Post-Hogwarts, EWE. Hermione's broken it off with Ron- again- and she's feeling ornery. Draco's drunk. Scathing remarks and scandalous behaviour ensue.

Just thought I would warn you all before you begin: my slang only wishes it was British, so this fic is written in American with occasional Britishisms. If it's jarring, please explain in your review. I'm always happy for advice.

Also, there are copious amounts of Ron-bashing in this story, so if you wuvs him... well, you can have him. In this 'verse he's not getting much love. XD

Carry on.

Hermione tipped back her second shot of firewhisky and grimaced at the burn.

"Men," she growled, "are useless."

"Amen, sister!" agreed a middle-aged woman from a nearby barstool.

Hermione raised her empty shotglass in a wry salute. "We women would be far better off without them and all of their little... their little issues!"

"Scared of us, that's what it is," the middle-aged woman opined. "They know that if they give us 'alf a chance, we'll show 'em up and make 'em look small."

"That's right!" Hermione agreed, shaking her glass for emphasis. The barman, a stout older man with kindly brown eyes, stepped over to her and refilled it. In handing it back to her, he leaned in and spoke in a confidential tone.

"Lady, your friend looks a bit off. I only seen 'er sippin' on that one drink– you think somebody might'a slipped 'er somethin'?"

From the barstool to Hermione's right came a low giggle, and she turned to face the object of the barman's concern. Luna stared back at them with a dreamy smile.

"I'm fine, Mr. Barkeep," she assured. "But you should watch those people carefully–" she waved a hand toward the dance floor, where several men and women in various degrees of intoxication danced ungracefully– "I think they're being attacked by wrackspurts."

The barman blinked at her, and Hermione laughed.

"Luna, they're not under attack, they're just drunk," she chuckled.

Luna looked at her seriously. "Yes, the symptoms can be very easy to confuse," she replied.

Hermione laughed again. "Luna, I'm so glad you're here," she said. Luna smiled.

"Thank you for inviting me," she said. Then, forthright as always, she declared, "Ginny said we were supposed to drink and man-bash, but I'm not sure I can help you with the bashing. I've never actually had a sweetheart."

"Never fear," Hermione said, and downed her third shot. "It's simple enough– you just listen to me ranting, and say things like 'that pig' and 'what a lout' occasionally."

Luna nodded seriously. "I'm also supposed to get you laid," she added, and Hermione gaped at her.

"Ginny told you to– she said I should– I just dumped her brother, for crying out loud!" she sputtered.

Luna shrugged. "She says that her brother is a git and that a woman needs to keep her options open."

Ginny had a point, Hermione conceded– privately. Ron drove her nearly mad with frustration at times, in more ways than one. 'Still,' she thought indignantly, 'I'm not going to commemorate our fifth breakup by picking up some random barhopper for a drunken shag!' Her short black skirt rode up a bit as she shifted on the barstool, and she smoothed it down again primly. 'I am not that kind of a girl!'

With that thought firmly in mind, she ordered another shot and a butterbeer chaser and settled in for a long night of drinking and man-bashing, which she intended follow with a drunken stumble into a Muggle cab, a brief period of blissful unconsciousness, a nagging-but-manageable hangover, and a sense of grim satisfaction at having successfully drowned her troubles.

While Hermione nursed her butterbeer and geared up for her next shot, the band fell silent for a moment and the bar erupted with song requests– the middle-aged man-basher wanted to hear "Firewhisky Blues," several young men at the back of the bar shouted for "Charm This, Witch," and Luna politely asked if they knew "Prefects Are Hot." Eventually, the band settled into an old ballad.

"She took my owl and my favorite broom," the singer wailed. "She cursed my boots to kick me 'round our room! I've got a bruise for every time I made her cry!"

Hermione chuckled. "I ought to try that boot trick next time Ron comes crawling back," she said.

Beside her, Luna blinked serenely and sipped her drink before replying. "But everyone says you're just going to take him back again," she said mildly. "Why do you break up with him in the first place when you're inevitably going to continue the relationship?"

Hermione did not want to answer that. She did not even want to think about that. It depressed her, because it always turned out the same way: Ron would storm out amidst a screaming, furniture-smashing row. He would sulk for a few days, but then he would be right back at Hermione's door, fairly oozing contrition. He would apologize and grovel, all the while privately faulting her for the fight in the first place. She would relent, he would move back in and they would resume their little dance... until the next time he complained about her cooking or asked when she was going to quit her job to pop out a half dozen redheaded babies, and then it would all blow up again. 'I love him,' she reminded herself. 'We've been friends for years. I must not kill him.'

"I don't know," she relented, seeing that Luna actually wanted an answer. "I guess I still love him... I guess. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to make him pay for being such a bloody nincompoop."

"I think he was attacked by andryfuddlers as a child," Luna opined, "and it's disrupted his ability to tell the things he should say in front of women from the things that will get him hexed and thrown down the stairs."

Hermione choked a little on her fourth firewhisky and had to put the shot glass down in order to clear her airways. "I suppose–" she coughed. "–I suppose that's one theory."

"It's also possible that he's just not very intelligent."

"Well, well," drawled a voice from Hermione's left– a voice that instantaneously had Hermione's hackles up and sent her right hand flying to her waist for her wand. "Looks like Loony's got the right idea for once."

'I must have patience,' she reminded herself, and she took a deep breath and then half-turned to raise a haughty eyebrow at the owner of the voice.

Draco Malfoy leaned on the bar to her left, wearing stylish emerald robes and his trademark smirk. Hermione scanned the bar for an escape route and spotted Blaise Zabini in a nearby booth with Theo Nott across from him. Nott sat with his head in his hands, either groaning over his friend's antics or laughing; Hermione couldn't tell. 'They certainly aren't messing around,' she thought, noting the multitude of empty glasses on the table between the former Slytherins.

"At a loss for words, Granger?" Malfoy purred. He held a mostly-empty glass of gin and coke in one hand, and his normally pale cheeks were flushed with the effects of alcohol– a lot of alcohol. "I know how you feel; the shock of hearing Loony Lovegood say something coherent nearly floored me."

"I think that was the gin," middle-aged man-basher snorted. Malfoy gave her a Superbly Disdainful Look.

"I'll thank you to mind your own business, madam," he sniffed, sounding so much like an offended old lady that Hermione snorted a laugh through her second attempt at finishing her shot.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked when she could breathe again. She was fully prepared to respond appropriately to whatever he might say: her fingers still rested on the hilt of her wand, while her other hand stayed wrapped around her shot glass, and she had a fairly clear path to the emergency exit in case she killed him and had to bolt.

"I came over to bask in your heroic glow, of course," he sneered. "It's not every day you see the Woman Who Helped Conquer the Dark Lord out mixing with the commoners. You spend so much time locked up in that storage closet you call an office that there have been rumors that you died."

She opened her mouth to snap a retort, but her jaw snapped shut and she narrowed her eyes at him for a moment before giving a smirk of her own.

"Your hair's messed up, Malfoy," she said. The grey eyes widened and Draco's hand abandoned his drink and shot up to his perfectly styled blond hair. He nearly missed, but managed to plop the hand onto the top of his head– mussing his hair thoroughly– before glaring at Hermione.

"My hair is perfect," he sniffed. "Unlike yours, Granger, which is– er–" he blinked at Hermione's hair, which she had Charmed into submission before donning her sexiest outfit and dragging Luna out to the pub to drink away her frustration. Draco glowered at the shiny mass of perfectly-corkscrewing curls as though it had personally offended him.

"Your usual wit seems to have deserted you," Hermione observed.

Draco snorted. "Your usual frumpery seems to have deserted you," he slurred petulantly. His eyes raked over her and she was suddenly hyper-aware of how low the neckline of her crimson blouse plunged. She resisted an urge to pull it up and simply glared back at him. Undeterred, Malfoy gave her a sly smile. "In fact, you look rather fetching for a workaholic shut-in. Finally ditched Weasley and got yourself a social life, eh?"

"My social life is none of your business, Malfoy." Hermione turned back to the bar, dismissing him, and finished off her fourth shot of firewhisky.

"Though I'd hardly call getting sloshed in this dive with Loony Lovegood a 'social life,'" Draco continued, as though she had not spoken. He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a confidential not-whisper. "Oh, I know! Why don't you come drink with Blaise and Theo and me? I mean, even our excellent breeding and polished manners can't save your social graces, but it can only help your reputation."

'That statement was so inaccurate that I don't even know what to say,' Hermione thought in exasperation. She settled for casting Zabini and Nott another glance and then raising her eyebrow at Draco again. "They don't look like they particularly want to socialize." In fact, Theo was halfway down a new bottle of ale, resolutely ignoring his surroundings. Blaise had somehow managed to acquire two scantily-clad witches, one on each knee, who both seemed to find his neck very tasty. When Hermione caught his eye, he gave her a lazy nod and raised his glass in a casual salute. The corners of his mouth twitched when his gaze fell on Draco.

Malfoy did look rather funny, leaning heavily on the bar while trying not to look as though he needed it for support, with his hair mussed and his stylish robes askew, chatting up a woman he had supposedly hated from the very moment he set eyes on her.

With a snort of disdain, Draco turned his back on his friends and dropped onto the stool next to Hermione. "Well, of course they don't look like they want to socialize," he explained matter-of-factly. "You're a Mudblood. They can't want to socialize with you in public." He grinned and leaned closer, swaying dangerously. Hermione's hand shot out to steady him, but she remembered who he was at the last second and pulled it back. Draco seemed not to notice; he steadied himself and dropped his voice into the faux-whisper again. "Bet they want to socialize with you in private though. All the Slytherin blokes did back in school."

Hermione's head spun a bit, and she didn't know if the booze was responsible or if her mind simply had that much difficulty wrapping around the absurdities flying from Draco's mouth. She signaled for a fifth shot as Luna hummed quietly behind her and middle-aged man-hater stared from her beer bottle to the back of Draco's head as though seriously contemplating introducing them.

"Yes," Draco continued, now a bit sing-song. "They aaaaall wanted to shag miss Hermione Granger, bookworm extraordinaire. You would've been the perfect challenge, you know." He sat back with a pout. "But you just haad to be a Mudblood."

"You shouldn't call her that, you know," Luna chided. "It isn't polite."

"Yeah, say it again, chump," growled middle-aged man-hater.

"You need another drink, Loony," Draco replied, and promptly bought her one. He ignored the menacing woman behind him with a mixture of alcohol-induced fearlessness and inborn arrogance. Hermione caught the woman's eye and shook her head slightly, and the woman snorted and stalked away to the other end of the bar.

Luna accepted a tall bloody mary from the barman and stared at Draco over the rim as she took a sip. "Your friend doesn't look very happy," she remarked.

Draco rolled his head in Blaise and Theo's direction and took in Blaise's glazed expression through half-shuttered eyes. "Yeah, he gets like that. He's always after blondes and they're always coming up short."

"Of course he isn't happy with them," Luna replied, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. "He's in love with you; the blonde women are just a distraction."

Draco choked on his drink. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand to contain what would have been a loud and extremely unladylike guffaw. Luna smiled dreamily and patted Hermione on the shoulder before standing from her seat and grabbing her drink off the bar. "I wonder what Theodore knows about the Greater Mossworgles his family is keeping on Sicily," she pondered, and wandered away, leaving Hermione alone with a drunk and dumbstruck Draco.

"Blaise is NOT in love with me," the latter said abruptly.

"It would show extremely poor taste on his part if he was," Hermione deadpanned. Draco shot to his feet, gripped the edge of the bar to steady himself, and glared at her.

"What are you talking about?" he protested. "Look at me, I'm exquisite!"

Hermione obligingly looked him up and down. She had to blink a couple of times to get him in focus. 'Bloody hell. I'm drunk.' He did look pretty damn good, and she bit back a wave of irritation as she reminded herself that that wasn't the point.

She said so, and then– as he looked skeptical and some dangerous part of her brain had scoffed that when one hadn't been decently laid in months, the point did not matter– she launched into a lecture.

"Love," she announced, "isn't based on looks. You love someone because of who they are. It's not the same as lusting after someone because he or she looks good or has a reputation." 'And you have to put up with every little quirk and deficiency,' she sniped in her head, 'and every offhanded sexist comment, and every sulky, defensive excuse–'

"I know that, Granger," Draco snapped. "God, you're as big a know-it-all as ever, aren't you?"

Hermione bit her tongue and returned her attention to the bar in front of her. The shot glass stood empty, but she had plenty of butterbeer and a buzz that would handily drown any guilt she might feel over hexing Malfoy through a wall, as she suspected would happen before the night was out.

'And what is with him, anyway?' she fumed. 'He's made his little jibes. Why can't he go back to hitting on drunken floozies and leave me the hell alone?'

Absorbed in her mental tirade, she jumped when a long-fingered hand landed on her knee and slid upward, teasing at the edge of her skirt. Draco chuckled and leaned in close.

"What's the matter, Granger? Shocked I'd touch you without dragon hide gloves?" He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her face and smell the gin he had imbibed.

"Take your hand off me, Malfoy," she clipped out.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" he asked. The hand crept higher. "Aren't you curious at all?"

Her own hand clamped down on the wandering one, stilling its progress. "No, not really," she snorted. "See, Malfoy, I'm not some star-struck schoolgirl you can charm. You burned a lot of bridges with me back then."

"Who needs bridges?" Draco smiled. "All I need is a solid horizontal surface, Granger, and I'll have you screaming in no time."

That put pictures in her head.

"You're very drunk," Hermione said.

"No one has ever complained," he replied.

"That's because all your little bar floozies are always drunker than you are."

"Oh? Been watching then, have you?" he said with a suggestive wiggle of his pale brows. "Have another shot, Granger, you'll get there."

'Only way I'll ever 'get there' is if I break out my toys,' she thought wryly. "It'll take more than firewhisky to get you up my skirts, Malfoy."

"Cheers," he replied, handing her a new shot. She glowered at him, but downed it and then gestured to the barman for a softer drink.

Draco removed his hand from her leg, and she focused on her glass and soon fell back into her mental tirade against Malfoy, Ron, and males in general.

'Damn them anyway. You have to work twice as hard in the office just to be noticed and then you come home to your oblivious offhandedly sexist lump of a boyfriend who doesn't understand your tirades and hates your cooking and expects you to do all the cleaning and won't feed the cat and then he wonders why you're so 'damned irritable all the time, Hermione, geez, lighten up' that stupid ARSE is lucky I haven't cursed his ears off yet and he thinks a little roll in the SACK will fix things, which it might if the bastard was any GOOD in the sack, but nooooo, he's clueless THERE TOO, and there are a BILLION books on the subject but you'd think they were coated in poison for all he'll pick one up and read it, guess he thinks I'll magically get over my problem and suddenly be a sweet sexually fulfilled cooking cleaning housewitch who-'

"Brooding over the weasel, Granger?" Draco drawled. Hermione started, covered it with a snort, and raised an eyebrow at him; he smirked, not fooled. "You were staring at your drink as though contemplating which of the Unforgivables you should use, so I assumed you were thinking about your dearly beloved."

"Get stuffed, Malfoy," Hermione grumbled. 'I bet even a good Cruciatus wouldn't get through his thick skull–' she glanced at Malfoy– 'or Ron's either.'

She really was drunk, if she thought that was funny. She suspected she should not try standing up.

"Of course, I can't imagine why you would be here instead of home with the redheaded wonder," Draco had continued, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure he's just an animal in bed."

'Yeah,' Hermione thought. 'The big, clumsy kind that drools on the pillows.' Aloud she said, "Spend a lot of time thinking about what Ron's like in bed, do you?"

Draco flushed. "No need to get prickly, Granger," he said. "Just because your knight in shining armor can't find your sweet spot to save his life–"

She started to laugh, startling her companion. Just then, with as much firewhisky as blood coursing through Hermione's veins, she thought that that may have been the funniest thing said to her in years... especially considering the course her own thoughts has just taken– and her inner tirade abruptly spilled over.

"You've got that right," she snorted. "Not with both hands, a flashlight and a map, for Merlin's sake! I even drew him a bloody diagram once, and he still doesn't get it!"

Draco sniggered. "I knew it. The git can probably barely locate his own prick."

"Much less know what the clitoris is all about!" Hermione fumed, ignoring him. "He shows up with those puppy-dog eyes going 'I'm sorry 'Mione, I'll do better this time,' then it's pound away for five minutes and 'what do you mean it wasn't good for you?'!"

Draco looked as though Christmas had come early. "I have got to get you drunk more often. He'll die of shame when I bring this up!"

"And then he expects me to– what are you laughing at? This is serious!"

"I'm– I'm sorry Granger, this is too rich!" Draco howled. He clutched his sides and leaned forward, gasping for air, and promptly slid sideways off his stool and sprawled out on the ground. This made him laugh harder.

Hermione growled, slipped off her own stool, and hauled him to his feet with minimal staggering on her part.

"Come on. We need to get you some water and get you to bed."

"I knew you'd come around," he giggled. Hermione rolled her eyes and waved over the barman.

"I need a key for one of the rooms upstairs," she said. "He's too drunk to Apparate. Charge it to Malfoy, or Zabini or Nott, whichever of them set up the tab."

"Is your friend goin' to be all right?" he asked, handing over a small silver key and nodding across the room to Blaise and Theo's booth. Luna sat next to Theo, and he and Blaise were laughing heartily while Blaise's bimbos sat on either side of him, sulking.

"She can handle herself," Hermione said. She tucked the key in hand and slung an arm around Draco's waist to support him, then dragged him across the half-empty dance floor toward the inconspicuous door which led to the stairs.

Her path took her close by the booth where Luna still sat with Blaise and Theo. As she passed, she heard Theo cough a little.

"There he goes, Blaise. I told you he'd actually do it. Should we rescue him?"

She could almost hear Blaise's sneer. "If he wants to bed down with the sows, let him."

"Instead of being bitter, you should tell him you're in love with him," Luna advised.

There was a long silence from the booth. Hermione and Draco had already reached the door when they finally heard Blaise speak again.

"...What?" he choked out, sounding flabbergasted.

Draco burst up laughing. Hermione chuckled a bit too, but had to focus on getting Draco up the stairs without killing either of them.

After five-or-maybe-six shots of firewhisky and a half-pint of butterbeer, Hermione thought that task should have been a lot more difficult.

'Of course, it hasn't really hit yet,' she thought– and promptly stumbled on the top step, sending her shoulder-first into the wall and Draco into a fit of giggles. 'Never mind. It's hit. But I still have time to get into a cab before–'

Her thoughts stuttered to a quite understandable standstill as she attempted to push away from the wall and Draco, still giggling quietly, pinned her in place with his body.

"Malfoy," she said, keeping her voice admirably level– except for that tiny squeak at the end, damn the firewhisky– "Just what in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?"

"Seducing you, of course," replied Draco. One hand curled around her hip and his face nuzzled her neck, which tingled pleasantly where his lips touched it.

Must have been the firewhisky.

"Oh no you don't," she growled. "You're going to bed, and I'm going home."

"Mmhmm," he agreed. The hand on her waist dropped to her thigh, caressing with long, languid motions. "When I'm finished with you."

Hermione groaned and thunked her head back into the wall. "Malfoy, I told you I'm not interested."

"But you should be," he said, and attacked her neck with sudden ferocious passion. Hermione drew in a sharp breath and then shuddered as he grazed his teeth down the line of her throat, then nibbled his way up the tendon and latched onto her earlobe.

'Ohgod.' Hermione squirmed. 'Not the ears!'

Draco noted the motion and teased at the edge of the ear for a moment with the tip of his tongue before chuckling darkly. "See? We've been doing this for thirty seconds and I'm already making you squirm."

"Your ego is astounding," she hissed, and attempted to twist out of his grasp.

The firewhisky had other ideas. When she moved, the alcohol-induced rush sent her world spinning and she gave up the effort very quickly.

Meanwhile, Malfoy the Walking Ego had not experienced any personality changes in the last ten seconds. "I am rather astounding," he smirked. "But you'll find my ego is well-deserved." His fingertips teased at the edge of her skirt while his lips returned to map out every sensitive place on her neck and shoulders. Hermione teetered between a retort and unequivocal agreement, as his attentions sent cool tingles through her body. Her limbs felt pleasantly heavy and Draco's weight against her was comfortable and warm.

Of course, just as her inner hedonist moved to take the reins, her inner Ravenclaw spoke up and informed her that she was too drunk to give legal consent. 'Is it still illegal if he's as drunk as I am?' She couldn't remember. She thought about asking him, but thought it might break the mood. 'Wait, what? The MOOD?'

She almost—almost rebelled at this thought, but Draco's fingers had slipped underneath her skirt and were ghosting back and forth across the ultra-sensitive skin of her inner thigh. A shudder wracked her frame and she instinctively parted her thighs a bit. Draco smirked against her skin and moved to stroke her through the thin material of her panties with one long, delicate finger. Her breathing hitched and she arched slightly against his restraining weight.

That decided her. 'To Hell with it. I haven't had a decent orgasm in months that wasn't self-induced, and I'll bet Galleons to gobstones that Malfoy won't need a flashlight and a map.'

An assumption proved bare seconds later when, evidently tiring of his little teasing game, Draco shoved the thin barrier aside and pressed two fingers deep inside her, drawing a gasp from her throat and causing her hands to fly up and clench into his robes. His fingers retreated, spreading her juices along her slit and flicking over her clit once-twice to make her jerk. His other hand drifted up from where it had been braced against the wall and over Hermione's ribs to tug down the neck of her top, exposing one breast. Her own hand unwound from Draco's robes to bury itself in fine blond hair as he dipped his head to her chest and swirled his tongue around the taut peak. Her breath came shorter and she leaned her head back and shut her eyes, relishing the attention he paid her body. His fingers alternately pressed and rubbed her clit and he echoed the movement with his tongue on her nipple, and the combination turned her legs to jelly and set her belly afire.

He suddenly abandoned her clit and thrust his fingers deep inside her again– a rough and not altogether skillful motion which reminded her that he had had quite as much to drink tonight as she had– but that thought vanished as he began to stroke inside her, pressing and then retreating, thrusting roughly a few times more before pressing a different spot, searching and questing, all the while performing the most distracting motions with his mouth on her chest–

'That's the spot, there!' Hermione's head flew back again and slammed painfully into the wall when those godlike digits found and pressed a place within her walls that made jolts of electricity crackle up her spine. Draco lifted his head and smirked at her dazed expression.

"There," he said smugly. "No diagram needed."

'Someone give the man a medal,' she thought, and opened her mouth to say it. What came out was, "Nngah-ah–"

"I knew you'd come around," he chuckled, and then his thumb found her clit while he mercilessly rubbed that spot inside her and his insufferable smugness paled in significance, and she threw her head back and screamed. His free hand twisted into Hermione's hair and jerked her head to one side so Draco's mouth could descend upon hers in a violent kiss, and he ground his own arousal against her while his hand under her skirt worked her into a frenzy.

Thrashing against him, she met his kiss tease for tease and bite for bite, and her right hand fought itself free of their clothing to cup the hardness pushing against her hip. He whimpered and deepened their kiss until she could hardly breathe, not that she cared so long as his fingers kept up their work. Her own digits burrowed past more restrictive fabric and intricate fastenings until they wrapped around a hot, solid length and squeezed. Draco made that whimpering noise again and she echoed it, rocking her hips forward and back and half-raising her leg against his thigh as he drove her relentlessly toward her peak. She finally freed him from the odious fabric and began a fast stroke, somewhat impeded by the close crush of their bodies against one another, but the impossibility of the angle ceased to matter when she spasmed violently around his thrusting digits and drenched him with her release, which seemed to give Draco the push he needed to spill himself, with a jerk and a choked-sounding groan, into her stroking hand. They both went rigid for a long moment, riding out their peaks, and then collapsed against each other, panting heavily and shaking.

It seemed to dawn on both of them then where they were, because Draco hastily pulled his hand from under her skirt and set about fixing his robes, while Hermione swore and pulled her top back into place.

"Which room is it?" Draco asked briskly, and Hermione blinked at the tag on the key she still held in her left hand, finding it necessary to shut one eye to bring the number into focus.

"Two," she ascertained after a moment. Draco looked at the nearest door and burst up laughing.

"Couldn't walk two more feet before jumping me, Granger?" he teased.

Hermione wanted so badly to snarl a rebuff, but she felt a bit too woozy at the moment to manage it. She handed the key to Draco, who fumbled and swore for a full minute before the lock clicked and the door swung open, and they stumbled into a tiny room with a bed, a nightstand and a miniscule attached bath. Draco fought his way out of his clothing and stretched out on the bed, catlike, before turning to give Hermione a smirk– also catlike.

"Well, Granger? Care for another round, since you're here and obviously not as goody-goody as you like to claim?"

Hermione glared and gifted him with a sneer worthy of a Malfoy.

She could not think of a single retort, but the sneer was pretty good. She left it at that and stalked– well, stumbled, but in her head it was a stalk– into the bathroom to clean up.

By the time she staggered out again, Malfoy had passed out in the middle of the bed atop the covers and Hermione could not think of anything she wanted less than to drag herself back down the stairs and hail a cab. With a groan of pure existential exasperation, she stripped out of her clothes and slithered under the covers next to Malfoy, who shifted in his sleep to accommodate her. She buried her face in the pillow, which at least had the decency to stop the room from spinning, and sank into blissful oblivion.

Hermione's first thought upon waking was, 'Ron, stop hogging the fucking sheets.'

Closely followed by, 'Wait a second.'

Her third may have resembled 'FUCK!', had it taken the form of any language known to man. She sat bolt upright in bed and realized her mistake when her head immediately spun and her stomach rolled.

'This was not part of the plan.'

She looked to her left and groaned. 'This was definitely not part of the plan.'

Draco Malfoy lay stretched on his side a foot away, sleeping peacefully. He had wormed his way under the covers such that only half his face, some blond hair and his right leg stuck out, but he was clearly naked. Hermione looked down at her exposed upper half. So was she.

'Oh god. Did I...'

She wracked her aching brain for details, which it surrendered reluctantly in dim, fractured flashes of color and remembered sensation.

She remembered sitting at the bar with Draco. Blaise Zabini with two blondes on his lap, and then Blaise again with Luna Lovegood chattering at him. Draco laughing at her... no, at something she said. A lot of ranting about Ron. Stairs. And then... a darkened hallway, and Draco pressed against her. His mouth and hands on her. Blinding pleasure. Stumbling through the doorway into this room... Draco stretched out naked, inviting...

'Oh... god.'

She had gotten sloshed and slept with Draco Malfoy.

Cue panic mode.

'What the hell was I thinking? It's Malfoy! He hates me! I hate him! What will Ron and Harry say? Ohgod, Ron. He'll never forgive me for this. He might never speak to me again. This is a disaster. I'm a horrible person. I'm never drinking again!'

Wait.

Waaaaait.

Wasn't Ron the reason she was drinking in the first place?

And speaking of Harry, hadn't his wife instructed Luna to 'get Hermione laid'?

Well, mission accomplished. And Draco was fucking gorgeous.

And good with his hands.

So there.

Of course, her unshakeable justification for shagging the enemy would probably only last until Draco awoke and graced her with his glittering personality once more. She might wind up killing him.

Which meant Hermione should leave, and the moment the idea occurred to her, she leapt out of bed to do just that.

Unfortunately, the movement woke Sleeping Beauty, who yowled like a trodden cat and shot out of bed faster than she had ever seen him move in her life. Then he crouched opposite her, glaring at her as though she had doused him in water and set the dogs on him. If he had had a tail, it would have twitched.

"You," he hissed.

Hermione did not feel up to battling him and her hangover at once, so she merely replied, "Me," and resumed gathering her clothing.

He watched her lay last night's outfit on the bed in a neat row, his grey eyes narrowed in thought. He ran his gaze over her and a slow smile spread across his pale features.

"So," he purred, stretching out on his side of the bed again and smirking at her. "How was your night?"

Hermione gave him a narrow look, assessing. 'He's fishing for information about what we did last night,' she guessed. 'Or trying to make me uncomfortable. Or both.'

Either way, she wasn't falling for it.

"Whisky-soaked and a bit hazy," she replied. She located her wand and whisked the curtains open with a sharp flick, smirking when the resulting wave of light caused Draco to curse and cover his eyes. Though the light hurt her own eyes, at least she could now see well enough to attend to her clothing.

"So," Draco sneered. "Thought you'd try for a better class of wizard, eh Granger? Did it finally dawn on you that alcohol is the only way to get anyone to look twice at your ugly mug?"

"I think what I was trying for was the bottom of that bottle of Ogden's Finest," Hermione said wryly. She pulled on her panties and then stood with her arms crossed over her chest and perused the rest of her clothing, tapping her wand against her upper arm absently.

"Aha, so the Golden Girl likes to get drunk and prey on innocent bystanders," Draco needled. "Whatever will the rest of the Big War Hero Club say when they find out about this?"

"You wouldn't actually be stupid enough to say anything to them, would you?" Hermione snorted. She kept her eyes on her clothes to cover the trepidation that sprang up in her at the thought. Her earlier justifications aside, she thought it likely that her friends would take this juicy bit of gossip badly. Still, she couldn't let him know that. "Ron would put you in St. Mungo's for even suggesting that you and I might have..."

She couldn't quite bring herself to say it, so she jabbed her wand at her golden stilettos and turned them into tasteful flats.

"Speaking of the Weasel," Draco drawled, "where IS the longtime boyfriend of the Mighty Bookworm?"

Another jab of her wand turned last night's flowy, low-cut crimson blouse into a somewhat severe high-collared button-down, goldenrod to match the flats.

"Off finding more ways to drive me to drink, no doubt," she snapped. "What do you think of this color?"

"Ghastly," he replied. "It'll go great with your hair. So you're on the rebound then?"

"Yes," she hissed, and turned the blouse and shoes green. "Rebounding and very hung-over, so if you don't mind–"

"This will make a fabulous story for Witch Weekly, won't it Granger? I don't think they're aware that the Chosen One's Love-Struck Cohorts have split."

A third jab of the wand ensured that an elderly schoolmarm or a nun would find absolutely no fault with Hermione's skirt and left her with no distractions, so she glared directly into Draco's smug visage and tried not to hex him. She bit back her irritation, reminding herself that this was Malfoy; his purpose in life was to piss her off. The most prudent course of action would be to smile blandly, invite him to engage in sexual intercourse with himself, pull on her newly transfigured outfit and take the back way out of the pub to avoid drawing attention so that she could fervently deny everything later.

Hermione, in the wake of her fifth breakup with one of her oldest friends, a drinking jag that had probably cost her half her stomach lining, and some disconcertingly pleasurable hijinks with one of the most unpleasant men she had ever had the misfortune to meet, did not feel very prudent.

In fact, she felt rather bitchy.

So she smiled.

"Oh, yes, Malfoy, that's a wonderful idea!" she gushed. "I'll send them an owl directly. I'll be sure to include all the details. There's going to be quite a lot of publicity, so you'd better prepare yourself. Your name will be all over the place– you'll be blamed for the breakup, of course, every great drama needs a villain– so it'll almost seem like the Malfoy name is actually significant again." She gave him a rather nasty grin. "Your parents will be very pleased."

Draco's face turned ashen. "You wouldn't dare," he whispered. "You wouldn't dare tell my parents I slept with a– with a–"

"Oh that's right," Hermione said in tones of great surprise. "Your parents don't care for Muggle-borns, do they? Oh dear, I can't imagine how they would take this. And don't forget, I'm not quite as noble as most Gryffindors. I can be quite cruel when provoked."

Leaving him in dumbstruck silence to think about that, she returned her attention to her Transfigured clothing, making some final adjustments before donning the outfit. She had no sooner slipped her feet into the matching flats when the door flew open and Pansy Parkinson stormed into the room.

At least, she tried to storm. In reality, she made it two steps, spotted Hermione sitting on the bed, stumbled to a halt and stood with her eyes bulging and her mouth opening and closing. She looked like a stranded fish.

Hermione smiled at her and finished buttoning her blouse. "Good morning, Pansy."

"You," she growled, her voice shaking with rage. "Blaise said– but I thought he had to be lying– but you're actually... You slut! You just couldn't keep your filthy Mudblood hands off him, could you?"

Hermione squashed her rage at yet another slur and stood and casually straightened her clothing.

"Actually," Hermione shrugged, "he came onto me. Who am I to refuse such a tempting offer? You really should keep a better eye on him, by the way. Unsatisfied men tend to stray."

Before the incensed woman could react, Hermione slipped past her and headed down the stairs, humming merrily and mentally reviewing the ingredients for her favorite hangover remedy. Behind her, she could hear the beginnings of a spectacular row.

"Slytherins," she chuckled to herself, "are so easy."

Well, there's my Dramione. Hope you like it.

By the way, Ava is a review whore. *Hint hint, nudge nudge... shove off a cliff.*

There's a smutquel– I mean a sequel– to this lurking somewhere in my mind, but unless I think people will actually want to read it, then in my mind is probably where it will stay. It's too much effort to write and revise and triple-check and re-revise a story and then just fling it out to the ether and watch it float there.