drank only one of her vials (Draco later drank the other because why let it go to waste?) before promptly forgetting she had offered to be his ‘wing-woman’ and left them for the dance floor. 

And what in the devil snare was a winged woman anyways? She didn’t even have wings. He should know, he checked. Discreetly of course. He would have asked Potter to clarify (and confirm that Granger was a fucking plonker) but he left shortly after she had under the guise of getting more drinks. 

So Draco was alone… At a Muggle Pub owned by a wizard… Surrounded by Muggles… And women… and he was having a miserable time.

All while Granger was out there… At a Muggle Pub owned by a wizard… Surrounded by Muggles… and men… and bubbles… and having a grand ole time. 

He should have stayed at home, but no… he just had to suggest going out, allowed himself to be bullied into going to a pub she wanted, and was now sitting alone in a corner booth with worn leather creaking beneath him every time he shifted uncomfortably. 

He hated this. 

Hated that his suggestion had been turned into whatever the hell this was. 

That Granger somehow had a say in the matter when she wasn’t even invited (least not by him) 

And he had a rather nasty headache that had no inclination of getting any better and likely wouldn’t as long as they remained at the pub. 

It was the music’s fault (naturally, he equally blamed Granger because he wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for her) but it was the music that had initially started the discomfort and pain. It pounded through the pub, songs he had never heard of before, most without any lyrics (Granger said it was techno, whatever the hell that was) in a relentless beat that vibrated through the floor and into his bones. It was loud, brash, and utterly foreign, each bass drop a jarring reminder of how out of place he was. While Granger moved to it as though it was controlling her, or she was controlling it. It was hard to tell.

She moved with an effortless grace, her curls wild and free. He could have sworn he heard her laughter rising above all the noise, which was preposterous if he thought about it, and highly improbable. Yet he was sure of it. And her presence was magnetic, drawing the attention of everyone around her, including Draco’s unwilling gaze. And it was… unwilling… yet he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her for longer than a minute or two at most. 

It was rather annoying. 

Potter, almost predictably, had not come back with drinks yet. A quick glance around and Draco saw the reason as to why. He was at the bar (still), leaning casually against the counter as he flirted with a pretty little number. Likely boasting about knowing the owner, as Theo was right there too. She didn’t seem to be Potter’s usual type, which of course meant she wasn’t Cho Chang and wasn’t unfortunate enough to have dreadfully horrid red hair and freckles everywhere. So really, she was a step up from Potter’s typical flirtations.

It was good he was enjoying himself, even if Draco wasn’t. Besides, at least one of them should get laid tonight, and that clearly wasn’t going to be him. Though the likelihood of it being Granger was even higher than Potter’s. 

His eyes (unwillingly) drifted back to her. She was still out there dancing, with a new bloke this time. If things kept progressing this way, he was bound to be the only one not getting shagged stupid before the night was out. 

Draco sighed, the sound lost in the din. He leaned back against the booth, closing his eyes for a moment and letting the thrum of the music wash over him. The clink of glasses and the murmur of voices faded into the background. When he reopened his eyes they were once again drawn to Granger’s vibrant presence. 

He really shouldn’t have insulted her outfit. He hadn’t actually said anything about it, but he knew his words would be taken that way. Which was likely why she went home to change. Now, as if getting the image of her perfectly tanned body out of his mind wasn’t already hard enough, she was wearing a small black number that should be illegal, and was likely why she had a gaggle of males all over her.

That and the way she moved her body on the dance floor was rather hypnotic, if not a tad sexual… or, very sexual. Not that he was enticed by her in the least, which would be absurd and impossible. 

It was only Granger…. 

It wasn’t like he wanted to approach her, because he didn’t. There just wasn’t anyone else to look at, or talk to... or... 

Fuck, he wished he could go dance. Not with her, of course... but maybe... a little with her? The thought flickered through his mind, unbidden, a dangerous temptation. He found himself contemplating getting up to find a partner, but he didn’t know this dance, or any of these dances. He had been watching for about an hour, and none of it made any sense. The rhythmic gyrations, the fluid movements, the seamless transitions from one song to the next – it was all a chaotic blur to him.

Granger would probably teach him, if he asked. She’d tease him and piss him off first, but she wouldn’t turn him away. He knew that much. Even if she did have a way of getting under his skin and challenging him in ways he wasn’t used to. But maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be challenged, to step out of his comfort zone and into the throbbing heart of the dance floor.

He shifted in his seat, his decision almost made, when a waitress appeared at his side. "Would you like another drink, handsome?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the sounds. It was an odd way to talk to a patron, but who was he to judge Muggles and their odd customs. 

Maybe this was normal for them? After all, the lovely barista he got his coffee from on work mornings did always call him hun. She wrote his name down as Drake instead of Draco despite spelling it for her multiple times and she always called him hun. It was possible she just had memory issues, but if not, again, who was he to judge? 

Draco gave a quick reply, barely glancing at the waitress (because he really was struggling to take his eyes off of Granger). "Yes, please. Another Pixie Sprite if you please." He believes that was the name of the shots Granger had got them all. 

It was a ridiculous name…. A ridiculous place…. An absurdly ridiculous predicament. 

It was a good drink though, and that was worth something. 

The waitress walked away with a little humph, he probably should have at least looked at her, but his eyes never left Granger. She was looking at him now, her gaze was a mixture of curiosity and something else he couldn’t quite place. The moment stretched, an invisible thread pulling taut between them, connecting them across the crowded room. 

He was going to get up and go to her, self preservation be damned. She promised to be his winged-woman (he still wasn’t sure what that meant) and he was going to hold her to it. And if that meant he needed to join her out there, then he would…. 

Draco was just about to rise from his seat when she turned to the gent she was dancing with. He looked disappointed about something and Draco vaguely wondered what she was saying to him. Not that he had to wait long for the answer. Not even five seconds later (he had not counted) she was making her way back to the booth. 

Their booth. 

The booth where he currently sat… 

He would turn away, pretend he wasn’t looking, if her smile wasn’t so damn radiant. It did something to him he couldn't quite explain. It was as if her very presence brought warmth to the cool, shadowed corner of the pub where he sat. 

He also realized that he had clearly indulged far too much in the drink. Deciding he would not drink the pixie whatever it was he just ordered. He was clearly far too intoxicated if he was thinking Hermione Granger’s smile was radiant. 

Or that she was sexy, which was not at all what he thought when she slid into the booth across from him, that damn smile still tugging at her lips. Draco's heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. 

He most definitely had too much to drink… 

She was so close now, close enough that he could see the fine dusting of freckles across her nose. Has she always had those? And her eyes, which he had always considered a plain brown, now seemed to shimmer with flecks of gold, catching the dim light in a way that made them look almost magical.

Draco found himself completely lost in analyzing her. Her hair, a wild cascade of curls that framed her face perfectly, a riot of chestnut and caramel hues that seemed to dance with every slight movement. Her lips, curved in that infuriatingly knowing smile, were a soft shade of pink, inviting yet dangerous. He could see the faintest trace of gloss catching the light, adding a subtle sheen that made them even more tempting.

He tried to blink it away. Tried to remind himself that he was drunk.

It didn’t work. 

Not when he could see how her skin held that soft, warm glow from the sun, one that he knew extended everywhere, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like under his fingertips. 

He tried to shake that thought away, trying to focus on something else, anything else. But it seemed impossible. 

He really, really, REALLY had too much to drink. 

If he wasn’t already going out of his mind, Granger decided to lean forward propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her fist. Her eyes never left his, though he struggled maintaining his own eye contact and not glancing down at her bosom which, drunk or not, looked… decent. 

He had never thought of himself as a tit man, having a personal preference for a nice arse instead, but hers seemed to be just the right amount of perky and… nope, he was not going to think such things. He was not. 

Draco swallowed hard, feeling a rush of heat rise to his cheeks. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat. She tilted her head to the side, her eyes sparkling, and in that moment, he felt as if she could see right through him, past all his defenses and bravado, straight into the heart of his insecurity. She likely even knew he had been ogling her, he wasn’t exactly subtle about it, and was clearly only there to take the mickey out of him for such things. He would never hear the end of it. 

She was already borderline unbearable, this was surely going to throw her over the edge. 

"I thought you were wanting to get lucky tonight?" she said, her voice a soft, teasing lilt that sent a shiver down his spine.

Draco blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. Surely she wasn’t suggesting what he thought she was… 

Was she? 

He could feel his pulse quicken, a mix of nervousness and excitement thrumming through his veins. He knew he should say something clever, something to deflect what she said or accept it… or… anything. But all he could do was stare, captivated by the unexpected depth of feeling that her presence seemed to stir within him. 

“That was your goal, wasn’t it?” She asked when he still hadn’t answered her. 

He wasn’t sure what game she was playing at exactly and he only had a few options at play. He could lie, which wouldn’t work, or he could tell the truth. Because of course he had wanted a good shag, that had been the whole point. So he answered her with a long, drawn-out, “Yessss” and hoped for the best. 

“Yet I’ve watched you turn away every girl who’s come up to you.” 

He blinked. He most certainly had not. He would likely remember if any women (they were at a pub, these were women, not girls) had come up to him. “Are you barking?” 

She blinked, her fucking smile growing even larger, and she sunk her teeth into the bottom lip (likely to stop it from consuming her entire face, which clearly did not work because she was smiling larger than a fucking clown). “Then what exactly do you call what just happened?” 

“What on earth are you talking about?” 

“The girl, who came to the booth. I watched her say something to you, and you didn’t even look at her.” 

Draco scoffed, looked away from her fucking lips and her dazzling fucking eyes, and glanced towards the bar instead. Wondering where the bloody hell his drink was. And for that matter, where in Merlin’s tits was Harry Potter. 

The pretty (ish) little number he was chatting up earlier was still there, but Potter had apparently done a vanishing act. Draco swore, if he brought his fucking invisibility cloak to the fucking pub, he was going to kill him. 

“Malfoy?” 

His eyes snapped back to Grangers. “What?” 

She signed. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” 

“I would if I had any idea what you were talking about.” He looked away again, he really should have paid attention to what the waitress looked like. He could use another drink… even if he was drunk. 

“The woman–” yes, he emphasized the word because it was important she understood the difference, “- was a waitress, Granger. She only asked for my drink order.” 

This apparently was a hilarious bit of information. So funny in fact, Granger almost fell out of the booth and had to wipe away some tears. 

“Oh yes, har- freaking- har, Granger. I’m a real comedian.” He rolled his eyes, desperately trying not to watch her as she laughed. Especially since she was laughing at him. 

“Malfoy, she didn’t work here.” 

And there went his resolve. His gaze snapped back to hers so quickly he gave himself a slight kink in his neck. “What do you mean she doesn’t work here? She asked me for my drink order.” 

This, apparently, was even funnier than the first thing he had said. 

Perhaps she was the one drunk. 

Hermione Granger, the light weight… 

When she finally stopped laughing at him, she asked an even more preposterous question. “Malfoy, how exactly did she ask you for your drink order?” 

“I don’t know.” he shook his head, not sure why it mattered. “She just asked if I would like another drink.” 

“Was that it?” 

“She might have called me handsome?” 

She erupted in another fit of giggles, honestly, he was starting to take offense now. And to think, a moment ago he was contemplating just how sexy he thought her to be. “You are a numpty.” 

Now he really was offended. So much so he was about to leave. He would have done so, if Granger hadn’t reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket forcing him to stand awkwardly next to the booth. He flat out refused to turn and look at her again. Not because he was being dramatic  (thank you very much), or because he knew that turning around to look at her from this angle would give him a clear view of her cleavage (which it would), but because he didn’t want to. 

She had laughed at him, and he didn’t particularly care for being laughed at. He had met his limit for how many times it could happen in one night, which meant it was time for him to take his leave. If only he knew where Potter was… 

“Malfoy wait, I’m sorry.”

No she wasn’t. She didn’t even sound sorry. 

“Please sit back down.” 

He did not. He would not. 

“Please.” 

Nope, he wouldn’t…. 

….

….

….

He fucking did. 

But he did it with a humph! Which somehow made him feel better. 

“I’m sorry I laughed, it’s just—” she was biting back another laugh, he could tell, even if he was refusing to look at her “- well, she really didn’t work here.” 

“We’ve been over this. Yes. She. Did. Granger.” His eyes kept sweeping across the place, looking for his annoyingly invisible flatmate. Perhaps Theo knew where he was, he had seen them talking together earlier, and when Potter was flirting with the girl at the bar, Theo was there then too. 

Only… Theo wasn’t at the bar anymore. He was likely in the back, or had gone home for the day? The lazy git. 

“Draco,” the sound of his name from her lips made him snap his attention back to her. Sneaky fucking witch. He couldn’t recall a time she had ever said his first name unless it was immediately followed by his last which in turn was rounded out by a quick witted insult. Neither of which happened here. 

She just said his name, as though she had always been saying it, and continued on with her fucking sentence as if the world hadn’t just frozen. He wasn’t even sure what she bloody said, he was so fucking thrown off by the fact she said his first name. 

Thankfully, or rather unthankfully, she seemed to pick up on this and repeated herself. “Draco, if you had actually looked at her, you would have realized she didn’t work here.” 

“Then why did she ask if I wanted a drink?” 

“Because she thought you handsome, and likely posh.” 

He tried not to fixate on the fact Granger had called him handsome, because surely she didn’t mean that she thought he was handsome. So instead he focused on the latter part of her preposterous sentence. “Posh? What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Well,” she said it slowly, like her words might further offend him (in all fairness, they probably would) “typically when a woman like that asks a posh fellow if they would like another drink, they accept and offer to pay for both his, and her drinks in hopes that she may grace him with her presence.” 

Draco scoffed. That sounded absurd. Of course he would have paid for the drinks. Why not just ask him if he would buy her one? That seemed much easier to understand. 

Muggles were fucking weird. 

“When you didn’t even glance at her, she figured you were uninterested and walked away to the next person she thought would buy her a drink.” She continued. 

It still didn’t make any sense. 

“Is this something you do?” 

It was her turn to scoff as she folded her arms across her chest, which she really shouldn’t have done. It was hard enough not looking at them, but now they were pushed up even higher. 

She was doing it on purpose, she had to be. 

Clearly testing his gentlemanly restraints, which were pulled rather taut if he was being honest with himself. 

“Of course not. I don’t like such archaic gender-forms, nor do I like mind games and tricks. If I wanted someone to buy me a drink, I would ask them to, which I don’t, because I’m a capable witch who makes decent money and I don’t need or want a man to ‘take care of me’ thank you.” She said matter-of-fact-like, and she had never said anything that had ever made more sense to him. Though he might later question why she felt so strongly about having someone offer to pay for a drink.  

“Then perhaps I, what’s the term? Dodged a gun? With her then.” 

“A bullet.” She said quietly, uncrossing her arms. 

“Pardon?” 

“The phrase you’re looking for. It’s ‘dodged a bullet’.” 

“How ridiculous, how can one dodge a bullet? Don’t they go super fast? That’s like saying you dodged a Bombarda. It’s practically impossible.” 

She blinked, a smile tugging at her fucking glossy lips once again. “And why exactly would one need to dodge a gun? Is the shooter tossing it at you?” 

Draco shrugged, “I don’t understand why I would need to dodge either.” 

“I don’t know, someone could take offense to your perfectly groomed hair, or your snotty superiority.” 

It was not snotty if he was, in fact, superior. No, not because of his blood, just because he was. And so was she, for many reasons, her brilliant brain being amongst them. “And here I thought you were going to be nice to me, you know, like a wing-woman should be.” He took a guess, assuming that, whatever the fuck it was, was meant to actually help the person they were wing-woman-ing. 

“I didn’t think you wanted me to be.” 

“I never said that.” 

“Didn’t you?” 

“No. No I did not.” Potter had interrupted them before he could. He knew this, she likely knew this as well, but winning on a technicality was still winning. 

Wasn’t it? 

“Okay then, I’ll be your wing-woman.” He still had no clue what that was. He should probably ask her. 

Except… he didn’t. 

He did, however, tell her about what he found attractive in a sexual partner, because she asked. He also… lied. 

Flat out. 

One hundred and ten percent. 

Possibly two hundred and ten percent, if such a thing was possible. 

Because when she asked if he had a preference in hair color, he wanted to say chestnut brown but instead he said blonde. In fact, he specifically made sure he gave every detail that did not pertain to her in any interpretation whatsoever. Because he did find her attractive, highly, but he would not admit to it. He also knew she was clever, far too clever for her own good, and mentioning he liked chestnut brown, curly hair seemed like a recipe for disaster. Besides, the whole point of the night was to get her (and her perfectly, and completely tanned body) off of his mind. Something he had been spectacularly failing at all night. 

So no, no he needed someone completely opposite from her so he could fantasize about them instead. 

A perfect plan. 

One that was working… almost… not really. 

She found her target, made sure he agreed that she found the blonde Muggle attractive and not completely intoxicated, and then she dragged him to the dance floor completely ignoring his protests. 

He hissed at her, tried to get her to understand that he didn’t know how to dance to this type of music, that he was classically trained only, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Just close your eyes.” She had instructed, and laughed when he rolled them instead. 

“Trust me.” 

Not likely. 

“Close your eyes, Draco.” 

Fucking witch knew exactly what she was doing…. 

He closed his fucking eyes and followed her instructions. He felt the music jumping around them, felt the pulse and the sway that came once his eyes were closed. Then he felt her. Her hands on his shoulders, her body pressed against his. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to open his eyes, but didn’t dare try. Instead he placed his hands on her hips and felt them sway with his. 

He focused on the rise and fall of her chest pressed against his as they danced and how her whole body pressed against his. 

“Look at you,” he opened his eyes, looking down at her, “you’re a natural.” she beamed, she fucking beamed! And oh, how he wanted to dip his head and kiss her. Consequences be damned. 

“Granger, I–” his words were cut off when suddenly she stumbled into someone next to them. He had been watching her most of the night (it was all night) and never once had she stumbled, let alone into someone. It had been so sudden and unexpected that he hadn’t even had time to reach out and steady her. His seeker reflexes were clearly a bit dusty. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Granger said in a singsong voice to the blonde chit she bumped into. Only then did he realize it was the same blonde she had picked out for him. “My friend here wants to learn how to dance but rubbish at it myself.” 

Lies. It was all lies. But he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what he could say. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what was happening. 

“Oh!” The blonde turned to look at him, taking him in from head to toe and back again. Her eyes were dark and she had a brilliant smile plastered on her face, one that paled in comparison to Grangers but was still lovely nonetheless. “That’s alright.” She had a strange accent, foreign perhaps, not that Draco minded. 

“You seem to have the hang of it though, would you mind? My feet are killing me and he is so determined to learn.” 

More lies, but he understood her game now. If the blonde had any inkling that trickery was afoot, she didn’t call them on it. Nor was she inclined to turn Granger down, and before he really understood what or how some random Muggle had trusted a stranger so easily, he was dancing and swaying to the music with her instead of Granger. 

She was a bit taller than Granger, her hair longer. She smelled of something sickly sweet, almost overwhelming. She had nice tits, not as nice as Grangers though. In fact, he was sure there was too much of them. They wouldn’t fit in his hand, and he had rather large hands. Not that he was opposed to them being large, he just wasn’t much of a tit person to begin with. 

Her arse, on the other hand, was perfect. Or close to it. There was plenty of it to grab, which he did when she gave him permission, and there was enough of it to jiggle should he get to the point of wanting to spank it. But most importantly, she was very into him. She had said so multiple times before the song changed. 

She had even asked if he wanted to go back to hers, which he did, want to that is. It was his plan after all, his perfectly executed plan. Even if it had taken him longer to get there than he had originally expected. 

There was only one problem, one very large and unavoidable problem that he would later hate himself for…. She was not Granger, and as such, he did not, in fact, go home with her. It was also not her face he imagined when he took care of his personal business once he was alone in his bed.