A/N: Right, so, welcome to my new Harry Potter story! You're probably going to notice right off the bat that the events in this story are contrary to canon. Harry, Ron and Hermione are all still and Hogwarts and are attending their Seventh year. Yes, you guessed it, this story ignores canon! The reason for this is because this is a unique story: It has no drama whatsoever, aside from the silly. It's essentially about the Trio's Seventh year at Hogwarts without the looming threat of Voldemort. Although you won't see much of him in the next few chapters or this one, Dumbledore is also still alive. Severus Snape is just as much a foul git than ever and Drace Malfoy is still are loveable, hated villain that would would never have as anything but.

So, sit right back, relax and I do hope you enjoy this author's humble attempt into the foray of romantic comedy. It's my first dip into the field. So, without further ado, I present to you, the scene! Enjoy!

Chapter 1

The Party Foul

Hermione's legs were still aching as she stumbled into the Great Hall that morning – an action very uncharacteristic of herself, to be sure – and plopped down heavily next to Harry and across from Ron at the Gryffindor table, with an audible, 'Huff!'

'Galleon for your thoughts?' It was Harry who addressed her first. The tall, lean, scruffy-haired Boy Who Lived was staring at her, an amused smirk lighting up his deep emerald eyes over his morning bowl of porridge.

Hermione gave him a sidelong glare as her only response to his remark. She grumpily procured herself a piece of toast from the rack in front of her, expecting her withering look to be the endpoint of that rather snarky comment. It wasn't as if she were angry at Harry – no, irritated would be more appropriate given the situation. After everything they had been through that whole bloody evening, and Harry had the audacity to look so bloody cheerful!

'He looks a bit too well for my taste,' she thought grumpily. 'And he has no right to look so content either, the git!'

She took a small bite of toast, then reached reflexively for the Daily Prophet, which was her constant companion at the breakfast table, and when her hand was greeted with nothing but pure, cold, mahogany table in a flash she felt as if the rug had not just been pulled out from under her, but the very floor on which it had been tugged had just crumbled beneath her feet. At that moment, Harry bore witness to one of the most frightening events in history: Hermione Granger was officially pissed off.

She was aware that the annoying, amused light hadn't faded from his eyes yet and they were still trained almost expectantly on her, but she chose not to level her annoyance on him. Rather, when the Daily Prophet, which should have been to the left of her, was not to be found, her eyes immediately snapped up and focused on none other than Ronald Weasley. Not only was he nonchalantly reading her morning edition of the Prophet - whilst simultaneously devouring enough grease to finely lubricate the gears of a Muggle engine – but she could also make out a few smears of jam here and there on the page facing her. The audacity! Just one thought came to mind…

'Ronald!'

A few people around them looked startled, including Ron who tore his eyes away from the sports headlines and to Hermione. Were she not suffering probably the most severe case of the Mondays known to Wizarding kind, Hermione might have found his expression rather adorable and compared it to a confused puppy, wondering what it had done wrong and if it was going to be punished.

'Umm… Morning?' The redheaded boy offered, clearly not sure what was going on with the girl in front of him. He glanced at Harry, who was no longer looking to smug but, rather, cautious of the impending explosion. At Ron's questioning expression, he gestured subtly at the Prophet that was in his hand at the moment and went back to his porridge.

Ron, as if he had been stuck by a giant epiphany, looked at the paper, then at Hermione. 'Oh! Sorry, 'Mione. Was just checking the fixtures is all. Here's your paper back,' he supplied weakly. He moved to hand it over to her but the bushy-haired girl made no move to receive it. 'Uh – don't you want to read it?'

Hermione sat across from him in stony silence, her lips pursed so tightly in an expression that reminded him so much of McGonagall it was terrifying. Of course, not being very graceful at handling some of Hermione's more severe moods (this one, for example) Ron, unsure of what to do, shifted uncomfortably on the bench, unnerved by the arctic, vulture-like stare that was currently trained on him. And in his confusion, his typically male mind went to work at figuring out what to do…

'Ok, think. You didn't do anything and Hermione is a girl. Girls are emotional and like to let everyone know. Hermione is a girl. Girls talk a lot…' And now being sure that he had contrived a brilliant solution to the current predicament, Ron courageously vocalized this brilliant solution to Hermione, whose facial expression hadn't budged at all in the past minute or so.

'Do you want to talk?'

*SLAP*

The whole Great Hall seemed to go silent as the sound of Hermione's hand bestowing a mighty fine slap on Ron's face echoed loudly. Everyone turned their attention away from what they were doing to watch the quarrelling seventh years curiously.

'What did she do that for?' A first year a few people down from them whispered confusedly to an upperclassman next to him. It was none other than Dean Thomas.

'Ron's about to get his arse handed to him,' the Gryffindor sagely whispered back.

Ron merely sat there, dumbfounded and stunned, having yet to even register the hand-sized slap mark on his face. He gaped at Hermione, stunned. The bushy-haired Gryffindor, on the other hand, got up from her seat and stormed out of the Great Hall.

A discreet cough pulled he and Harry out of their startled reverie and they looked up to see the stern, expecting gaze of Professor McGonagall. Appearently Hermione's none-too-discrete scene had attracted the attention of the Professors' table as well.

'Would one of you like to explain what has gotten in to Miss Granger?'

It was Harry who spoke.

'Honestly, Professor McGonagall, we didn't do anything.' The Boy Who Lived answered meekly.

McGonagall didn't look at all satisfied by that answer. She shot both boys her most penetrating, skeptical look. 'Are you sure that is all, Mr. Potter?'

When Harry merely shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the Head's presence, she ventured on to Ron, who had been looking intently at the discarded Prophet on the table, trying desperately to avoid her notice.

'Mr. Weasley, perhaps you would like to try your hand at explaining that little episode, since Mr. Potter here has found himself incapable of doing so?'

Ron, too, shrugged. 'I really don't know, Professor. I was just reading the sports and Hermione clobbered me!'

McGonagall, still not convinced, apparently decided to give up and walk back to the Head's table. 'Very well, Mr. Weasley, but please make sure that such a scene doesn't take place again the future. The last thing Gryffindor House needs is your dirty laundry being aired in public.'

She then left them, leaving a distraught Ron and a very uncomfortable Harry. The young, raven-haired Gryffindor re-emerged from his porridge, looking less flustered and more concerned.

'So what d'ya think that was all about?' Harry asked, pulling Ron out of his silent musings.

'I honestly haven't a clue! Absolutely, bloody mental - that's what that girl is!' The redhead nearly shouted.

Harry merely nodded, although he wasn't as convinced of Hermione's apparent lunacy as Ron. His brows knit together, he thought back to the previous day in an attempt to figure out what was the matter with Hermione… and suddenly it hit him. The party! He remembered now.

Gryffindor had won their season opener against Ravenclaw and everyone headed to the Common Room to celebrate (minus the "midget" first, second and third years, as Ron called them, who had been banished to their dorms by the redhead in question). Stealing off quickly to Hogsmeade via the secret tunnel with the invisibility cloak, Harry and Ron had brought back cases of Butterbeer and various sweets from Honey Dukes until their arms were full and they became almost too heavy to levitate with magic. But the party wasn't in full swing until Seamus and Dean each produced two bottles of Fire Whisky.

Having downed his third shot and two bottles of Butterbeer, Harry was currently sidelined on the sofa for the evening and, for lack of a better word, quite pissed. His nearly empty Butterbeer bottle still clutched firmly in his hand, something must have been absolutely hilarious because, for the life of him, he could not stop laughing.

Ron, the source of his merriment, was leaning against the sofa below him with a very severe looking Hermione looming over both of them, staring at them with a menace and disapproval in her eyes that could rival Lupin on the full moon.

It vaguely occurred to Harry's foggy, inebriated brain that they might have been a tad too loud. He wasn't far from the mark. The Wireless was bumping the latest hits at nearly full blast while Dean, Seamus, Cormac McLaggen and Andrew Kirke – pissed as well – were attempting to impress a giggling brood of sixth year girls by seeing who could take the most shots before passing out.

Between the music and Seamus's incessant shouts of, 'I'm the bloody Shot King!' and just about everyone cheering them on as loudly as they possibly could, it was a wonder they could hear the thundering mad Head Girl currently towering over them with disdain.

'I can't believe you two!' Hermione hissed angrily. 'You know alcoholic beverages aren't allowed in the Castle or on the grounds and now look at you two! Just wait until McGonagall hears about this!'

Had Harry been sober enough, he might have had the good sense to "see" Hermione's point and go along with her, taking a cautionary step backward for good measure. However, this was not sober Harry; this was drunk Harry! And drunk Harry found the way Hermione's lips twisted in a disgusted sneer and the way her nostril's flared when she was cross to be so – so SNAPELY, that he couldn't help but laugh right in the face of her scorning.

Ron was the only one of the two boys that had it in him to stand up to Hermione's tirade. The readhead, two butterbeers in hand – one half-full and the other unopened – stumbled to his feet and attempted to put it in Hermione's hand.

'C'mmon 'Mione,' he slurred, 'it's a party! Lighten up!'

'Yea, 'Mione! Don't you worry 'bout Professor Minnie! She isn't going to know!' Harry, playing off of Ron jumped in as well, gesturing wildly about him with his Butterbeer. The drink, he failed to notice, ended up spilling all over the sofa and consequently on his jeans.

Hermione's glare intensified twenty-fold by the mere fact that they even dared to stand up to her when she was cross and obviously right. She wrenched the drink out of Harry's hand and vanished it with her wand. The Boy-Who-Was-Too-Soused-To-Stand couldn't protest much, other than by making a very childish whinging sound, and merely fell over sideways into the armrest of the sofa he was sprawled out on.

'I think what you two are probably the most irresponsible boys on the planet! Harry, we have an exam in potions tomorrow and you, Ronald, still haven't done either of the two essays Professor Lupin wants in DADA tomorrow!'

At the very mention of homework, the music coming from the Wireless was silenced and everyone stopped dead in what they were doing to focus on the seething Hermione with interest. Ron, noticing that the festivities had come to an abrupt halt, immediately went from jolly to defensive.

'Well done, Hermione! You really do know how to wreck everyone's fun, don't you? Do you really think it's fun to be a twenty-four seven killjoy or sumthin'?'

Just then, Seamus – who had been listening – decided to jump on the table and shout, loudly, 'Oi! Weasley's right! Granger's a buzz-kill!'

And then, suddenly, everyone in Gryffindor tower seemed to be in agreement as they all began to shout in unison, 'Granger's a buzz-kill! Granger's a buzz-kill!'

The whole common room was against her. Seeing that using her authority as Head Girl to give everyone in the room a detention would be social suicide to the max and make her a plague for the rest of the year, Hermione, not fancying to sort of rep for a final year at Hogwarts, decided instead to stomp furiously back up the stairs to her empty dorm.

The next morning, when Harry woke up, sprawled on the sofa with his housemates lying about on the floor throughout the Common Room, his foggy mind didn't remember what had happened the night before…

'Hey, Ron. Remember the party last night and how you and Hermione got in that big fight?' He asked Ron. His friend, while he had been briefly racking his brain, had began tucking in to a bowl of porridge and toast when Harry asked him.

'Yea, I remember.' Ron smirked at the memory of Hermione getting wranked on by the whole Common Room. It had been a glorious victory for him, he though. His eyes suddenly went wide as he grasped what Harry was getting at. 'Blimey! You don't think that's why she slapped me, do you?'

Harry shook his head. 'Yes, Ron. That's exactly why she slapped you.'

'I wasn't the only one who said it! And it's true. She's total buzz-kill!' Ron pointed out.

This time around, Harry was inclined to agree as both boys recalled the times that Hermione had huffed and gone on and on about their merry-making at The Three Broomsticks just three weeks before. What was meant to be a lad's day out on the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year had become a girl nag-a-thon as Hermione, Ginny and Lavendar showed up and Hermione, ever the prude, hounded the boys nonstop about drinking too much on a school night. And they had hardly been buzzed!

'Yea,' Harry said vacantly. 'She really can be a party foul.'

'Hey, that's a good one Harry!' Seamus, appearing out of nowhere chuckled. He plopped down in front of them with Dean. 'Hermione The Party Foul. I love it!'

Ron, Dean and Seamus all laughed at the advent of the Head Girl's new nickname but Harry couldn't help but cringe at the thought of being involved in something that would no doubt send Hermione, since he was bound to hear it. He didn't say anything though. Glancing at the clarion on the other side of the Hall, Harry noted that it was almost time for classes to start. As testimony of that, the dishes on the table began to vanish, along with Ron's porridge, much to the redhead's protests.

'What do you guys have first?' He asked Seamus and Dean.

'Advanced Herbology,' Dean groaned. Harry, Ron and Seamus gave a sympathetic wince. 'Who else thinks Sprout's gone totally mental this year with the homework?'

'Seriously!' Seamus commiserated. 'Who assigns three feet of parchment on bloody Gillyweed for a weekend assignment?'

'I know, mate! I barely had time to get down a foot with the Quidditch match and all the other bloody homework passed out this weekend and all.' Ron grumbled as well.

'So you didn't finish either?' Dean asked, hopeful that he wouldn't be the only one without the coursework for the class.

'No. I got Hermione to show me her essay and just copied that.' He told them smugly.

When the clarion chimed, the boys all trounced off together to Herbology, except for Harry who had a free period. Unlike Ron, who reckoned that Herbology would be the easiest N.E.W.T. level class and would thus be an easy O, Harry had elected to keep his first hour free so that he could finish homework. He had taken to catching up with Hermione in the Library before second hour this year, but given the bushy-haired girl' recent propensity for dealing our slaps and scathing glares like chocolate frogs, he figured he'd best stay clear of her and give her some space to seethe in peace. Plus, when she heard her new nickname a-la Harry, she would most likely be vying for his blood as well as Ron's.

He subconsciously gulped. Yes, best give her some room.

He gathered up his bag and went down to the Quidditch pitch. He could get in some flying before Charm…