Chapter Text
It was a truth universally acknowledged by women in their mid-twenties who’d recently dumped their immature boyfriends, that heartbreak was best drowned in alcohol and all-female company.
Hermione Granger had precisely two goals this Friday night: avoid crying into her gin and keep her mind nowhere near any men.
Her friends, Ginny, Luna and Padma, had other plans.
They were at The Silver Hippogriff, a newly opened wizarding bar in Diagon Alley. It boasted wandwood furniture, overpriced firewhisky cocktails and clientele who thought blood status jokes were gauche.
“Right, truth or dare,” Padma sing-songed, happily sloshing her cocktail around. “Hermione’s turn.”
Hermione blinked. “Er—truth.”
Groans all around.
“No, no, no,” Ginny said categorically. “You’ve done truth twice. Time for a dare.”
Hermione hesitated. She was three gin and tonics in, and she was wearing a dress Ginny forced on her, with a lot of cleavage and questionable structural integrity.
“Oh fine,” she said, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
Padma’s eyes gleamed. “Alright. See that man over there? Platinum hair. Looks like he bathes in unicorn tears?”
Hermione squinted. Her stomach flipped.
“Lucius bloody Malfoy?” she hissed. “Are you mad?”
“He’s hot, in a murderous-aristocrat sort of way,” Ginny said, sipping her drink.
“He’s also very single,” Luna added, grinning.
Lucius Malfoy was indeed leaning suavely at the far end of the bar, in midnight blue robes that likely cost more than her annual salary, his hair loose and absurdly smooth. He was speaking to another posh pureblood and holding a glass of something amber.
Then, as if sensing her gaze, he glanced up and met her eyes.
She looked away instantly.
“I dare you,” Padma said, “to go up to him and ask him to buy you a drink.”
“Why not just dare me to apparate into Azkaban?” Hermione deadpanned.
Before she could protest further, someone shoved her in the general direction of the bar, and a loud whisper of “ Go on, lioness!” followed her.
She considered fleeing. But she was Hermione Granger, damn it, decorated war heroine and youngest-ever Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic. So instead, she straightened her shoulders, channelled the woman who’d once punched Draco Malfoy in the face, and walked straight up to Lucius.
He turned, brows raised, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was this close to smirking.
“Well, Miss Granger,” he drawled, voice like oak-matured mead. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Bloody hell. No turning back now.
“I was dared to ask you to buy me a drink,” she blurted, then immediately winced. “Not that I think you’re daft enough to fall for that. You’re clearly in the middle of something.”
Lucius laughed. The sort of deep, amused chuckle that sent a small jolt of something traitorous down her spine.
“My evening just became infinitely more interesting,” he said, and gestured to the bartender. “What are you drinking, Miss Granger?”
She blinked. “You’re… actually going to?”
He leaned in slightly, his eyes glinting. “You did ask.”
She glanced back at her friends, who were now mouthing things like “He likes you!” and giving her thumbs up.
“You know, I’ve followed your work. Very impressive what you’re doing at the Department of Magical Creatures. Your werewolf legislation alone…”
“You’ve read that?” she asked, flabbergasted.
A small, elegant nod. “I even donated. Twice, I believe. Quietly, of course - it wouldn’t do to tarnish your image with rumours of Malfoy gold.”
For a while, Hermione was speechless.
She accepted the glass he handed her, fingers brushing his.
She should’ve run. She really should’ve run.
Instead, she smiled.