Here is a Draco/Hermione short story (not more than two chapters I think). The characters may be OOC, but well, they're older, and who doesn't change when they grow up?

I hope you'll like it - right now I'm obsessed with Draco/Hermione fanfictions, I really love their being together.

I apologise for my mistakes. I'm French, and I haven't had more English lessons than the ones given to me at school. I hope it won't disturb your reading too much!

Enjoy your reading! - and don't forget that a review always makes an author smile =)

Elie

Thirty-six months

"You love me."

"I want you."

"That's the same."

"No, it's not, and you know it."

"For most of people, not for you."

"Why don't you believe me?"

"Because I know you."

"What do you mean?"

"You're not most of people."

"Thanks, it enlightens my day."

"You know what I mean."

"That's the problem, because I don't."

"You're not the others."

"I'm aware, anything more interesting?"

"Stop playing dumb."

"Stop making riddles."

"You're different."

"I'm who I am."

"That's why I say you love me."

"Wrong. I want you."

"It's the same."

"Damn no! It's not."

"It's the same for you."

"Why for me? Why do you say that?"

"Because I love you too, Draco Malfoy."

They'd had that conversation ages ago, yet he still remembered it clearly. It'd been the last time they'd talked together, the last time they'd seen each other.

The end of a game they'd played much too long for their own safety – and sanity. The end of a dangerous game, then the beginning of Hell, a different sort of Hell.

Life with her was Hell, but Life without her was worse.

Draco Malfoy knew he was doomed to live in Hell, to die in Hell, and then to travel to whatever other form Hell would take, for Heaven wasn't what he was meant to know and, in fact, he didn't even wish to approach it.

He liked Hell, it was his universe, his kingdom, however he wanted to choose in which he was to live. For many, Hell was one and one thing only: Hell itself, a place where they dreaded to go, for Draco Malfoy, Hell without Hermione Granger was dull and boring however, Hell with her was a place where he'd eternally remain, if only she was still by his side.

That night, he'd turned around and left. No, he wasn't in love with her. She thought he made love to her when, in reality, he was merely satisfying his primary instinct. That had been his truth, at that time, and was the biggest mistake of his life.

If only he hadn't run away, then they might be together right now. But, he had run away, not paying attention to her words, not taking her seriously when she'd told him she wouldn't leave but at one condition: he had to admit, not even that her words were true, but that they could be true. He'd refused, spat some despicable words at her, and left.

His back to her, he'd not seen the tears in her eyes, nor the way her nails had dug in her skin to prevent the treacherous liquid to flood her cheeks. No, blinded by his stubbornness, he had seen nothing of that.

And when he'd finally decided there might be some truth in her words, she wasn't there any more.

No message, no clue, nothing had been left for him to find her. Hermione Granger had disappeared from his personal Hell, condemning him to experience a continual agony.

All of a sudden, the clock rang midnight, jerking him away from his thoughts, from his past, into a present he couldn't bear any more.

At twenty-four, Draco Malfoy was already certain his life was a failure. Fortune, popularity, nobility, nothing would change his mind since he'd lost the only valuable thing he'd ever possessed, his dearest possession which, in fact, couldn't be called thus, for Hermione Granger had never belonged to him – and was nothing near a mere object.

Younger, stupid and arrogant, self-confident, certain that everything'd always go his way, he should have known better than to believe she'd always stay with him, forever bearing with his childish behaviour.

The clock rang again. Draco looked at the empty glass in his hand. How much had he drunk?

Nothing indeed. The wine bottle was still on the table, meters away from him, the whiskey one still closed, and all his other alcohols were in the shelter of a locked cupboard. Truth was, he'd just spent four hours in an armchair, an empty glass in hand, all the while reminiscing about that night, and the wonderful others they'd spent together before it.

He could still feel her hands on his body, her slender fingers tenderly caressing his skin, running through his hair, touching his lips. Her tongue dancing with his, fighting it for dominance when he'd been more than willing to give in to her. Her breasts pressed against his naked chest, her legs tangled with his. Their breaths meeting, mixing, hers becoming his, and his hers.

He remembered her eyes, all the emotions which filled them when they were embracing each other, the desire which clouded them, the passion which darkened them.

Her voice, her moans of pleasure, his name rolling from the back of her throat, coming out in a seductive purr, then in voluptuous cries when they were both close to reach the most wonderful of raptures.

He saw her laying beside him, cuddling up against him, her arms around him, his around her.

He could spend hours losing himself in these memories – his dearest memories.

The clock rang half past twelve. Had he lost himself again? Certainly.

He should go to bed. He'd a lot of meetings to attend in the morning but, after all, who would care if he had not rested well? Who would frown at him, lecture him and then order him to take more care of himself? Nobody, for the one who used to do so wasn't with him any more.

She had left thirty-six months ago.

Thirty-six months of ignorance, of suffering, but he couldn't complain, he deserved it.

All he'd had to do was to admit the possibility – when it was more than a certainty indeed – of his having feelings for her, feelings different from lust and passion, stronger than friendship, stranger to hatred, and she would still be there.

However, as the fool he was, he had denied until the most obvious evidence of his harbouring such affections for her.

Perhaps, in a way, he'd still been seeing in her his childhood foe, or because the influence of his father's words hadn't totally been erased from his mind yet.

As time went by, blood purity had stopped to matter to Draco, but when the prospect of his being in love with a muggle-born, he'd had the disappointment to react as he'd always done - as a pure-blood - he had refuted such a shameful hypothesis. Because he was a Malfoy, a stupid stubborn Malfoy – as if there were men in his family who weren't thus – he had turned a deaf ear to his heart.

He'd feared his father's wrath – although, at that time, Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban, not for long, but the authorities had wanted to give him an outline of where he'd have ended his life if it wasn't for his wife's courage.

He'd feared his mother would be disappointed in him – indeed she was disappointed, but not for the same reasons. Hermione Granger, Narcissa was certain, was the only witch who was worth of her son, and she would have gladly given him to her. What was blood compared to happiness? The witch with the purest blood wouldn't make her son happy, for the only woman for whom his heart beat was a brilliant muggle-born. As Draco's mother, she'd seen the changes in his son's behaviour, the smiles which appeared oftener on his face, the brightness in his eyes, and her name on his lips. She had acknowledged his feelings for the young woman long before him.

But, at twenty-one, Draco'd been too young to listen to his heart – like his mother would have liked him to do – rather than to his fears.

It'd taken Hermione and Draco three years to form a deep friendship, their seventh year at Hogwarts being the start of everything. After the Dark Lord's downfall, Draco'd been weary enough to drop his bastard-attitude and Hermione, willing to have a peaceful last year, had taken it upon herself to make a truce with him. A truce, then a partnership – the professors had paired them up in a lot of classes – and, after their graduation, a weekly correspondence. They had also decided to meet at least once every two months. Both were certain that to keep contact was a thing they had to do, or else they would regret it – they had never openly admitted it, as for many other things, they didn't need to voice them aloud for the other to know.

Hermione, in his company, learnt to be more patient, to have more self-control and to retort faster than light. Draco, on his side, learnt to be tolerant, to give up his I'm-the-best attitude, to avoid spitting hurtful words each time he wasn't pleased. Quickly, they had become indispensable to each other.

During the third year of their friendship – for it was what their correspondence had led to – they became even closer, meeting at least twice a week, mutually supporting each other in their studies. Hermione'd work in the Ministry, Draco'd inherit of his father's business. Both goals were strongly weighing on their shoulders and yet, because they were facing it together, they never broke down.

Their relationship hadn't stopped there. At twenty, they shared their first night in the arms of one another.

A wonderful, magical almost, night.

They should have stopped there, they should have agreed the exchange'd be one of their best memories and keep on with their friendship.

I think you guess it, they hadn't been able to do so.

They'd grown closer and closer, leaving their innocent relationship behind, to take a dangerous path which led them – him, mostly, for he didn't know how she was living their separation – to his ruin.

Exactly thirty-six months ago, he'd turned around and walked away, ignoring her words – her warning – certain that, later in the day, it'd be as if the conversation had never existed.

He hadn't been totally wrong, for they hadn't had the opportunity to quarrel more about that subject. And yet, how much he wished he'd been entirely wrong! How much he'd have liked to hear her tell him to stop being a stubborn brat and to listen to her! Better, he should have never walked away. He should have stayed, argued a little more, and yielded.

Then, she'd be with him.

Had he listened to his heart rather than to his fears, Hermione Granger wouldn't have left him.

He had favoured pride over happiness, leading himself to his ruin. He was the only one at fault.

Hermione was, too, proud, very proud, but she was also clever enough to know when pride had to be put aside.

Thirty-six months ago, she'd put hers aside to admit her feelings for him – to him! - for a man with so many flaws, of so many mistakes. She had yielded to her heart, her head obediently following, thus offering them - him - a chance to be happy – together.

He had missed it, and lost her. Indeed, listening to his pride had been a great idea! A stupid reflex. His condemnation. He was doomed to suffer from his own stupidity, from his own cowardice, and he couldn't blame anybody but himself.

Would have Hermione been there, she'd have told him to stop drowning in self-pity – it never helped matters. She'd have obliged him to go to bed – on seeing the late hour – and made him swear to wake up with positive thoughts in order to give a good start to his day.

Draco sadly smiled.

He, on his side, would have probably scowled at her before complying, as he always did when he knew she was right – you can imagine how often it had happened!

Unfortunately, Hermione wasn't there. As much as he wished she'd appear on the chair facing him, in the door-frame he could see from the corner of his eyes, behind him if she wanted to surprise him, as much as he wanted that to happen, she remained absent.

Of course, they were wizards, not nice genies granting wishes.

"Find her!" his mother had told – screamed at – him when he'd finally dared admit his mistake. "Find her, apologise and bring her back!"

He tried, but his efforts were never rewarded with success.

Hermione'd left no trace, no clue for him to pursue her. He'd disappointed her, hurt her more than she could endure.

Draco didn't blame her for having left in fact, he was proud of her decision. She'd chosen to protect her own well-being, her future, an act of self-preservation which could have belonged to a Slytherin. He closed his eyes. Perhaps, if they'd been in different houses, if they had never been foes, things would have turned out differently.

No, he shook his head. Who was he trying to kid? He was the only one at fault. Had he been able to make his own choices rather than following a way of thinking which wasn't his, he would have been able to make things turned out differently.

"Well, enough of self-pity," he mumbled while getting up from his seat.

Thirty-six months were a long time, but not long enough to allow his heart to heal. It would probably never, but it didn't mean Draco had to spend his life sitting in a hideous armchair – he couldn't remember why he had bought it but damn, it would soon leave this room.

Admittedly, his life was a failure, however he wouldn't allow it to reach the bottom of the bottoms, for he still hoped, as naïve as it was he couldn't help it, to see her again one day. And if their paths were to crossed in the future, he wanted to be able to offer her something, the prospect of a future with him, of a life with no wants. Whether she'd agree to give him a second chance, whether she'd even consider the idea, he didn't care. As long as he kept building surroundings in which he wouldn't be ashamed to welcome her, he'd have the impression, for once, to do the right thing.

What had been her life during these last thirty-six months, he didn't know, he only hoped she lacked of nothing, was happy, and, above all, hadn't forgotten him.

"I was certain to find you still awake."

Draco jumped in surprise. Immersed in his thoughts, he hadn't heard her enter.

"Mother! Something happened?" he asked with a frown. It wasn't really a proper hour for a visit of courtesy.

Narcissa shook her head no. "I only wanted to verify you were all right. I know what today is. You seem to be able to stand on your feet, I guess you're not drunk, are you?"

"Have you ever seen me drown my problems in alcohol?" he snapped.

"Never. And I'll be glad you never start," she coolly answered.

Narcissa Malfoy knew her son was strong, she also knew that he'd never do something Hermione'd disapprove of, not any more, however she remained his mother, his worried mother. She'd tried her best not to apparate in his flat, indeed she'd spent hours reading – the same page admittedly but it had nevertheless caught her attention enough to keep her at home, until the clock had rung midnight.

"Were you planning to have some rest?" she enquired, walking towards the seat he'd previously got up from.

Draco sighed. "I was about to go."

"You don't seem to be in a hurry. Sit down with me a little." It was an order, and if Draco didn't hesitate any more to defy his father's orders, he'd never dare do the same with his mother's.

Narcissa watched as her son took a seat across from her. The date wasn't the only thing making her restless. While her eyes had remained stuck on the same line for hours, her mind had been pondering on a way to break the news to her son. The bad news. In spite of all her efforts, she hadn't been able to find a way less painful than the others. Whatever would be her way of telling him, her son wouldn't take it well.

She hated seeing him suffer. Her heart was already breaking with such a prospect belonging to the near future. Even if she didn't want Draco to suffer, she'd rather be the one breaking him the dreadful news, at least she'd be by his side to support him – she would do her best.

"You know I've been trying to find her myself," Narcissa began.

She didn't need to pronounce her name for there was only one person she and her son would search for together.

Draco tensed. Of course he knew, and he was also grateful to his mother for doing so. It was really important to him. It showed his mother's approval, love. It showed him Narcissa Malfoy was ready to do anything for him, her son. Anything indeed, for she had even overcome her husband's unchanged certainties about pure-bloods' superiority.

Lucius Malfoy was far from being pleased, to say the least, by his family's affection for the muggle-born woman. However, if he didn't care about the rest of the world turning their back on him, his son and wife were another matter. The short time he'd spent in Azkaban had taught him he could give up on all his possessions, as long as he was certain his family would be with him. Therefore, although his son was unaware of that, if he had to accept a muggle-born to mix with his bloodline to keep his family by his side, he would yield without fighting. He might have been able to convince Draco to give up on the woman, but then Narcissa would have never forgiven him and hexed him to oblivion.

Finally, the choice had been easy. Besides, he had to admit – almost without grimacing – that Hermione Granger wasn't the worst woman his son could have picked out.

"I've found her, Draco," Narcissa said, her eyes never turning away from her son's.

Draco stopped breathing for a while. What was his mother saying? She had found her? Hermione? His Hermione? She had found her after thirty-six months? This was not a joke, was it?

"It's not a lie," Narcissa assured, as if she knew what he was thinking. "I took care to verify the veracity of such information. It's her, Draco, I'm certain, however-"

"Where is she?" Draco jerked up from his seat. "Is she in England? In America? She's always wanted to go to America! She is there, isn't she?"

He was now pacing back and forth in front of his mother. But how could he have failed to find her trace when he had himself been looking for her in America? Perhaps she hadn't been there yet when he had been. Perhaps she had moved recently, perhaps he'd never looked for her in the right place at the right time.

"She isn't in America Draco." His attention came back to his mother.

"Then where is she?"

Narcissa took a deep breath.

"She's been right under our nose for all these months," she finally admitted. "She is brilliant Draco." She met his eyes without batting an eyelid.

"What do you mean?"

"We didn't find her, because she didn't want us to do so," she explained further.

Draco couldn't believe her words. "What do you mean?" he repeated.

"Sit down Draco," Narcissa ordered more than she advised.

The young man did as he was told, too astonished by the news to protest.

"Hermione is in England. She lives and studies here," Narcissa started.

"Impossible!" he exclaimed. "I looked for her here! I looked all over England for her!"

"Draco!" she scolded. "For Heaven's sake calm down and listen to me!"

"But-"

"There is no but! You've hurt her Draco Malfoy, your denial that night has hurt her more than you think. She knew you'd look for her, so she made the necessary not to be found."

"But you found her so-"

"Yes," she sharply cut him off, "I know where she is. I know it because she has stopped keeping her location secret. Because she has deemed it safe to stop hiding."

Narcissa sighed. She'd have given everything she had not to tell the next words. Indeed, everything, but it wasn't possible. She had to tell him, she had to say these words which would break him. She wished his heart was a rock, but she knew it wasn't. His heart was under continual agony, and what she was about to say might achieve him.

"What do you mean?" She clenched her fists. Her son was scared, scared because he wasn't stupid, he had understood what she meant, and was now scared to know the truth.

"Draco, Hermione is going to-" She stopped, lowered her gaze to her knees, then looked back at her son. "Hermione is-" Damn to pronounce these words was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. Could a mother break her son's heart without suffering?

"Mother," her eyes went back to Draco – she hadn't realised she'd lowered her head again. "Please, what do you know about Hermione?"

Draco knew he wasn't going to like what he was going to hear, but he had to, if he wanted to repair his mistakes, he had to know the truth about her current situation, he would work things out from there.

"She is going to marry." Her voice had been barely above a whisper.

TBC !