Author: Meltha
Rating: PG for a little imagery
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Meltha
Spoilers:
Distribution: Fanfiction.net and the Bunny Warren. If you're interested, please let me know.
Summary: Hermione is not having a good day.
Disclaimer: No profit is made from this fanfic, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author Note: Written for the second round of Dramione_ldws, challenge 5: the cliche challenge. The fic had to be based around one or more Dramione cliches (in this case, Ho-mione and a closet scene).
Snape’s Defense Against the Dark Arts exams were usually boring, but Goyle had a brilliant plan. Unfortunately, he was Goyle. His chosen jinx made not only Potter’s quill catch fire, but everyone else’s too, resulting in Lavender leaping into Weasley’s lap in terror.
“Granger,” Snape said, jaw twitching, “quickly retrieve more quills from the second floor supply closet or it’s fifty points from Gryffindor.”
She took off in a blur. Minutes passed, and the combination of restless students and an irate Snape spelled potential homicide.
“Draco,” Snape finally hissed, “get the quills. NOW!”
Despite himself, Draco fled the room. The supply closet door was shut when he arrived. He pulled the knob, but it was locked.
“Granger?” he yelled at the keyhole.
He heard a familiar voice swear quietly. Interesting…
“Leave!”
“No,” he drawled lazily.
“I’ll kill those two,” Hermione mumbled.
Forget interesting; Draco was downright intrigued.
“Back away from the door,” Draco said, chuckling. “One, two… Alohomora!”
The door promptly burst open.
“The quills are right there,” her voice said from the shadows. “Take them and go.”
“Not so fast,” he said, shutting the door. “The only way out is past me, and I’m not moving. Show yourself.”
Quiet sobbing came from the corner. For six years he’d been making her life hell, and she’d never cried in front of him. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like it.
“Hermione,” he said, surprised he’d used her name, “what’s wrong?”
“Fine!” she yelled, stepping into view. “Look!”
She was almost unrecognizable. Her shoes had become high-heeled stiletto boots with marabou feathers at the cuffs. Above them black fishnet stockings disappeared under an extremely short robe. Its neckline plunged dangerously over a chest that could double as a flotation device. Heavy make-up plastered her face, including blindingly red lipstick, a knut-sized beauty mark, and false lashes so enormous he wondered if her eyelids were strong enough to blink. Stick straight hair as platinum blonde as his completed the effect.
He should have been laughing hysterically while taking pictures to send as Christmas cards. Instead, he felt ill.
“Who did this?” he asked.
She scuffed guiltily at the floor, and he noticed a sweets wrapper lying there.
“Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes Beautifying Bon-Bons?” he read. “You ate this rubbish?”
“They swore it was subtle,” she said miserably.
Fred and George knowingly making a girl who was like their kid sister resemble a tarty circus freak brought the sick feeling back.
“Why would…,” he began, then remembered Lavender leaping into Ron’s lap. “Oh. The Weasel.”
She blushed.
“But this stuff must wear off,” he said.
“In three hours!” Hermione wailed.
“I’ll bring the quills,” he sighed in resignation. “Stay here until you’re normal.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He glared at her bizarre, overly sexual appearance, grabbed the quills, and turned the doorknob.
“Weasley’s a fool for not seeing what’s in front of him, and you’re another for thinking you needed those sweets in the first place,” he said, then left, closing the door.
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