I learned from experience that firewhisky and anger do not mix well. I wouldn't exactly say the experience was unpleasant . . . more like, unexpected.
It was the holiday season, and the castle was being suffocated by the numerous garlands, wreaths, bows, and Christmas trees the house elves had used to deck the halls. They had especially overdone themselves with the mistletoe; a student couldn't turn a corner without being caught up in a snogging session.
It was the mistletoe that made learning firewhisky and anger didn't mix well an unexpected experience. I didn't know whether to strangle them or thank them after it was over, but it doesn't matter now: I have yet to do either.
I was stalking the halls outside of Slughorn's office one night while his infamous Christmas party blasted at full swing inside, the list exclusive to only the Slug Club, their dates, and Wizarding London's elite. It irritated me when Filch had accused me of crashing, but it outright infuriated me when ol' Sluggy had invited me to stay. If that old bat had proper eyes, he would've sought me worthy enough to be in the Slug Club in the first place. Bugger, I was ready to sock him in his great big belly.
I left instead, and that's when my lesson began.
Apparently, Granger — like a typical Mudblood would — wasn't quite enjoying being in the company of such great wizards. She escaped, looking quite flustered, and found me pacing the halls. I stopped short and watched her as she completely ignored me and plopped down on the floor, resting her head in her hands. I took that moment to look her over. I had to admit, she did look beautiful. Her hair wasn't as unruly as the lion's mane it usually is, and her dress certainly flattered her slight figure. I don't know whether it was her appearance, my anger, or the firewhisky I swiped before I left the party, but something compelled me to talk to her.
"Granger?" I said, wincing once her name left my mouth. I had to be loony to strike a conversation with a Gryffindor — especially a Gryffindor with two Muggle parents who just happens to be best mates with my enemy.
"Merlin's beard, what is it that you want Malfoy?" she snapped back. "In case your thick head failed to process it, I'm having a somewhat difficult time and I'd very much appreciate it if you didn't harass me."
"Oh, stop being such a bloody Mudblood and suck it up." Not my best comeback, I know, but I was still a bit in shock that I had actually tried to be nice to her.
She laughed, a mean, sadistic laugh. Much more like a laugh that would come out of my mouth rather than hers. She stood up and sauntered slowly towards me, a glint of evil and possible insanity visible in her strikingly beautiful eyes.
"Is that really all you have to say to me, ferret? Because if it is, I must say you're pretty pathetic, and I've got so much else I could be doing instead of wasting my time having a row with you — which I am clearly winning, by the way. I've already had to chase off McLaggen; I honestly doubt I have the patience or tolerance to be bothered by you."
By the time her rant was over, she was standing less than a foot away, her arms crossed over her chest, her legs firmly planted shoulder-width apart, and her defiant glare definitely containing a psychotic glint. I found it kind of sexy, actually.
For some odd reason, we both looked up. There, hanging directly above us, was the bright green leaves and white berries of a mistletoe.
The second she looked back at me, I kissed her. I could taste a hint of firewhisky on her lips, which was probably the reason why she didn't pull back and knock me out like she did in third year. To my surprise, she was an excellent kisser. I wrapped my arms around her waist as we snogged, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of her body pressed so closely to mine. That is, of course, until she pulled away.
She didn't say a word. She had a rather peculiar expression — a look of confusion, befuddlement. Quite unlike the Hermione Granger I had known for six years. She gaped at me, turned on her heel, picked up the hem of her frock, and tripped quickly down the hall, presumably towards the Gryffindor Tower and certainly as far away from me as possible.
I licked my lips and shrugged, staring after her for a bit before returning to the party. After all, I had already tainted the Malfoy name by snogging a Mudblood. Why not enjoy myself and my newfound low-status?
Nowadays, whenever I have a run-in with Potter and his posse, I steal a quick glance at Granger. And when she catches me staring at her, a faint pink rises to her cheeks, as if she has something to be embarrassed about. I merely smirk and avert my gaze, the unwanted memory of that fateful night under the mistletoe floating back into my head. . . . Bugger, what a way to keep a fellow from gulping down anymore firewhisky!