Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
The Memory Of Her Tears
Wrong.
They were always so, so wrong! Every touch, kiss and memory … it was just wrong. Back when she was his, every loving feeling he had should've been hatred and every kind word should've been cruel … every touch should be to hurt and he flinched when he remembered that his touches had hurt her.
What he remembered best about her was the salty, but intoxicating delicious taste of the tears she would shed. He knew that it was also wrong that her tears were what he remembered best.
It should've been the few times he'd seen her smile.
But he hadn't made her smile. His actions didn't cause the corners of her mouth to move up making her plump lips morph into a delightful smile.
His actions caused her teeth to harshly bite her full lower lip so hard it bled; it caused her face to alter into an expression obviously showing her pain. And she'd cry like he wanted her to so he could kiss away her tears, letting his own lips grace her face softly, sometimes whispering a kind or comforting word, letting his tongue enjoy the intimate taste of her.
She always let him do it and he always wondered why. She didn't want him, she didn't need him, she didn't love him, but she couldn't fight him either. She was his prisoner, and it was his right to feast on her tears.
She'd escaped him. Late into the night, just before the light changed and morning began, he would cry himself, letting his tears run down his pale cheeks to settle in the corner of his mouth where his tongue would dart out so he could taste the tear, in hope of tasting her one last time.
He tasted at least a million of his tears, but never again hers.
This was many years ago and he now sat in a cell consisting of four, grey, stonewalls that was covered in filth and blood from the poor, desperate fools that'd been imprisoned in here before himself.
The Dementors that slowly floated back and forth outside the heavy iron-doors, leading to, the cells was slowly driving everybody but him crazy with depression. Their screaming lasted entire nights and was enjoyed by the black hooded, evil creatures.
He never screamed. The memory of her tears was neither happy nor sad to him and therefore the Dementors couldn't feed from it.
The light in his cell was slowly shifting and he knew he should prepare himself for another sleepless night, haunted by screams and voices belonging to shells of persons who were beyond comforting. He rested his head against the cold stone while a tear slowly slid down his, Draco Malfoy, cheek and he tasted it, hoping that it would taste like her, Hermione Granger's, tears.
A/N: Yeah I have no idea where this came from, but I quite like it though. Please review and tell me if you did or didn't like it.
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