The Dragon s bride


Chapter One

Saturday morning


[7am.]Ouch. Groan. Double ouch.

Actually, make that triple.

Where the fuck am I, and why does my head feel like two horny, rampaging Hippogriffs have been pounding about in it all night?

Argh. No. Too much to think about. Best to sleep it off.

Got drunk again.


[8am.]No! Stupid brain! Go back to sleep.

Light starting to peek through curtains. This is a good thing. Means I'm indoors. Fell asleep in gutter last time.

Smell took days to wash off. Bad thing, that.

Need to piss badly. Need to sleep even more.

Am curiously, pleasantly warm. Sheets smell like tea rose and vanillaand something else.


Good brain. Lights out.

** Hermione

[8.30am]Holy Mother of God.

I hurt. Everywhere.

Eyelids welded to face.

Sleep now. Dissect and analyse later.

Ah. Good brain.


Someone. Anyone. Will kill for glass of water.

Head hurts, joints stiff. Legs feel like custard pudding.

Am tremendously sore

In places that have no business being that sore.

Oh God.

Graduation party


Draco was the first to awaken.

He sat up against the pillows and opened bleary, bloodshot grey eyes. He blinked repeatedly, licking his extremely dry lips in an attempt to moisten a mouth that currently felt and tasted like sandpaper. Waking up with a hangover after an evening of partying was nothing new to him. After all, he was eighteen, good looking, popular and possessed of vast amounts of disposable cash and personal tabs at all the best drinking establishments in Britain (and two or three in France). As such, he was no stranger to the heavy headed feeling of a still-fresh hangover.

Three things occurred to him almost immediately.

First, he was in a hotel room, and not a particularly nice one at that. The drapes - drawn, thankfully - were a lurid shade of lime green, the carpet was nondescript brown shag and the few pieces of furniture were either made of plastic, chipboard or some hideous alloy of the two.

Second, he couldn't help but notice that the room was in absolute shambles. A chair was overturned in a corner, one leg had been almost entirely snapped off. It swung drunkenly in the light, dusty breeze created by the whirring of the ancient air conditioner overhead.

An empty bottle of Ogdens was lying on its side on the dresser, a large, wet patch still drying on the carpet just below. Clothing was strewn about, like victims of some sort of frenzied, laundry massacre. The formal robes he had worn the previous evening lay squashed in a corner, green and silver Slytherin crest just visible in the crumple.

There were other articles of clothing too - not his - Draco noted with a raised eyebrow. A deep blue set of robes lay inside out, draped over the edge of the bed. A lacy, peach-coloured brassiere hung from the knob of the bathroom door. His own underwear was draped over a lopsided lampshade.

Well! Things were looking up already, Draco concluded, as he leaned heavily against the pillows. His head may have felt like it was bearing a kilo of molten lead, but hey, a shag was a shag. And when one was a healthy, young wizard, a shag of any kind was a reason to be cheered.It wasn't until he turned his head to greet the lucky recipient of his inebriated attentions, did he make Observation Number Three.

Bloody. Buggering. Hell.

Hermione Granger, stalwart Head Girl of Hogwarts, bearer of detentions aplenty, giver of pinched looks, insistent warnings and the champion of beleaguered House Elves everywhere, was curled beside him in bed, seemingly fast asleep and very much naked.

And that wasn't all. As sense and sensibility returned to his body and brain, respectively, Draco registered the fact that Granger's hand was currently wrapped around his equally nude, upper thigh, in an unmistakably familiar gesture.

Now, Draco considered himself to be a worldly young man. He had had his fair share of romps, dalliances and other pleasurable school time diversions. But the current situation still rendered him stunned for a good five minutes.

It wasn't until the glitzy gold clock on the wall ticked over to forty past ten in the morning, did Draco finally acknowledge the sordid fact that he had engaged in sexual intercourse with his recently graduated fellow classmate. And not just any old sex either. It appeared that they had humped the stuffing out of each other, judging from the state of their accommodation.

Pushing aside the sudden, belated waking of his penis (and all other logical thought processes), Draco examined the sleeping girl beside him with a fascination that was nearly unholy.

Granger lay on her side, towards him. Her long hair was a