Word-vomit triggered by Dramione FanFiction Forum's #DrabbleChallenge. The requirements were to incorporate the words Beach, Blanket, and Bingo, as well as the phrase "You call these bikini bottoms?"

Disclaimer: I hate Bingo and I don't own Harry Potter.

.

.

"Dancing queen, young and sweet, only... one and seven: Seventeen!"

Draco groaned. It was all he had left, considering he had, by then, used up every conceivable combination of the words 'fuck' and 'you' and 'Blaise'.
But seriously, fuck you, Blaise.
Then Potter sniggered, so understandably, fuck you, Potter.

"Two fat bints... Eight and eight: Eighty-eight!"

This was Draco Malfoy's life: sat on a bloody striped blanket on some hellaciously over-crowded beach in Brighton, playing Bingo with Blaise, Potter, and the girl-Weasley.
Shit, it was swelteringly hot. Draco should have been at home, with a book and a cold beverage. He should never have accepted Thomas's invitation for a Beach Birthday Bonanza. Draco looked over his shoulder to scowl at the pillock responsible for his misery: Said pillock was sprawled on a lounge chair with a barely clothed Lisa Turpin on his lap.

"Now that's my kind of number... Six and nine: Sixty-nine!"

Beach attire, Draco supposed, was the only upside of that miserable day. Bikinis were a glorious invention, and if he hadn't already long disposed of his prejudices, he'd surely have ditched them the moment he saw muggle girls in their skimpy little two-pieces. Spectacular.
A short distance away, Lovegood was flouncing around in a teeny-tiny yellow number, with only two large sunflowers covering her tits. Theo and Longbottom's puddle of drool was giving the sea a run for its money.

"Women get flirty at... Three and four: Thirty-four!"

Ugh.
Draco swiped a hand across his sweaty brow, shoving his fringe off his forehead. He grabbed the bottle of beer next to him and took a long sip. Finnigan and boy-Weasley skipped by tossing a ball between them.

"A sexy fucking pair of pins... One and one: Eleven!"

"Bingo!" girl-Weasley squealed.
Sure. Why not? The whole day was utter bollocks, so why wouldn't Draco lose to a Weasley? It was a bloody inane little game anyway. Potter rewarded her with a kiss and a sappy, nauseating smile, and Draco wished so hard that his blanket was a flying carpet.

"Oh, there you are Hermione!" girl-Weasley exclaimed.
Immediately, Draco's eyes fell to the ground. He needed to brace himself for this. He needed to prepare himself for the inevitable sight of Granger in beach attire. Gulp. He had tremors in his belly and a windmill in his chest. Three. Two. One.

"Sorry I'm late," said Granger's voice from behind him, "Some moron let a bunch of Cornish pixies loose in the atrium..."
The hairs on the back of Draco's neck stood up, and slowly, he turned around.
Fucking Salazar, have mercy!
Her wild mane of hair was free and unbound, tumbling down her back, her skin had a faintly golden glow, and there was nothing more than a thin band of blue fabric wrapped around her chest. Draco decided that the small triangle of shadowed skin above that band was his favourite thing in the world. His eyes travelled down her torso, the slim waist, the flair of her hips, and then –

"You call these bikini bottoms?" he cried in dismay.
The horror! For shame! Sacrilege! They were so perfectly respectable! No! No! NO! Draco had seen that much of her legs before! He wanted more – fuck, he deserved more! He'd suffered that awful day all so he could get an eyeful of Granger-flesh and there she was in –
"No, Malfoy," she sneered, looking down her nose at him, "I call them shorts."

Then she did something that short-circuited Draco's brain: She unbuttoned those shorts.
Gah, blubber, duh.
He swallowed and gaped as she tortuously dragged the shorts down her slender legs, following the way her palms skimmed over her skin. She straightened once they were past her ankles and Draco was a puddle of ooze, thank you, goodbye, it was nice knowing you.
Her bikini bottoms were perfect in the sense that they were scant and stringy and tantalising.
"I'm going for a dip," Granger announced and sauntered off towards the sea in a casual stroll. Draco watched her pert, smooth bum sway all the way until it disappeared underwater.

"...ound? Draco? DRACO?!"
"Huh?"
"I said," Blaise sniffed, "Want to play another round?"
"Huh?"
Blaise rolled his eyes as Potter and girl-Weasley laughed. "Just go," he sighed, waving his hand dismissively.

Draco took off post-haste. He reached the shore line just as Granger submerged herself entirely under the waves. In ankle deep water, Draco waited for her to reappear, and Merlin, was she a vision when she did. Her drenched hair was plastered over her body, and the ends of it brushed the top of her magnificent bum. Small rivulets were sliding down her shoulders and torso – one really lucky one found its way into that shadowy triangle on her chest...

"Are you coming in or what?" she asked him with a daring smile. The red on her cheeks and the glint in her eyes was truly fascinating.
"I'm weighing the pros and cons," Draco replied.
She gathered her hair over one shoulder, baring one side of her pretty neck, "Why don't you tell them to me? I've been told my reasoning skills are exemplary."
Draco grinned. "Well, the cons are getting sunburnt. Getting saltwater in my hair. Wet sand. I fucking loathe wet sand."
"Hmm," Granger mused, looking delighted, "That's a formidable list of cons. What are the pros?"
Draco looked straight into her twinkling eyes and said, "You."

.