Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: This fic will be rather short- four parts.
Years have passed since the war now, and I've grown accustomed to my place in society. The Ministry gives me a stipend, though it's really more of a technicality than a source on significant income. The money my parents left me is enough for me to live comfortably, especially when I supplement it by brewing certain potions on the side.
No one is really sure what to think I am: traitor or hero, I'm still an outsider. I don't bother them, and they don't bother me, and time passes.
I shouldn't have come tonight, to this absurd ministry event for those who fought the hardest and lost the most. It feels like a reunion from my final years at Hogwarts, years that I still achingly long for sometimes, and sometimes look back upon with nothing but loathing.
I lurk on the outskirts of the crowd, sipping my Firewhiskey and doing my best to ignore her. Her low-backed black dress shows off the flawless curve of her neck and the alabaster skin that's been haunting my dreams for the last few years.
Sometimes her eyes catch mine, and my insides feel like a black hole, and a part of me wants to suck her in, to drag her with me into this pit of despair.
Radiant is the only word that can describe her, linked arm in arm with that awkward Weasley boy who grins, a smirk that can only be worn by an idiot who has been given bliss and hardly recognizes it. Her laughter carries across the cacophony of voices. The ringing melodic sound sends ripples of pleasure through my body. The mood was somber at first, but has grown lighter, joy replacing sadness as those around me drink and reminisce.
Yes, we've grown apart, but our roots are too strong to deny. I feel more alone here than I do anywhere else, because here I feel the hollow void of every tentative connection I built during those years, connections that were severed the instant I raised my wand and killed the one man to truly believe in me.
And even though I had promised him, even though he wouldn't rest until I vowed to do him in when the time came, I see him every time I close my eyes at night, that sad, encouraging smile haunting my dreams, jolting me awake, panting and covered in sweat.
Hermione kisses that stupid Weasley and he paws at her like an overexcited fifth year and it's painful to watch those delicate rose lips pressed to his sloppy, devouring mouth. She pulls him close, smiling and so radiant. Some people glow like the sun, a light so bright and demanding it casts shadows on the flaws of everyone nearby. Hermione is different; Hermione is starlight. Everything her soft, addictive glow touches only becomes more beautiful.
Perhaps that's why women have started to cast longing looks at the gangly redheaded bastard. It certainly isn't any natural charisma or poise on his part. Let them have him; Hermione is far too exquisite for Ron Weasley. To truly appreciate her is beyond his frail capacity.
She pulls him close, and they start to dance. The way her willowy frame melts against him makes his awkward lead seem almost competent. I know my eyes are burning with jealous rage but I can't look away.
And her gorgeous, deep brown eyes, rich like dark chocolate, intoxicating and bittersweet, meet with my coal black gaze. She is whispering in his ear, laughing. My stomach twists as her lips brush her cheek, but her eyes lock back on to mine and she's moving across the room, headed straight for me.