**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 Two: In which Mr. Malfoy's sleep is disturbed

He released her hand before the loud crack of Apparation had fully faded. She fell, stumbling on the stone steps. She did manage to keep her work from slipping her grasp, and Draco very much appreciated that; there was just enough wind tonight to make retrieving scattered parchments more work than it was worth.

They stood before the barracks of the Auror Academy, and though it was nearly ten o'clock in the evening, the summer air was still warm. It was a tall, narrow, crooked building, brown and grubby looking. Without doubt, it was the remnant of some ancient, larger complex. Walking inside the barracks did not greatly improve them; little modernization had found its way in besides plumbing. The security charms didn't allow Apparation directly into the building, so one always had to start at the foot of the stairs.

Draco found this restriction to be more inconvenient than comforting. He knew better than most that if the legions of un-captured Death Eaters decided to attack the Ministry's fresh-faced Dark wizard hunters, such a precaution would hardly prevent it. In fact, the only real effect of the anti-Apparation and -Disapparation charms he could see was that it ensured that he walk seven flights in each direction every time he elected to leave campus.

Without glancing to see if she was following, Draco began his ascent. The bottom floor smelled of burnt, rotten eggs—which meant that Longbottom was attempting to cook again. Why someone didn't just confiscate the duffer's wand and use it for kindling was beyond Draco, let alone why Shacklebolt had recruited him personally.

Clearly the cosmos were out of alignment and injustice was rampant. The most compelling evidence of such was following him up the stairs toward his dormitory, making little strained noises every time she had to balance her work in one arm to open a door he had neglected to hold for her. Though he never turned around to watch, Draco couldn't deny that the mental image compensated somewhat for the incident at the pub.

"Ferret-faced tosser," Draco sneered at the door to his dormitory.

It was the password phrase to enter the room. The rules stated that the phrase must be changed every week, and roommates were to trade off in choosing the new passwords. Draco and Weasley had taken to using the opportunity to insult one another. Weasley thought he was being clever with that one.

The living space was on the small side, or so it seemed to Draco. The entirety of it could fit in his bedroom at home. Even so, Draco had ceded the common areas to Weasley without protest. Potter was always calling, Granger never left, and the Weasel's thirty or so brothers were always in heavy rotation; Draco had no desire to sit where they sat, or eat with the flatware they had used. He took meals in his room and did little but study.

Mother was constantly writing him to beg that he come home to visit more often, but Draco avoided it whenever possible. He knew that his parents just wanted a chance to corner him about leaving the Auror program for good. Draco had it on good authority that he had "publically disgraced" them when he had enrolled. And even if they made no mention of his training, Mother had taken to arranging transparent attempts to set him up with proper pure-blooded young women pretty much from the moment he and Pansy had parted ways.

Mother had never cared for Pansy.

Draco closed the door behind him before Granger could follow him inside. Childish? Perhaps. Entertaining? Immensely. He heard her practically screech the password phrase at the door, and when she walked through the glare she gave him could wilt plants. It seemed his lack of chivalry had taken its toll after seven flights of stairs and she was not happy with him.

Draco did not even acknowledge her aggravation. Any girl who came to him expecting chivalry, pure-blood and Mudblood alike, was going to be disappointed.

He went directly to his bedroom study table to finish a chapter on spells used to conceal items the caster did not want found except by allies. One of his instructors, a grizzled beanpole of a man called Virgil Wallop, had hinted that there may be an exam on them tomorrow.

After completing the chapter, he looked at the clock and conceded that going to bed would probably be his best course of action at this juncture. He dressed in his silk pajamas and stepped out of the room with the intention of visiting the loo and cleaning his teeth.

Granger was curled up on the sofa whimpering quietly with her makeup streaking her face. Draco thought she looked a bit like a drowned hag. She had retrieved Weasley's bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey that had been hidden behind a bin of oats in the cupboard and was a secret to absolutely no one. Weasley had insisted to Potter that it was for a special occasion. Granger had almost finished off the bottle.

Draco grumbled as he banged open the door to the loo. He was going to get blamed for that, he knew it.

He completed his nightly routine expeditiously and was soon tucking himself into bed. Draco drifted off to sleep with the thought that the day had been lousy, but it was over and that was a comfort.

It was nearly midnight before he was jolted awake and disabused of that notion.

There was something in his bed. Something that smelled of alcohol, something that was at least thirty percent frizzy hair, something that was snuggling up to him.

A high-pitched shriek rang though the room and it was only after the fact that Draco realized it had come from his throat. He wriggled and thrashed himself away from the intruder, so much so that reached the edge of the bed without realizing it. All at once, there was nothing of substance under Draco's body…until there was again, in the form of the floor. His bedside table also greeted the back of his head with a bashing.

All of this resulted in a string of curses that likely would have made Weasley blush. And speaking of that very Ginger, Draco's unsolicited guest began to speak.

"Ron, don't swear," came a slurred mumble.

Ron? Ron?! Did the ball of hair in his bed just call him Ron?

Draco heaved himself to his feet and reached for his wand. He ignited his bedside lamp with a violence that very well could have burned the place down. Burrowed into the depths of his bedding was a young woman who was unmistakably Granger. He tried wiping the sleep from his eyes, but she was still there.

Once he accepted the reality that this was, in fact, actually a thing that was happing to him, his mind raced with thoughts and plans on how to make it stop happening. She was clearly in that state of sloppy mostly-unconscious brought on by liquor. Was there any way to wake her without touching her?

He deliberated a few spells, but then decided to try something else first. He extended his silk pajama covered arm and prodded her shoulder with the tip of his wand the way one might a spider to ascertain whether or not it was really dead.

She did not stir, so he poked her again. She moaned in annoyance and swatted her hand with poor aim that never connected with the hawthorn wand, but did not open her eyes and merely pulled one of his pillows closer. At that point, it became clear that this was a fruitless course of action. He considered conjuring water to spray her face, but that would only leave him with wet bedding. Then he thought about setting off a Caterwauling Charm in her ear, but that would likely get him cited for disturbing the entire floor at (he glanced at the clock) 12:04 in the morning.

In the end, he decided that the easiest thing would just be to levitate her out of here and drop her on Weasley's bed. It seemed like a solid plan, but Draco should have remembered that his "solid plans" were the ones that particularly delighted in going all to shit.

He had just raised her until she was floating at almost eye-level, high enough to clear the foot-board, when the blanket slid off of her and her eyes snapped open.

She screamed. Then he screamed. Then they were screaming together. The pillow she had been clutching to her face came crashing down on his head over and over again as she began boxing his ears with it. Naturally, a Levitation Charm can only withstand so much inattention from its wizard before giving out, so this led to Granger tumbling back down to the bed, where the mattress bounced her before she settled.

Draco slapped the pillow away from his face, and was confronted with the sight of a terrified girl in his bed.

"Malfoy, what are you doing in our room!"

Draco noted both her use of the word "our" to refer to Weasley's room (not living together my arse), and the fact that he was "Malfoy" again rather than "Draco" or, infinitely worse, "Ron."

"You're in my room, you stupid bint," he snapped back.

At this, Granger's eyes began to dart around the chamber in earnest. The lack of dirty socks on the floor alone should have been proof enough of his claim. He watched as the truth of the situation dawned on her. If she had looked horrified before, it was nothing compared to now.

"Oh God," she whispered. "I'm going to be sick."

Panic flared in Draco at those words. "No," he said with vehemence. "No you are n—"

But it was too late.

Granger vomited the way a cat did, with several noisy dry heaves followed by an inordinately wet one. The sick was a disgusting murky brown horror that reeked of alcohol. And it was all over his bedding.

Draco almost collapsed to his knees in despair. How? How did this day just keep getting worse? Merlin buggering a goat, he was going to have to burn this bedding.

Granger seemed to spill her insides onto his bed for an hour before it eventually stopped. Only for her to start fucking crying again. Draco was at a loss, frozen with inaction. Where did he even begin returning to a reality where he would get to go back to sleep?

Luckily, Granger had an idea that wasn't half-bad.

"Ron," she whimpered pathetically. "Ron, I need Ron."

Make Weasley clean it up—that was a capital plan.

Without saying a word to the weeping girl, Draco strode from the room and down the hall. He hammered his fist on Weasley's door. "Oi! Wake up, Weasel! Your girlfriend is in my bed!"

Draco reached for the doorknob, only to snatch his hand back in pain. He had felt the energy of a spell ignite at his touch, and the burning only worsened when he tried examine the wound. He cried out in agony. It felt as though someone was carving into the palm of his hand with a knife that had been in the fire. The pain peaked at a point that almost made Draco pass out, but then began to ebb.

When finally Draco was again able to hold himself upright steadily, he kicked the door vengefully. Really, Weasley? Anti-burglary charms? What the hell would anyone want to steal from you?

Through the pain and the rage, one thing seemed relatively clear to Draco, however. Weasley was not in there. Even if he had set the charm before going to bed, there was no way the oaf would have shrugged off the idea of his girl in Draco's bed. Weasley was not just the jealous sort, but also harbored the delusion that people in the world besides him were interested in his ugly little Muggle girlfriend.

Draco stormed back to his room…where he found Granger curled up on her side, passed out and lying in her own vomit.

It was in that moment that Draco gave up.

There was no fixing this, no making this better. Somehow this had become one of the worst nights of his life and nothing could improve or erase it at this point. So, he may as well sleep on the sofa.

That was precisely what he did. He jerked an unsullied pillow out from under Granger's legs, and slammed his door behind him. He would get a crick in his neck sleeping on this battered, cheap thing, but it was still a better option than running home to his mother.

There was still some part of Draco that was foolishly optimistic. Idiotic even. A part of him that actually thought tomorrow would be better.

Author's Note: To answer some of the questions I have been asked about this story: No, Draco won't become their friend as a result of this story, but he won't kill anyone either so…win/win? The ship is definitely Ron/Hermione, just told through the eyes of someone who hates them both. The thought was simple—what if Ron and Hermione got in a fight so bad that they broke up and Draco got them back together by accident. Well, here you go.

The belovedranger story I referenced in my first chapter's note, sadly I do not know where to find. It was posted in the Checkmated archive, which has since been taken down. This is the biggest bummer ever, because so many of my favorite stories were posted there.

I hope to have chapter 3 up for you guys asap. In the meantime, enjoy your Holidays!