So, Hermione was rather grateful for the aurors who instigated the riotous evening at dinner, passing around a jug of mulled wine. Then came the Firewhiskey, Harry’s favorite. By the time midnight had rolled around, Hermione was thoroughly, unequivocally, sloshed. It was a free feeling, being so far from the world above, uninhibited by the pressures of her life on dry land. Hermione was enjoying herself, until Albert, the thin, nervous man from the linguistics department felt the need to rest his hand on her inner thigh, which was a  clear indication that she had no business staying any longer. 