Disclaimer: No profit has been made from the writing of this faaaaaaaasdadoadjsadalk;l''plk;; - WHOA! I almost fell asleep there! Characters and world belong to J.K. Rowling.

Rating: M, of course M!

Hello ragamuffins! This is a little something that came out of nowhere while I stared at my lecturer's face and pretended to pay attention. I plan to make this sort of like a pre-birthday present to myself.

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Noun 1. Right-hand person – the most helpful assistant, chief assistant, assistant, helper, help, supporter – a person who contributes to the fulfilment of a need or furtherance of an effort or purpose.

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Gritting her teeth and clenching her jaw for the fourth time that night, Hermione shut her eyes and prayed for patience.

She glared accusingly at her right arm as if it was a disruptive child who was really, really testing her patience.

"Is there a problem?" a bloke to her left said – what was his name? – Oh right, Mikhail. He had chatted with her a little bit before offering to get her a drink and Hermione had shrugged, her right arm waving around in the air with a flourish as she said, "Yes, why the hell not?"

Why the hell not indeed, since she was stuck alone at the bar while almost-drunk Harry and drunk Ron and the other guys played a drunken game of pool – both missing the white ball with their cue sticks, dragging it across the green of the table and chuckling more than anything.

Hermione glanced back at them to find Harry was very nearly laying fully on top of the table as he squinted (even with his glasses) to aim at the white ball better and Ron was swaying a little as he gurgled some encouragement to Harry.

And then she looked back at the man on the left – he was not bad, very rugged, masculine looks with a shirt that was a little too tight and jeans that were showing off some parts of his Queen of Hearts patterned boxers (Hermione didn't get it, was it the in thing for men lately?) and he was smiling very charmingly at Hermione, showing off one dimple.

"No, there isn't a problem," she offered, smiling back, "Why do you ask?"
"It's just that," he looked pointedly at her drink, "You haven't taken a sip since I brought you your drink. Did I get you the wrong one?"
"No, I'm just feeling a little tipsy," she lied, "I need to cool off a bit before taking this."
"Alright, I'll just go get myself another drink," he grinned toothily, "I'll be back, two seconds."

As soon as he buzzed off to where to bartender was standing, Hermione returned to her glaring. Her right arm lay motionless, innocent and pliant.

But as soon as she brought her glass of martini to her mouth, her right hand immediately shot out and covered the whole rim with it – almost protectively.

"Stop it," she hissed at it.

She tried again, but her right hand seemed to be adamant on not letting her drink her martini. Whether it was out of spite or just for fun, she didn't know. All she knew that this was bloody annoying.

Truth was – she had the alien hand syndrome. Her right hand seemed to have a mind of its own. She wasn't born with it, she just woke up on the 27th birthday feeling like her right hand was possessed by an evil twin.

Of course, she told no one of this. She had it under control, she did. There were days when it was docile and obedient, responding to her brain's instructions instead of instructions from Merlin-knows-what-where-and-who. Other days, it was really enthusiastic – like a child on sugar rush. It bugged her to no end, especially when she wanted to take a nap – it kept moving around and making finger-men and walking around the sheets.

She went to a Healer, and when they found nothing wrong with her, she went to a Muggle psychiatrist and they still found nothing wrong with her.

It was crazy and for the brightest witch of her age, she decided to leave it while she did more research on her own.

She found that this condition made it difficult for her to tell a lie, since whenever she thought of sprouting a fib, her right hand would scratch her nose, touch her mouth or pull on the corner of her eyes a little bit or do some unnecessary action associated with the universal symptoms of lie-telling.

There were times though where it had its benefits, like saving her life. There was an instance when she forgot that the kettle had just been boiled and she made to touch it, but not before her right hand pulled back almost violently, refusing to come close to the kettle. Other times, her right arm would automatically flip one of her papers over her head before a bird released its faeces on top of it.

And during one night, she had decided to try one of her friend Christie's cigarettes with her left hand – and before she managed to take a puff her right hand shot out and snatched it away. She battled with her right hand much to the watching crowd's bemusement, but eventually she gave the cigarette back to Christie and sighed in defeat.

This time though, back at the bar, she didn't know why her right hand didn't want her to drink this martini what's-his-face got for her.

She let out a heavy sigh before giving in to her right hand, which immediately grabbed the bottom of the tall glass and dragged it far, far away from her.

"Oh, I really need a drink!" Ginny said a little breathlessly, face shiny with sweat and looking as red as her hair, "Been dancing the entire time!"
"There you go, have mine," Hermione said. At least the drink won't go to waste.
"Really? Thank you!" she grabbed it and took a couple of sips, "Mmm. Come dance with me."

"Oh, no, please," she laughed, "I'm a terrible dancer."

Silently, Hermione waited for her right hand to maybe scratch her nose or touch her mouth or … something to obviously refute the fact that she was a terrible dancer.

But nothing came.

So she was a terrible dancer, she thought as she glared at her right hand, as if the fact that she was a stiff spirit was its fault.

The night went on, with Ginny going back to the dance floor, Blake – no, Mikhail – who the fuck is Blake? – sending her curious and almost confused glances and Harry and Ron laughing to the point of sobbing on top of the pool table.

After a bit though, something red and wobbly caught her attention. It was Ginny, in the middle of the dance floor, not being able to stand up on her own as she grabbed people around her for support.

"Be right back," she told Blake – Mikhail, damn it, Mikhail.

She zoomed towards the dance floor where Ginny was still swaying and still groping random strangers.

"Ginny," Hermione grabbed her shoulders and shook her, "Ginny!"
"Mm?" she looked up at Hermione, her eyes glazed over, a watery smile on her lips.

"Hey!" she called, trying to get her to snap out of it, and then her right hand smacked her lightly and repeatedly on her cheek. "Ginny!"
"Mm … take me home," she began and pressed herself against one of the guys watching her.

"Funny, she didn't even drink," Luna said out of nowhere from next to her.

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"She's been drugged," she said as she turned to look at the bar, then her right hand shot up and pointed accusingly at Bl – Mikhail, "By him."

As if sensing he was in trouble, Mikhail bolted and exited the pub.

Luna sighed and shook her head, "Guess I should take her home then. You watch over the boys."
"Yeah," Hermione nodded and went back to the bar after Luna had disappeared with Ginny.

Between watching Harry and Ron, she studied her right arm and smiled a little.

Saved her again, it did.

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It was Friday night – their customary out-for-drinks night and Hermione was ready to submit herself to a night of watching the boys get drunk, Ginny dance her head off, Luna make weird observations and … and … no! Tonight she was going to have fun!

No more Miss I watch over everyone and make sure they're alright! Tonight she was going to have fun! Maybe not dance, but maybe … try her hand at pool. Literally.

She was on her second game (and winning! Much to the dismay of the boys) and was about to dunk the number 8 ball before Ginny came up to their pool table, skirt higher than when she first came in and hair looking like she ruffled them in an attempt to look sexier or something like that.

"Oh my God, guess who's at the bar?" she whispered in an almost conspiring manner.
"Who?" Harry asked, as Hermione got ready to push her cue stick with all her might.

"Draco Malfoy."

And just like that – just like that – her trusty right hand faltered and completely missed the white ball.

What the fuck was that?!

"Aww, shame, 'Mione," Ron laughed, as he sunk in the last ball, winning the game, "But oh yeah? Draco Malfoy?"
"Yes, the one and only," Ginny nodded, "I haven't seen him in a while except on Quidditch magazines and the sports section of The Daily Prophet."

"Oh, yeah, he's Seeker for Puddlemere United isn't he?" Harry said, looking very impressed.
"And how exactly did ferret end up in a team that bloody good?" Ron said, "I mean, not as good as Chudley Cannons, definitely."

"Skills," Hermione said succinctly, glancing at the bar and sweeping her eyes through the row of seats until it landed on Malfoy's trademark white-blond hair.

He wasn't alone, he was surrounded by other guys who were well-built, just like him, and they were joking and laughing and clapping him on the back.

"I wonder why he's here?" Ron asked. "Been ages since I last saw him but it's almost strange to see him in the same pub after all these years."

"Maybe they're celebrating Puddlemere's recent victory against the Harpies, I dunno," Ginny shrugged and walked away.

Something lurched in her chest as she took in the sight of Malfoy after almost ten years. She had wanted to thank him, after the battle, to thank him for saving them when they were accosted and brought to the Manor. She knew that Malfoy knew Harry was the real Harry, especially the way his gaze went from confusion to recognition at the sight of Hermione. He had saved them, and she had wanted to say that if it weren't for him, they wouldn't have won – in a way. But the words couldn't leave her mouth when she saw him with his mother in front of what Hogwarts used to be, and that was the last time she ever saw him.

Until today.

Debating on whether she should go up to him and say hello, she watched as Draco sidled away from his crowd and went to talk to the bartender.

Sensing her opportunity, Hermione moved and walked resolutely towards where Draco had his back towards her.

A hello and thank you go a long way, after all.

She was mentally rehearsing her speech to Malfoy at the speed of light the closer he got to him. This was how it was supposed to go:

Hello Malfoy, long time no see. I heard you've been doing quite well, and I'm glad. And congratulations on winning the game. Anyway, I've wanted to thank you – I know it's been too long but I sincerely believe in better late than never. So yes, thank you, for saving our lives back at the Manor. If it weren't for you, we would have lost. You're a good man, Draco Malfoy. And I hope you have a nice life, you deserve it.

But instead of saying it articulately like she normally did, her right hand shot out, grabbed a handful of Malfoy arse and squeezed.

She squawked, and let go, completely forgetting her speech.

Malfoy's form froze for a moment, before sighing.

"For fuck's sake, Stefano," his cool, aristocrat voice came, "If that's you grabbing my arse, I've told you a billion times … you're a nice bloke and all but I'm not gay, so please -"

He turned to face Hermione.

And within a few seconds, Hermione had sized him up. It took her only five seconds flat for her to assess him up and down, left and right.

Merlin but he looked good.
This was not the pointy, too-pale blond git with too much gel in his hair. This was a man, an assured air of a man, his hair sticking up everywhere in the most charming of ways, and his face had filled out, grey eyes still intact and still piercing as the first day Hermione noticed them. And he was tall, very tall – six foot something but sturdy and in all black. Kid-Hermione would probably laugh at the fact that ten years later she would actually be finding Malfoy attractive.

"Granger?" His eyes narrowed.

"I wasn't – it isn't – it wasn't me!" She blurted, looking around for someone to put to blame on but no one was around that at that very moment.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

"Granger. I haven't seen you in what, almost ten years and you decide to greet me by molesting my arse?" He crossed his ankles and his arms, watching her critically.

But it is such a lovely arse.

"I … no … I just … I just …"
"Did you get Stutter Disease from the Weasel or am I making you nervous?" he smirked, and immediately Hermione was reminded of the Malfoy from ten years ago.
"No, Malfoy," she growled.
"So pray tell, Granger, why are you blushing? I know I'm handsome and all but you don't have a chance, sadly. I don't date bushy-haired know-it-alls."

Hermione bristled.

"You're such a prick, Malfoy! All these years I thought you had changed, even in the slightest bit. But it looks like you're the same old git I knew and despised back in Hogwarts. I hate you. No, I retract that. I loathe you," Hermione hissed out the 'loathe' in her sentence.

Malfoy was staring at her with wide, surprised eyes and was looking taken-aback.

Finally. He had to hear it. Stupid git.

"I … I understand that," he said calmly, slowly, "But … why are you touching my face?"

Hermione's brows furrowed, and she snorted, "What? What are you talking about?"

She followed his gaze and she gasped loudly at the sight before her.

Right there, on Malfoy's perfect, flawless pale skin, on his left cheek, was her right hand. And it was stroking it slowly, affectionately.

Her brain was screaming at her and she immediately withdrew her hand as if burned.

"I, I'm sorry, I don't know how that happened," she laughed nervously, as her right hand rebelled against her and started stroking the front of Malfoy's black leather jacket.

She withdrew her hand again.

"Look, Malfoy, I just came here to say a few things to you," she said, looking resolutely into his puzzled but amused eyes, feeling herself redden. "And before I end up hating you even more than ever, I'll just go right ahead and say it."

Or before I end up groping you all over.

Hermione made a mental reminder to reprimand her right hand later – what the fuck was it thinking?!

"Go on," he nodded, still having that amused twinkle in his grey eyes.

"Okay. Malfoy, I just wanted to thank you properly for what you did for Harry, Ron and me during the war. That time when we were caught and brought to the Manor. You didn't give us away and instead bought us time. That helped a lot. In fact, that helped win the war."

Malfoy looked surprised all of a sudden.

Huh. He really wasn't expecting this.

"And … I just wanted to say that … you were one of the bravest people I know."

Malfoy groaned and shut his eyes.

What the – he looks like he's enjoying this far too much.

"I'm glad you're successful and happy now … because you're a good man."

He was groaning now, eyes screwed shut, his brows knitted together – and looked almost absolutely naughty if Hermione dwelled on it long enough …

"Granger, please …" he whispered.

What? Is he – the git! Is he getting turned on by this? What an odd fellow, getting off by hearing people say nice things about him!

"Please what, Malfoy?" Hermione asked in confusion.

Malfoy groaned again.

"Please, get your hand off my …"

Hermione waited.

"Get my hand off your what?"
"Please get your hand off my crotch."

Hermione froze.
And her eyes immediately traced her right hand to his –

OH MY FUCKING GOD!

Said right hand was currently resting on his crotch – squeezing minutely and was about a tick away from rubbing it – and Hermione made an odd sound, it sounded like mortification and embarrassment and terror and horror – before she ripped her hand off, clutching it to her chest with her left hand.

"OH MY FUCKING GOD!" she echoed her previous thoughts, shouting it into the open air, attracting a couple of people's attentions.

Malfoy's eyes opened and pinned her with great intensity, but Hermione didn't stay long to hear what he was about to say.

She vamoosed towards the exit, whilst shouting at the top of her lungs:
"I'M SO SORRY, MALFOY!"

To be continued!
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