Author's Note:-takes deep breath-

IMPORTANT! READ! DO NOT SCROLL PAST ME, YOU SCURVY, MANGING--

-clears throat-

Oh, heh. Hi.

Okay, I want to make sure everyone who reads this chapter to know that I have posted a longer and more explanatory A/N at the bottom. You must read that before you click the review button and bite my head off. If you skip it and just click the review button and bite my head off, you can bet you'll have your head bitten off in return. If you do read it, click the review button, and still bite my head off...well, we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

Please enjoy! -crosses fingers-

He couldn't sleep.

He groaned angrily and punched his silk encased pillow. His room—as well as hers, he assumed—changed itself to its owner's preference. His windows were now draped with black silk curtains; his sleek pewter bed now held his person twisted around his black and green silk sheets, distressed.

Granger—that filthy, little Mudblood, he reminded himself—was in the room next to him. She was less than fifty feet away from him. She was probably in that absurd outfit again, the one that showed so much and left so little to the imagination.

He punched the pillow again, livid with himself. He should notbe thinking those types of thoughts about a Mudblood like her. What would his father think? What would his motherthink? Fancying the insufferable know-it-all Mudblood, it was simply preposterous.

When he stayed to help rebuild the castle over the summer he had kept his distance from the three of them. Still, when he would wander the halls at night in thought he would catch glimpses of Granger and Weasel sneaking off into some dark, abandoned corridor. He'd actually walked past them once on the way to the Owlery one night.

They didn't notice him in their fun, but he sure noticed them, or her, to be more specific. He couldn't lie to himself; the look of her pressed up against the wall was positively sinful. Her legs were encircled around Weasel's waist and he was holding her up. Her eyes were half closed in lust and her full lips were red and swollen, her hair and curly mess haloing her head.

He had walked on, not paying any attention them. When he reached the Owlery he allowed himself to sit on a non-dropping-strewn step and think. The image of her was clear in his mind, but he forced it away. He could not, would not, think that about a Mudblood.

Now, as he lay there in bed, that image was clearer than ever in his angry mind. He finally wrenched himself out of bed and put on his silk green pajama pants before grabbing his book and walking out to the common room.

To his immense relief, he found the only other occupant of the common room was Crookshanks. He lifted his squashed head as he walked into the room, aware of his angry state. He rested his head once again and looked intently up at him, waiting.

"Like I'd tell you my problems, you'd probably just blab them to your mistress." He grumbled, sitting down on the green couch near him. Crookshanks glared at him, highly affronted. He sighed, surrendering. "Your mistress is a right tease," He supplied.

Crookshanks gave him an agreeing look before waiting for him to continue.

"I mean, sometimes blood purity doesn't stop me from thinking things about her, although I beat myself up like a house elf afterward."

Crookshanks looked at him questionably, his swishing tail stopping in mid air.

"She's a Mudblood, of course. I simply can'tbe thinking anything about her besides what to do to make her life a living hell." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but obviously, to Crookshanks, it wasn't. He stood up, his tail bristling. He was hissing and spitting at him, disgusted.

"Oh calm down, Kneazle. You know it's true."

Apparently, Crookshanks didn't think it was.

"Fine, you're right. It's almost the 21st century, blood purity shouldn't be much of a problem, but it is. For my family, that is."

Crookshanks glared at him, but at least he stopped spitting. Malfoy sighed once more, placing his head in his hands.

He and Crookshanks sat there in silence, recognizing each other's company but making no further move to communicate.

A girlish giggle greeted his ears. Freezing, he feared it was Moaning Myrtle. He had met her in his fifth year, unfortunately; the Prefect bathroom never looked the same to him after that night.

Two very real, very human, and very warm arms snaked around his neck then, hugging his bare torso from behind.

"You mustn't talk to cats, Draco, people will start to wonder." Hermione whispered in his ear. Her words were slurred, and her firewhiskey breath stung his nose. He couldn't believe it; Hermione Granger, cleverest witch of the age, was drunk?

"Granger," He addressed smugly, the growing smirk on his lips unstoppable. She giggled again, nuzzling her head in the crook of his neck. "Mudblood, you're drunk."

She giggled again, sauntering around the couch to face him; her hands still firmly entwined around his neck.

"Of course I am, you slimy git. I'm of age now, it's not a crime. There's no law that says you can't have alcohol at school if you're of age."

He snorted, reminded of how she always had to make sure she wasn't breaking any rules before she went and did something "risky". "Trust me, Granger, I know there isn't." He drawled. "What I want to know is why a good girl like you would even have to make sure she wasn't breaking any rules before going and getting piss drunk."

Her face crumpled, obviously thinking hard. When her expression cleared she giggled again before straddling him on the couch.

Now, a girl suddenly sitting on his lap was something that never startled Draco Malfoy. Hermione Granger, however, was no ordinary girl. She was a grade "A" book worm, goody-goody-two-shoes, piss drunk—

Filthy, little Mudblood.

He snarled, struggling to push her off. She laughed, not moving.

"Get off, you filthy, little, good for nothing Mudblood! If my father—"

"Your father," she cut him off coldly, "is an evil man who only thinks about himself. He should be in Azkaban with all his Death Eater pals, but he isn't. He's at home, with your precious mother, reeling on pure self hatred of getting himself too involved with the losing side." He stared up at her, shocked. She gave a girlish giggle and situated herself more comfortably on his lap.

Stifling the groan that tried to release itself through his mouth, "Must you do that?" He grunted. She giggled again in reply. "What made you get drunk in the first place, Granger?"

She quieted, sobering somewhat. She looked down at her hands that had detached themselves from his neck solemnly, playing with her fingers.

"I meant," he clarified, "What made you pick up your first bottle of firewhiskey, because this obviously isn't the first time."

She brightened again, giggling offhandedly. He was starting to become annoyed by all the giggling, but that was only because he found it somewhat endearing.

"Blame Ron," she said, waving an airy hand around. "He got really boring, but Harry told me that he was in love with me. Since Ron is also one of my best friends I didn't want to hurt him by breaking up with him, so I started drinking a lot of firewhiskey before he would sneak me off so it would look like I was having fun. He found my bottles though, and dumped me three weeks before term." She smiled down at his startled expression.

"And tonight," he asked through a soft groan. She had wriggled her hips in attempt to get closer to him. She didn't speak for awhile, and he thought she hadn't heard him. When he was about to repeat himself, she cleared her throat softly.

"You upset me,"

"So you're going to get drunk every time I call you Mudblood, Mudblood?" he asked through a laugh. She glared at him, her face hardening.

"No, you foul toe-rag, you upset me." He stared at her for a moment, comprehension dawning. She giggled again, resting her head on his bare shoulder.

"How did you think getting drunk would help you?" He asked, trying to control his anger. She must have sensed his suddenly rigid tone, because she leaned back to look at him again.

"I didn't, I just didn't want to think about it anymore. I mean, you're Draco Malfoy for Merlin's sake. Youof all people shouldn't upset me. It should be Viktor or Harry or...Ron..." She looked down, losing herself in her drunken thoughts. He found it somewhat annoying that she was sitting here, on his lap, making him extremely uncomfortable, and thinking about the Weasel-bee.

Okay, he lied. He found it very annoying.

"So if you didn't think getting drunk would help your...anger," He started, bringing her back to the now. "What are you doing out in the common room then?" He didn't want to mention their current sitting position, because that would just make it more real...that there was a Mudblood, sitting on his lap.

"I was bored," She said, shrugging her small shoulders and trailing her fingers lightly across his chest. "I heard you talking, so I came outside. I'm a right tease, am I?" She asked, wriggling her hips again. He sucked in a sharp breath; being caught off guard was not good in this situation.

He glared up at her smiling, drunken face, annoyed. "Mudblood, go to bed."

"No,"

"Mudblood..." He growled.

"No," She repeated.

"You don't want me to do this," He warned.

"How do you know what I want you to do?"

He rolled his eyes, "Have it your way then."

In an instant she was pinned to the couch they were sitting on, his long body holding her still. She shrieked in surprise, but was silenced the next moment by his hand covering her mouth. His face was inches away from her frightened one, glaring at her.

"Now," he said calmly. "Do you really want me to do this?" He asked. He pressed his lower body forcefully into her, and he watched her eyes half roll up in lust; the very sight almost tearing away his composure. She looked back at him, her eyes searching his own for a moment before shaking her head slightly.

He got off of her gracefully, looking down at her silent form. "Don't ever meet me when you're drunk again, because if you do I won't stop. Understand?" She blanched at his words, her hazel eyes widening. He turned, grabbed his book, and walked back into his room, failing to stop repeating the words he just spoke in his head. To his disdain, he knew he was right; he wouldn'tstop, not even if she turned out to be the dirtiest Mudblood ever known to Wizarding existence.

Author's Note: -cowers- ...Hi.

I know, I know. A drunk Hermione and a cat-talking Malfoy is completely and totally out of character.

Now, please here my side of the story. I have four and a half words for you (one's hyphenated).

This. Is. A. Fan-fiction.

And a fairly well written one, at that. What compared to some of them that I've read.

No, I am not naming names.

Back to my defense, yeah? This couple is never, and I repeat, neversupposed to happen. There is no evidence in any of the books to support it. (If there is, please message me with said evidence. I don't want any of that movie chemistry crap, I want the real thing.) It's just something that's simply not meant to be. Therefore, you have to make a bit of it up when you want to write this pairing, don't you? I know Malfoy would never think twice about Hermione and Hermione would never, ever touch a firewhiskey, much less get drunk from them. I mean, for all we know they don't even complete their seventh year of Hogwarts, do they?

The part of my defense where I explain why my character's are thinking and doing the things they think and do is explained in this chapter, if you didn't find it don't start biting my head off until you do.

I'm trying my best to keep this story in character, but hell, this plot isn't even in character. So bear with me, yeah? If you like my writing and the plot, replace the characters if you must.

Okay, um. I think that's it for my defense. You can bite my head off now, but thank you for hearing me out.

To, what I'm assuming was very few of you, those who actually liked this chapter; thank you so much! Please review and I'll be sure to update soon!

By the way, none of this is mine 'cept the plot, although I'm sure you figured that out by now.