A Drunken Fever
A pearly white moon hung suspended in the dark sky. It was the eve of July 26th, a Saturday. The entrance hall of Hogwarts was deserted. Torches along the walls flickered lazily, creating a soft, homey glow.
Music echoed faintly through the thick stone walls. The heavy wooden doors leading to the Great Hall creaked open, letting forth a barrage of sound. A thin 17-year old girl slipped through the gap. After a brief hesitation she let the door slam shut behind her, nearly catching the tail of her emerald green dress. Her hair—normally bushy and brown—had been charmed into a sleek perfection. The shiny locks fell gracefully around her flushed face, their tips tickling her collarbones softly.
It was difficult, most would admit, to recognize Hermione Granger. Perched on her small nose and framing her eyes was a harlequin style mask, shielding all but her lips and delicate chin from view.
Giggling, Hermione stumbled. Beneath the gold and sequined mask her cheeks were a rosy pink, her hazel eyes bloodshot. She walked at a good clip despite her state, swaying in an odd fashion as she moved towards the stairs.
She never made it.
Another student was in the hall. So well hidden in the shadows, it was as if he had melted into the darkness. But still, she saw him. Freezing in surprise, Hermione squinted at his shadow. Her brow wrinkled. The student looked to be her age. Maybe even in her year? He was tall, with broad shoulders that strained against the silver dress robes draped across them. Soft, very light brown strands of hair fell into his brooding silver gaze. Part of his face was shielded by a bright blue mask.
He was watching her.
Not thinking clearly, Hermione plucked up an ounce of liquid courage and strutted over, hips swaying in an uncharacteristic manner. She was unashamedly, ridiculously drunk. And by the looks of it, so was he. His eyes crinkled up, roving over her body, mouth curling into a lopsided grin.
"What are you—are you up to?" she slurred, stopping a few feet away from the mystery man. Her eyes shone brightly.
He lurched forward suddenly. "Oh, just hanging around." His naughty grin grew wider, crinkling his bright silver eyes. Eyes that transfixed her with their strangeness. "Waiting for a pretty lady to come through . . ."
Hermione stifled a giggle. "Did you find one?"
Another step forward, this time steadier.
"Maybe . . ." his voice was lower, husky. "Maybe not."
Hermione raised one eyebrow. Back in the deep depths of her mind, she was appalled at the situation unfolding before her. This was not like her. Why was she doing this? But this new part, this new dominant Hermione was completely and utterly infused by the Firewhiskey still burning at the back of her throat. This was exciting and she did not want to stop.
The man took another step forward. Inches separated their bodies. Caught off guard but coursing with alcohol-fueled excitement, Hermione stared up at the masked man, lust darkening her eyes.
He closed the gap.
Wrapping his arms around her waist, the man pulled Hermione to him. His hungry mouth bowed down to meet hers.
She threw herself into the kiss. Running her fingers through his hair, she pulled his head down and pressed him into her. Immediately, she granted entrance as his warm tongue caressed her lower lip. Letting out an animalistic growl he spun them around and pushed her against the stone wall, letting his wide, strong hands roam over her body.
The rest was a blur. Their lips barely left each others' as they stumbled through the corridors. Vaguely, she noticed them entering a common room and ascending a set of stairs. And then a soft mattress was pressing into her back, and he was trailing white hot kisses down her neck and onto her chest.
The point of stopping had passed, and not another doubt crossed Hermione's mind. Alcohol coursed through her veins, and it felt so good! There was nowhere she wanted to be more.
Studious, rule-abiding, good girl Hermione was losing her virginity to a perfect stranger, her mind drunk with passion.
She never did find out who he was.