A/N: I am not quite sure if this is worth continuing to a fully fleshed out story, but let me know if you would like this to continue. This is very OOC and is very light-hearted.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter no matter how many times I wish for it.
Draco woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or under the bed rather, as he struggled to scramble up from his current disposition: a jumbled pile of bed sheets. He groaned sleepily, his tousled hair sticking up in every which way. What had happened last night? All he could recall was his first drink. It was a normal Tuesday evening, as he found himself rather bored, once again. As a son of a powerful Lucius Malfoy, who was becoming quite old and senile (he hoped it was not hereditary, oldness, that is), Draco had essentially taken over a corporation, a cutthroat and successful industry. He was in his prime: young, intelligent, handsome, and by his standards, quite successful. In fact, he was quite sure he would be named one of the world's "Most Eligible Bachelors" of the year (if only he were asked…). Oh yes, Draco had a great life; the war was over and his reputation did not diminish too greatly; he did not mind crushing the plebeians that worked in his company (or watching them tremble under his steely gaze), dining in French restaurants with quaint, white table cloths. If he had one complaint, it would be waking up every morning with a faint headache (he would never admit he had a pounding migraine). Sure, he had his share of rather lovely ladies fawning over him whenever he pleased, and he had the perfect wingman (who conveniently doubled as a butler), not that he needed one of course.
Oh.
Realization overtook Draco as he remembered the events in the order that they had preceded just that past night; Draco and his dear friend Blaise Zabini had partaken in a drink or two after work, which quickly turned into a full out intoxicated haze of poor decision making (that pesky self-control became a little bit too difficult to maintain). Actually, he was quite lucky that he did not end up in jail or in bed next to a hideous female with an extra eye or something worse (such as an insufferable personality –there were a few whose whining would leave his ears ringing for days). Better check under the bed to make sure. Draco let out a sigh of relief as he tentatively peered under his bed; the only things residing there were dust bunnies and his slippers: also of the bunny variety. If anyone ever found out Draco Malfoy had bunny slippers, he would vehemently deny everything and put his wand to good use.
As he headed towards the shower and his head throbbed painfully, Draco cringed; perhaps he would just have black coffee this morning. These were trying times for a bachelor.
The alarm clock rang, escalating to an unbearable level, rousing the young woman out of her somewhat peaceful slumber. She groaned as she slowly sat up, rubbing her eyes blearily. The cruel flash of "6:30 A.M." taunted Hermione as she desperately wished to go back to sleep. Another day at the office was in store though, and her bills were not going to pay themselves; if she weren't so noble and selfless, she would have grumbled about the fact that war heroine extraordinaire was not living out the rest of her days in luxury, but was simply paper pushing. She groaned as she thought about her day in store. It would surely consist of her boss screaming at her amidst her paperwork. She was grossly underpaid (her boss was a sexist pig who felt women had more of a role in the kitchen) that no one else wanted to handle, yet she had always been a stubborn fighter. Refusing the many job offers she received after the war, Hermione decided to blaze her own path from her own qualifications, rather than her status and wanted to, as clichéd as it sounded, make a difference. Unfortunately, without her Newts, she had to start somewhere lower.
Thinking about the upcoming day gave Hermione a headache. With one last sigh escaping her lips, she slowly pulled off her covers and padded to the bathroom. As she brushed her teeth she stared at her own reflection. This 22 year old woman staring back at her did not look too pleased. Her soft brown eyes were nothing too special, her nose was of average size, her cheekbones were a bit too high, and her lips were not as pouty as those women from the lipstick commercials. Elizabeth dryly noted that she did have one thing going for her though; her rich brunette hair, which was slightly curled, cascading down her back in a lush mane. And her perfect teeth; courtesy of a mishap quite some years ago. After rinsing, Hermione splashed her face with ice cold water, bracing herself for another mindless day. As she opened her closet, Hermione let out another sigh. It was going to be a long day.