Crash Into Me

Title: Crash Into Me
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He watched her cry once and he never stopped.
Notes: No betas, all mistakes are mine. And yes, I stole lines from Dave Matthews Band's Crash Into Me. Please review!
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

Her tears were large and beady and always went out her left eye first, running down the side of her cheek until it jumps off that dimple on the edge of her chin, as large and as beady as it first came out. Draco first saw them when he was eleven, a month after classes started. She was in the library, trapped between stacks of books as she usually was, when she suddenly shut the book she held in her hands and a tear came out her left eye. She didn’t make a sound, and he couldn’t even make out her breath from the silence surrounding the air. He never paid her heed before, but then he discovered that he liked the sight of her crying.

On Halloween night he watched her as she ran down the corridor towards Merlin knows where. She was loud, and she wailed and her tears streaked her face and the ink form her hands smeared her che He He wanted to run after her and see if she would cry some more, but her legs moved like her tears, sweeping and quick and when she turned down a corner, he lost her completely.

During breakfast next morning he searched for her at the Gryffindor table, expecting to see the silent tears that were practically invisible unless one watched closely; as closely as he did. But instead he found her seated between Potter and Weasley, laughing at something Weasley said. Probably something stupid. He wished she would stop showing off those horrid buck teeth.

He waited for her in the library, stealthily situated on the desk beside the one she usually occupied. She came, right on the dot, but there were no tears. And he found himself missing her.

He continued to wait for her inside the library, perchance she might feel like a cry, but she never did. She was always happy and smiling. He hated her for depriving him of her tears.

That summer Draco told his father about the muggleborn witch who always stole the spotlight from him. She smiled a lot, Draco had said, and she laughed, like she has something to laugh about. If he were friends with Weasley, he’d try to kill himself, he quipped and he and his father shared a hollow laughter. She never cried, he thought, and out loud he said, she’s better off crying. So his father told him she was but a mudblood. That she was dirty and should never be touched, because then he’d be dirty as well.

And Draco told her just that. And it was magic. He didn’t understand why, as he just said what his father did, and it was the truth and that was all there was to it, but he saw it. He saw them large and beady once more, delicate, deliberate and precious as crystals. He collected them every chance he was given.

He regaled his father about his little triumphs over the Mudblood-Who-Must-Not-Be-Touched yet the elder Malfoy was not as ebullient as Draco had expected him to be and told him to stay away. Best not be associated with a Mudblood, at all, his father had said.

He did. But she didn’t. That year she was in the library more times than one possibly could be. And she cried the way she did when they were eleven. Silent, like church on weekdays. She did, everyday, not minding the circles around her eyes, dark as dead roses, nor did she mind the obvious limp she developed or shr shoulders that made her look defeated. He liked watching her cry less and less each time her shoulder dipped more.

One day, when he didn’t think her shoulders could slope any more and the circles around her eyes finally took over her face, she slapped him. The contact was quick but the sting reverberated throughout his body, like the aftertaste of bitter gourd. He thought he wouldn’t mind being dirty at all.

That was when he stopped telling stories to his father, and preferred instead to listen to the ones told. About the plan, about how soon Draco would join their ranks, about how they will be rewarded and about how he had no choice on the matter. Then his father mentioned that the Mudblood who gave him so much trouble would be taken care of, and he didn’t mind this at all.

Though he still thought she should at least know.

He turned fourteen and forgot all about her tears and focused on the palpable glances that Pansy Parkinson sent his way. He ignored how the buck-toothed bush often disappeared with Potter, going off to the lake, just the two of them. Perhaps Potter didn’t mind being dirty as well. But just like before, she didn’t leave him alone. She showed up on the night of the Yule Ball, imprinting herself all over his mind, dwarfing the presence of Pansy to oblivion.

She laughed and smiled, not in the way that grated him, the way she would with Potter and Weasley, like a village idiot. Her voice was silky and her smile subtle and observant. When she was out of breath from dancing, she would touch her hand to her chest, and he noticed that her wrist would rest on a rise he hadn’t noticed before. It fascinated him.

That night, as he lay in bed, he thought of that rise, imagining that the flesh would be as rosy as the rouge on her cheek. Without notice, his hand crept downwards, sneaking its way under his pajama bottoms and his boxer shorts. And he touched himself for the first time. His eyes flew open when his hand made contact with tlrealready hard length. He stroked it slowly, tentatively. He thought of her laugh, no longer a little girl’s, laughing at a stupid Weasel joke, but a woman’s, laughing politely at a bumbling Krum. His hand gripped his manhood tighter, going down his length with faster pace. His thumb grazed over the tip from which a viscous liquid aching to be touched leaked. He spread the item all over his cock, going even hardt tht the sensation of warmth. He imagined her smile, the buck teeth were gone, and he could see her smile. It was something he liked even more than her tears. He thought of her out of breath, and she touched her hand to her chest, her periwinkle blue robe pooled around her feet on the floor. And then he came undone, jerking around his bed madly as he thrust into his hand, the image of her pinching her taut, rosy nipple in his head as white fluid spilled into his hand and stomach.

He wiped his hand off on his sheets and cleaned the spillage on his stomach with his blanket. He curled up on his right side, feeling dirtier than he ever did before and sleeping more peacefully than he ever did before.

One night, in January, he discovered that if he flew behind the old oak tree near the Gryffindor tower, he could look straight into her dorm room and she would never see him and that omnioculars were genius.

He found out that she usually turned in by midnight, that everyday she spent one hour to read for each subject, and another hour for something for her own pleasure. He never recognized the titles so he assumed they were muggle books. She had a habit of twisting her hair around her quill until it becomes so entangled that she had no choice but to shear it off, though this never thinned her hair out. When alone, she would twirl around the room, dancing to silent music. She was most happy when she was alone, he observed. Sometimes, on weekends, she would just sit for hours with her cat on her lap, staring out the window so intently that he was certiain she would see him, but she never did.

He noticed that she wasn’t too fond of the Brown girl, her face scrunched up as if in agony as Brown yapped on. She was more tolerant of the other half of the twin, spending time to talk with Patil in earnest. He also thought it was surprising that she could finish ten packs of chocolate frogs in one sitting. Or that she threw her quill out the window when frustrated.

But what shocked him most, he saw on a warm March evening. Her roommates were off somewhere, he didn’t know, nor did he care. She disappeared inside the bathroom and when she came out she wore nothing. She wore it well. She twirled around, her ankles arching up; the muscles on her calves stretching graceful like marble. The smile on her face was a degree more than naughty and she looked at her bed with an adventurous glint. He wished he could come closer, so he could part her legs and smell the scent of her sex, but all he could do was touch him self, as she lay down on the bed, knees bent on her side, one hand resting on her stomach the other draped across her chest, hiding the pink nipples from his seeking eyes.

She flinched when he emitted a strangled cry and stood up and looked out the window, her incarnadine breasts gracing the night air. This was the closest he was ever going to be to her. The next night, he didn’t fly to her window.

On his fifteenth birthday he had the mark burned on his right forearm. He hid it well behind the starched white sleeves of his innocent uniform.

On the afternoon of the day his father was to be arrested, Draco saw her cry. Though he knew instantly that it was not real. She cried silently, did they not know that? His eyes roved the stunned and accusing faces around him. He smirked thinking how they called themselves her friends and yet he was the only one who knew her tears.

Except for Potter. But Draco was satisfied with the thought that she gave the Boy-Who-Wouldn’t-Die fake sobs; her tears, large and beady, always belonged to him.

Everything changed after that day. The war began, each side shouting for their cause, insisting on the just. But it was drawn out, longer than anyone expected. Loyalties shifted. There was no longer a right and wrong. There was no cause. There was no such thing as an agreement of minds. It all came down to an agreement of survival and which one wanted it. Thus Draco found himself on the other side of the fence, two years after he graduated from Hogwarts, inside a tent set up on what once was Hogsmeade, providing Dumbledore with blueprints of the Dark Lord’s hideouts.

After the meeting he walked out, his pale skin greeted the sun. There were tents set-up around Dumbledore’s, all a dirty white, like the starched uniform of little boys’ after a hard day’s play. The air was light, jesting, as if they had all just flocked there for the Quidditch World Cup. He liked this air, it smelled clean and free. He missed the sun, something he never thought he would. He saw her, someone he never thought he would.

She had her hair held up with a quill and there were ink stains on her fingernails. She reached the table where the werewolf and his half-blood cousin were planning. She peered in casually and without preamble picked the quill from her hair letting it cascade down her shoulder, for his show he would like to think, and wrote something on the parchment they were poring over. They smiled and looked at her and the three laughed out loud. Her laugh stayed silky and ripe.

On nightly meetings he would sit behind Hagrid and from the gap between the giant’s armpit and torso, Draco could stare straight at her face across from him, she always wore a pensive expression on her face. During breakfast he sat behind her, boring a hole through her neck as he gazed at her slender nape, the whitest part of her body. Sometimes she sat alone with Weasley, other times with Potter and he wondered which one won her heart though he did not dare find out.

He was waiting for Dumbledore on a Thursday afternoon inside his purple tent when she marched inside, her heel thumping against the grass. She was shuffling the parchments laid out on Dumbledore’s desk in search of something, seemingly oblivious. Seemingly.

“Stop looking at me,” she said without looking up, interrupting his voyeur of the sheer cloth of her blouse.

He was taken aback though he did not show it. Instead he replied with the placidity of the deepest forests, “You’ve only noticed just now?”

“I’ve noticed since you came to camp. I don’t know what you’re up to, yet, but I’m sure it’s evil,” she said, eyeing him like he was spoiled cheese.

He merely smiled at her; a genuine smile that he knew would unnerve her. “How wrong you are. I’ve been watching you since I was eleven.”

She balked at his statement. She made a guttural sound and stormed out the tent in a huff. He watched her through the gap of Hagrid’s armpit and torso that night, and she eyed him back.

The next morning twelve Deatheaters raided their camp. There was pandemonium in the base as the werewolf barked out orders to no one in particular. Basically he said “Kill them all!” Draco shouted the killing curse at the first hooded figure he crossed and prayed hard that it was in fact a Deatheater and not some idiot Order member who walked around with his hood up during an attack.

She was in the middle of it all, a bright, crackling fire in the midst of a melee of imposing darkness. It would be nice if she were the last sight he would see before his death. That was when she turned to his direction and threw a spell, emitting a green light from her wand that merely grazed the shoulder of his robes and hit the Deatheater behind him smack in the middle of his nose.

She raised an eyebrow at him and turned to watch as Potter took on the last of them. She ran to him, giving him a kiss that landed on his lips and from the shocked look on the bespectacled one’s face, it was the first time such ever happened. She merely laughed at the accident and gave him another hug.

There was a celebratory sort of cheer that enveloped the barracks that night that Draco was not used to. So he decided to retreat to his tent for a night’s rest. But then he found her sitting on his cot.

He merely gulped in acknowledgement.

“Why do you keep watching me?” she asked straight out.

“I wish I knew.”

“Don’t give me that bull, are you spying on me? Are you giving Voldemort information about me?” she accused.

He gave her an indistinct smile. “You think the Dark Lord’s particularly interested in you? Vain.”

“You still call him the Dark Lord?”

“Force of habit. Like the way you still call Snape that evil bastard.”

She hid a grin. “You haven’t answered my first question.”

“I like it. I like watching you.”

“Since you were eleven?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“What do you want to hear?”

“The truth.”

“That is the truth. There’s nothing more.”

“You almost died. If I haven’t turned and saved you, you would’ve.”

“But then you’d be the last one I’d see. The sight that will be imprinted on my head for all eternity.”

“You make it sound so romantic.”

“It’s not, at all.”

“Really, why?”

He chuckled slightly. “You won’t let this drop, will you?”

She shook her head sternly.

“Because I want you.”

She flushed. “I don’t believe that.”

“I tell you the truth and you don’t believe me. Typical.”

“How could you want me? You think I’m below you.” She stood up in indignation, as if this act would force him to answer as she ought he should.

“I did. I still do, to some level. It doesn’t stop me from wanting you.” He walked closer to where she was, wondering if he could at least get a slap from her.

“You’re lying. This has to be some sort of joke,” she said though her voice was strained and feeble.

“I flew to your window every night, watching you read your muggle books, and the language of your face told me their stories. You rock on your chair softly; it makes me want to rock along with you. You twist your quill around your hair, the way I want to twist myself around you. And when all is done you give the little framed picture on your desk a kiss and go to sleep, and me? I go back to my dorm with memories of you and I imagine that your hands move over me as gently as you handle the spines of your books and I grip my cock tightly like you grip your quill and I come all over my hand with the sound of your smile and the pout of your eyes.”

She looked at him, eyes wide like saucepans, her lips parted as if in a slight moan and her wrist resting on the rise of her breasts. Somehow he had managed to stand right in front of her, a few inches from her face.

“You said you wanted to hear the truth,” he said, no, breathed to her.

She stayed silent, looking up at him as if she had never seen him before. When she spoke, her voice had an air of awe. “No one’s ever wanted me.”

“That must be the reason the world’s in chaos. It’s filled with idiots,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

And before it happened, he knew it. She grabbed his face and kissed him, her tongue as quick and studied as her diatribes. Her lips were soft like his cushions and she tasted of dried blood and ink, and yet strangely sweet. She smelled of old books and vanilla, the way he imagined she would.

His hand went around her waist, his erection pushing against her stomach. He guided her towards the cot and pushed her to sit gently. He tugged at the hem of her shirt and she obliged and pulled it out of her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her breasts graced the night air of his cot. He could barely contain himself as he lunged at her nipple, taking it between his teeth, his tongue flicking it inside his mouth over and over. She moaned as silently as she cried, the only sign that she enjoyed his ministrations was the way her hand fisted his hair as she arched her breath further into his mouth. He moved over her other breast, her areola now dark as the circles she used to have in her eyes but it was beautiful in this case.

“Malfoy, I…,” she breathed above him but he cut her off with his lips, his tongue running along the roof of her mouth, paying special attention to that ticklish spot just before her teeth.

“Hike up your skirt a little more and show your world to me,” he moaned to her.

She nodded, pushing the plaid skirt above her knees, over her thighs until it showed off the damp white cotton knickers underneath. He pulled it down, setting the caramel curls loose. He parted her legs further, his eyes traveling over the world he had always dreamed of yet never wished for, for he thought it was impossible. He moved closer, smelling the scent of her sex, feeling it enter his nose, his mouth, his ears. Her brown hair was already glistening with her juices, her tears always had been for him. He brought his tongue out and tasted her, sucking her wetness to his mouth like it was the last ounce of water in the Sahara. He swept his tongue over her clit again and again, and her thighs shook at this movement. He moved over her nether lips, parting it with his fingers as his tongue fucked her pussy. His nose rubbed her clit and her cum flowed to his chin. His two fingers joined his tongue as it reached farther inside, pushing at her walls looking for that perfect spot. And when he found it, it found her too.

Her body quaked and he held his tongue out to catch the wetness dripping down her pussy like it was the finest wine. She collapsed on the cot, a sheen of sweat on her breast and her forehead, her hair dripping with perspiration from the orgasm he gave her.

He didn’t even bother to ask if she was ready, he needed it badly. He stood up and made quick work of his clothes, almost tripping over his trousers in his haste. He hovered over her, her eyes still in half-mast. He moved to kiss her but she shut her mouth tightly and hid her lips from him.

“Taste yourself; you’re delicious,” he mouthed in a commanding voice.

And though there was hesitance on her eyes, she opened her mouth to him as he shared her cum with her, sliding it over her mouth, her tongue and her teeth. He tore his mouth away from hers only to nip at her neck and shoulders. Her strong, proud shoulders. He closed his mouth the spot just above her arm, and sucked mercilessly, wanting to leave his mark on her.

Her hands gripped his lower back, and her fingernail to his skin in half-moon marks. He pulled one of her hands away and placed it on his abdomen. She was a smart girl, she’d get it. Her hand crept slowly downwards; playing with the soft blonds that led to the place he wanted her most. Her hands moved further until her nails grazed over the base of his shaft. She wrapped her hands loosely around it.

“Tighter,” he guided. She tightened.

“Stroke it,” he groaned out, half in plea, half in demand. She stroked.

He let out a whimper as he rocked in her hand. He cupped one breast with his hand, squeezing it in time with her strokes. He was leaking already, her hand accidentally brushing over his tip, spreading his pre-cum on his entire length. He bit his lower lip as he tried to stay in control. He moved her hand away and removed the question in her eyes when he brushed his cock against her opening.

He slid himself inside her, graceful as a sword to its sheath. He muffled her scream with his kiss. When he lifted his head, he found there were tears on her face, traveling a path he hadn’t witnessed before. It flowed from temple down her ears. And that was when he realized this was her first. He waited as she adjusted to the feel of having someone inside her. He kissed the tears in her eyes, wiping the salty beads from his lips with his tongue.

“It gets better, I promise,” he assured her.

She nodded though she didn’t seem entirely convinced. He began to move, her face wrinkled uncomfortably. With every thrust she adjusted to him, her face gradually becoming tender. He picked up his pace, moving inside her in quick rhythmic fashion as her eyes closed in a half-mast. His hands slipped behind her back and moved down to cup her arse. He squeezed them, making her hands fly to her head as she grabbed her hair, an animalistic growl coming from the depths of her gut.

He lifted her legs so the back of her knees bent over his shoulder, letting him bury himself deeper inside her. She moved against him, reaching his hilt, his balls slapping against the cheeks of her arse. He could no longer tell which screams came from whom as they rocked with each others beat. She reached up and traced his lips with her index finger. The slight gesture was his undoing, thrusting in harder and faster before it hit him.

One word came out of his mouth. “Hermione.”

He let go of her legs, collapsing on top of her, his head resting between her breasts as drove inside her languidly, emptying himself in her. In his state he reached her clit and rubbed it until he felt her muscles clench around him and once more an orgasmic wave washed over her.

When she went down from her nirvana, her hand went up to caress his hair.

“What does it all mean?” she asked him with a small squeak.

“Nothing and everything.”

“What happens now?” she asked again.

“It’s up to you. I’ll always want you. The question is if I can give you what you want.”

“I want love.”

“I can’t give you that.”

“Of course you can’t.”

“Especially when you can’t give it to me either,” he said clearly, pointedly as if trying to sear the peaceful winds around them.

With that she pushed him off her, his softening cock sliding outside her reluctantly. She picked up her clothes and dressed without a word. She went out of the tent without a second look at him.

The next day twelve more Deatheaters attacked their camp. Draco thought it tedious to continue to send them in such little numbers and knew that the Dark Lord was desperate and no longer in the right mind.

A Deatheater he was dueling with managed to land them just where the hill rose, and path he walked before, it had been the way back home to Hogwarts. He sighed heavily thinking he’d have to walk back quite a long way to get to camp. That was when it happened, a moment of carelessness in his carefully woven life and suddenly the threads are pulled and give out.

“Expelliarmus!” the hooded figure before him exclaimed.

Draco watched as his wand flew from his hand and to the Deatheater’s awaiting one. He looked around; there was no one there to help him. He laughed, hollow and resigned. So this is what it all came down to. He looked around for her face and it didn’t take long to find her, she was looking out for him too.

She worked out the situation fairly quickly. After all, she was the smartest girl there ever was. A tear, large and beady, came out the side of her left eye, traveling that familiar path down the side of her cheek, falling off the almost imperceptible dimple at the edge of her chin. It belonged to him. Truly his.

“Smile,” he mouthed to her.

The side of her mouth quirked a smile.

It was nice that she was the last sight he saw before his death.