Notes: Written for the Battle of the Categories competition. Category: Soundtrack Star.
Prompt: "Leeway." Song: "I Know Where You Sleep" by Emilie Autumn.
Warning: stalking, obsession, etc.
I know your tainted flesh
I know your filthy soul
I know each trick you played
Whore you laid
Dream you stole
It's funny, really. You've had a crush on him since you were ten, but it's only now, when he's so close you can practically reach out your fingers and touch him, that the crush turns to more. You know he sleeps in the third bed on the right, that he tends to wake up twenty minutes before the end of breakfast-just long enough to throw on his clothes and grab some toast before class. You know he puts off his homework until Hermione nags him, and that his hair refuses to be anything but untidy. He has a propensity for losing his right sock.
You know other things, too. Like the fact he's gone all the way with Parvati Patil, one firewhiskey-blurred night when she was distraught over losing Seamus and more than half-drunk. It was his first time and he was so tipsy, he nearly fell on top of you after, as you crouched outside the closet and watched through a crack in the door. You passed it off with a nervous giggle and a blush, and that was that.
You know the Dursleys treat him like shit, and you know the Headmaster doesn't care. He always smooths it away, a twinkle in his eye and a lemon drop in his hand, until you're ready to hex him into the middle of next week. Harry always shrugs and brushes it off, and it makes you mental, it really does.
You join the DA just so you can stay close to him, and it works. When he praises you, it's like the sky lights up. You know he wants to Crucio Umbridge, and you know that if he did, you'd help him. You aren't the youngest of the Weasleys for nothing after all, and you've picked up more than a few harmless pranks. Tom Riddle's ghost still haunts the deepest recesses of your mind, and sometimes when it's very late at night and no one's around, you can hear him whispering. It takes ages before you can fall asleep, curled up into the tightest ball you can manage while tears paint your cheeks in translucent, ragged stripes.
It's okay, though, you have Harry, even if he doesn't know it, and you watch him, from the corners and the cupboards. You watch him kiss Luna and crush Cho's dreams, you watch him punch Dean Thomas in the face for toying with your affections, and you watch him crumple in a corner and bite his lip to keep from crying, the torture so vivid in those broken green eyes, you feel empty.
I know the bed in the room
In the wall in the house
Where you got what you wanted
And then ruined it all
I know the secrets that you keep
I know where you sleep
Only then you're pushing him against the wall yourself, your finger held against his lips, and you don't know what you're doing anymore. His eyes won't leave yours, and the corners of his mouth are cracked, and when you kiss them, you can taste the sweet copper tang of blood. He asks you what's wrong, what are you doing, but you can't say anything. He stumbles against the end of your bed, and you take full advantage, locking the door behind the both of you, your skin so warm, it feels on fire.
"Don't you want me?" you whisper, catching your bottom lip betwixt your teeth, and letting your eyelashes flutter. Like that, he is lost, and you can't believe it, it's all a dream, as he crushes you against him, as he sprawls across the blankets and you land on top. Please, please, let this not be a dream, you plead in your mind. Harry can't stop touching you, and you're stuck only in your knickers by the time you finally catch a breath of what he's been mumbling under his breath.
"Oh yes, Hermione, yes," and your face whitens, and you don't know what to do anymore. Your heart won't stop pounding and your ears won't stop ringing, and you lie there stiff as a board, until even he must notice, and finally, you whisper you've changed your mind. He doesn't understand (how could he?), and with flushed stammers and mumbled apologies, he extricates himself, gathering most of his clothes on his way out the door. He leaves his socks behind, and you desultorily plot how to best humiliate him with them.
It doesn't matter anymore, though. Nothing could.