**Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Harry Potter depicted in this story are the legal property of J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, and AOL Time Warner, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.

Chapter Three: In which Mr. Malfoy is unjustly accosted

Draco's long overdue slumber was abruptly brought to an end by a glass of water being hurled in his face. His body jolted and flailed spasmodically before his eyes landed on the perpetrator.

Weasley was sitting on the coffee table, eyes narrowed and hostile, a bottle which had once contained Ogden's Firewhiskey in his hand. He shook the bottle and then held it fully upside down to demonstrate the lack of liquid, in case it was unclear for some reason.

Draco groaned and swore. He knew it. He knew it! Here come the accusations. He heaved himself into a seated position, and used his bare hands to wipe the water from his face as best he could.

"I didn't touch your liquor, Weasley. Do you really think I would drink something so common?"

"If the shoe fits, Malfoy," the idiot said. "The empty bottle was right across from you. You are buying me a replacement. Today."

Draco rubbed his eyes. "If you must know, it was your weepy little girlfriend who drank the entire thing."

Weasley blinked, but then recovered himself. "Nice try, Malfoy, but Hermione's not even here."

"Wait, she fucking left?" That set Draco's teeth on edge. Had the chit really taken off and left him to deal with the soiled bed and Weasley? That was just low.

Weasley stood, and walked over to the kitchen area that connected to the sitting room. "She was never here, you mental twat. Everything in our room is exactly as I left it yesterday." He poured himself a coffee as he spoke. "Get your shit together, Malfoy."

Ah, hell. Weasley didn't know—he didn't know that Hermione was currently sleeping in Draco's bed. And why would he? Why would he even check there for her? Draco had trouble mentally processing the possibility and he knew it to be true. It was just…too disgusting to contemplate—and that was even before adding the vomit to the equation.

Draco made the decision not to tell Weasley about this, for the good of his own health.

There was a knock on the door, and when Draco didn't move to answer it, Weasley did. It was Potter; it was always Potter.

The specky arse started to speak, but then saw Draco and instead motioned his friend out into the common hall with him. Potter and Weasley closed the door behind them so that they could have their secret club meeting, and it was just as well.

Draco glanced at the clock on the far wall and saw that it was already five in the morning. He rose, massaged the damned crick in his neck, and decided that a shower was in order before he attempted to herd a hung-over Muggle from his room. He'd let her do the explaining.

But Draco had no sooner taken a step toward the hall that lead to the loo when he heard a door open and shut. Then another door, then the running water of the shower. The whole thing had taken a matter of seconds, as though the person in question was at a run.

That bitch! Ganger had beaten him to it.

Grumbling and cursing, Draco started to make his way to his room to assess the damage. He got as far as placing his hand on his doorknob before abandoning his purpose. The smell, oh Merlin, the smell. Draco had never experienced anything like it! He was retching as he backed away from the door.

All right, plan A was back on. Weasley or Granger was going to clean up that mess. Draco was not going anywhere near it.

He went to the kitchen instead, mumbling vitriol to himself as he prepared two eggs for his breakfast. Seven years—seven fucking years of Hogwarts and war, and somehow these three little shits were still ruining his life. I was like he was the butt of a cosmic joke and really the Golden Trio's purpose was not to put an end to a man-snake hybrid, but to follow Draco around and make sure that nothing good ever happened to him. Ever.

He was antipathetically stabbing his eggs with a fork when the main door crashed open and Weasley returned. His face was thunderous and he was flanked by Potter, Longbottom, and one of his brothers (Merlin could only guess which one). Good god, they were multiplying out there.

"All right, Malfoy, where is she?" Weasley demanded.

Bugger all, Draco was about to be murdered—he knew it.

"Granger?" Draco feigned ignorance.

"Yes, Malfoy," Potter snapped. "What did you do to Hermione?"

The nameless Weasley piped up, "We've searched for hours. She's not at her room in the Leaky Cauldron, she's not with her parents, or with Ginny. You're the only one claiming to have seen her since yesterday."

"Well, Weasel, looks like she doesn't want to be found. At least not by you." Draco couldn't resist, even though he knew he'd live to regret it as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"You dirty little rodent," Weasley ground out as he charged forward.

Draco backed up, but could only go so far before being impeded by the kitchen cupboards. Where the hell is my wand? he asked himself, then saw it on the table by the sofa. Goddammit! Draco really needed to learn how to plan his life better. His fucking mouth—always causing trouble.

He spread his palms defensively. "She's here, you moron!"

But that didn't stop Weasley from seizing Draco by the collar of his pajamas. "Stop lying, Malfoy."

"Quiet!" Draco snapped. "Listen!"

Gryffindors. Always cast first and ask questions later.

The four of them finally took their focus off Malfoy long enough to realize they could hear water running in the shower. There was a beat, during which the young men absorbed that fact, before Draco finally felt confident enough to shove Weasley away from him.

"Like I said," Draco sneered, "she's here. She's been here the entire time." He straightened the silk collar of his pajamas. "Now, if you have nothing further for which to accost me, my eggs are getting cold."

Weasley was slightly stunned as he took a step back to allow Draco a path to his plate. Of course, it was unrealistic to hope that events had taken a turn for the better.

As Draco reached for his fork, he found his right hand seized by Weasley—the hand which had been on the receiving end of the anti-burglary spell last night.

"You tried to get into my room?"

Whah…? How could Weasley even tell?

Draco fought the strength of the grip on his wrist to get a clear view. What he saw there filled him with dismay. Magically branded into the flesh of his palm, already a finely etched and completely legible scar, was the word "wanker".

He goggled at the horror of this for what must have been at least thirty seconds. Then he did the stupidest thing he'd done all morning: he punched Weasley.

The reasons this was stupid were varied and storied: his right occupied, Draco had used his left hand instead; he was not left-handed. It was a low act, base, the province of Muggles; his mother would disown him if she ever found out. Weasley was not alone. He, in fact, had a whole posse, and Draco couldn't even identify them all by name if he was going to make a complaint against his roommate later. And any attempt to describe the fourth assailant would result in, "I don't know—red hair, freckles, tattered clothing. A Weasley." Who's to say Draco could even pick this brother out of a line-up accurately? But the most pressing reason this was stupid was that lout holding his arm could punch a hell of a lot harder than Draco could.

And Draco's face became intimately reacquainted with that information within moments.

Stunned by the blow, the first thing Draco heard when he came back to himself was Granger's voice.

"What are you boys doing?"

Draco blinked as the world came back into focus. Then he groaned.

The bint was standing in the doorway to the hall, her wet hair dripping onto the carpet, eyes wide. She was wearing Draco's robe and clearly nothing else. Everyone was staring at her in the awkward silence.

Then Granger, that idiotic, evil girl, said the worst possible combination of words that have ever exited her mouth. The worst words said by anyone ever in history of humanity. "Draco, we need to make sure we wash your sheets before they stain."

Yes, Draco's initial assessment of the situation was correct: he was about to be murdered. And all of it cosmic repayment for a good deed done against his will in the first place.

Weasley bellowed like a wounded, enraged animal, and then Draco knew nothing but pain.

So many fists. How on earth did Weasley have so many fists?

Draco tried crying out for help, but it was a reflex. There was no one to hear him and he knew it. And even if there had been, there was far too much shouting in the room already for anything he said to be picked out of the din.

"Don't kill him, Ron!" Draco thought that might actually have been Potter. "He's not worth it."

"I don't know. Pretty much justified, I reckon." Weasley's unidentified brother.

"You're not helping, George." Now identified by Potter.

"Harry, help me!" Longbottom, who was trying to restrain Weasley.

And all through it was a duet chorus of Granger's "Stop it! Stop this, right now!" and her boyfriend's battle cries.

The violence went on and on; Draco tasted blood, it was in his eyes, it was on the tile floor. He nose was broken, without doubt. It finally ended when Granger managed to push herself to the forefront. She placed herself between Draco and Weasley, then crouched down beside the battered and bleeding party.

The fight seemed to sap from Weasley somewhat at this sight, allowing Potter and Longbottom to properly restrain him at last. He was looking from Granger to Draco and back again with an expression of utmost despair.

Draco didn't know what he had to be so upset about. Weasley clearly had no broken bones or skin—excepting, of course, his knuckles.

Granger reached for a towel that had been on the counter and started mopping up Draco's blood. "Are you all right?" she asked him.

Weasley was swaying on his feet. "I can't…" he muttered. "I can't believe it." Granger looked up at him. "You let Malfoy fuck you?"

The expression on Granger's face would have been hilarious if it hadn't been, you know, for Draco's very life hanging in the balance. It was as though this interpretation of the evidence hadn't even occurred to her. Naïve girl! She was scandalized, and in true Granger form, she became prudish.

"Of course not!" Her tone of voice was scolding. "How could you even think that? I was upset last night, and managed to make myself very drunk. Draco made sure I got home safe, and then he let me have his bed while he slept on the sofa."

Well, that was…the best possible spin that could be placed on his actions. Granger was either too furious with Weasley to tell the truth, or the alcohol had messed with her memory of the night before. Either way, Draco was not going to argue.

In fact, he saw an opportunity to pile on and he took it. "Tried to put her in your bed, but it turned out that wasn't really an option," Draco spat blood as he spoke, held up and gestured to the palm of his right hand. Hey, it was the truth!

He wondered if he could even get her to confess about the Firewhiskey right now, too.

Weasley was gobsmacked. "Really?"

Granger's eyes narrowed. "Yes really. Do you really believe I think so little our relationship or of you that I would be unfaithful?"

The newly-christened George stepped forward. "Wait, wait, so you didn't break up?" He gestured to his brother. "Ron said you broke up."

Poor Granger. In that moment, she looked like she'd been slapped. She stood to her full height, which was still a head shorter than Weasley, who was slouching. Her hands were clasping the bloodied towel primly.

"Well, I hadn't thought so. I thought it was just a disagreement."

Weasley was pulling himself free of Potter and Longbottom, whose grips had gone slack. He was moving toward Granger, hands extended and trying to articulate words of reassurance.

Granger talked over him. "But it's becoming clear to me that breaking up is really our only course of action, isn't it?"

She pushed herself past Weasley and Draco heard her footsteps recede to the far reaches of the flat. Her now ex-boyfriend followed after her, babbling words of apology and explanation, saying everything he could to undo the things he had done in the past twenty-four hours.

Soon Draco, Potter, Longbottom, and (the allegedly so-called) George were treated to a full-blown row of the Weasley/Granger variety. This actually seemed to make the three interlopers in Draco's kitchen realize that they had other places to be.

"I should eat something before combat curse training," Longbottom said in a halting sort of voice.

"I'll come with you," Potter sighed.

Your stomach's funeral, Draco thought.

"And I need to open the shop," George chimed in. Before he left though, he had one last dig. Gesturing to the bruising face, he said, "That's a good look for you, Malfoy."

Draco gave him a two finger salute in return, and then the three young men left him in peace.

"OH MY GOD! WHAT DIED IN HERE?!"

Draco guessed that meant Weasley had just found the vomit-bed.

He tried to move, but found that was just too bloody painful and he sagged down to the cool tile instead. The universe wasn't just off kilter, Draco decided. It was downright sadistic.

Author's Note: Yay! Got this done before classes start tomorrow morning. I've been writing and posting like a madwoman, trying to get as much done over the winter holiday as possible before the new semester begins. I hope you guys enjoyed the update. Just two chapters to go!