Disclaimer: As far as I know, I'm not JKR. Which means I don't own HP. Wow, shocker...

Rating: T

A/N: I actually wrote this ages ago, but I didn't think it was very good, so I never published it. But it's not horrible and since my muse appears to have completely left me, I don't have anything else to publish. And that's that. I hope you'll like it. I'm allergic to flames, but if you have any constructive criticism, please don't be shy.

If you could see me now

Ten years from now, Hermione Jane Granger never would have dreamed she'd ever even resemble the woman she had now turned out to be. Ten years from now, Hermione had been a naive little girl, with hope and illusions and ambition and witt. Ten years from now, things had looked way different.

She had aced all her classes and impressed her teachers with vast knowledge and undeniable talent. She'd never been popular, but people had liked and respected her and that had been all she'd wanted. She'd had a friend turning hero with god complex whom she adored and supported whereever she could. She'd had a friend turning boyfriend turning fiancé whom she loved and who loved her.

Yeah, ten years from now, Hermione Jane Granger had had the world at her feet. But ten years are a remarkably long time and time tends to change things. Sometimes in a rather drastic way.


She woke up with a pounding headache, not the first this week. The world kept fading in and out of vision while she at least attempted to move. Useless, as she should have known from the very start. He was still holding her close, smelling of firewhiskey and sweat and sex and him. Old news. He wouldn't let her go until he had fully regained consciousness again.

Unable to do anything else, she just lay there, waiting for him to wake up, still willing her brain to start working already. Unfortunately, the only thing she managed to come up with was something along the lines of that: 'You'd think someone like him would be cold', but he radiated so much heat she felt even more uncomfortable. Or maybe uncomfortable wasn't the right term. All she knew was, she needed to get out of his grip. And soon.

She'd have about half a minute when he awoke, to use the little time while he was still half-unconscious, but too much in the middle of waking up to keep holding her tight and to not notice her slipping out of his arms. More like disentangling herself from his limbs. That half minute would have to be enough to also quickly accio her clothes and apparate the fuck out of there.

If she didn't make it in time, hell would break lose. As always.

Deciding her vision was unblurry enough to start stirring, she carefully tried to wiggle her hand out from under his. As a response, he only pulled her tighter against his hot body.

For a moment, bile rose in her throat that had absolutely nothing to do with the amount of firewhiskey she herself had consumed last night. It was simply a natural response to her disgust.

She didn't know why she always kept crawling back to him of all people. He treated her like crap, he didn't respect her the tiniest bit and obviously hated everything about her. If she even wanted a chance at getting into his bed, she had to make sure he was too drunk to hex her. He wasn't even especially handsome. She assumed the only reason she felt drawn to him was that he was the only part of her past that was still alive.

Yeah, ten years had changed a lot.

His soft groan of awakening and the following relaxation of muscles finally allowed her to escape his grip. She hurried so much she fell out of the bed, having underestimated her blood alcohol level. Which officially ruined a clean getaway.

"GRANGER!", came the half-horrified, half-furious shriek she'd been both expecting and dreading.

The sex was explosive, but the person she was used to having it with definitely not the greatest company. Especially morning afters were bad. He'd be so drunk he'd shag her senseless not even caring about her name or face or identity or the years of hatred between them, and then the next mornings he'd curse everything about her and throw her out of his room.

She on the other hand... She always kept coming back, because he was the only person left. She never forgot his name or face or identity or the years of hatred between them. They were her only reason for wanting him in the first place. In the mornings, though, she always wished she had for once been able to hold herself back. That she hadn't seeked him out again.


And she did.


Ten years had robbed her of everyone she'd cared for, leaving her only Draco Malfoy. They both knew she'd be back in a week tops.

Hermione Jane Granger was a smart woman, even now. But she never found out Draco was always awake long before she was. That he – for some pathetic minutes, sometimes even for glorious hours – simply wanted to enjoy holding her close. And that every time he blew up on her and threw her out, part of him died.

Yeah. Ten years are a long time.