A/N: This is a drabble written solely for my LiveJournal Drabble Request List. It's a Marcus Flint/Hermione Granger from Flint's POV. So enjoy...

The Only One

I stalk through people, avoiding their gazes and looking towards their elitist feet as I search for you. You're the only reason I'm here at this scanty, mediocre excuse for a party full of stuff-shirts and snobby wives of rich men. I'd never speak to you even if I found you though; that would be far too wrong. You're the wife of one of the richest do-good, golden boys, Cedric Diggory, and guys like myself just don't chat with girls who are married to guys like that. His father's name alone is enough to shun me away as though I was unworthy to even be on the same floor of the building.

I've hated the boy since school; I never was much on the loyal Hufflepuffs. Their constant show of friendship and kindness to others made me ill as I sat being the typical, cool Slytherin. And, as I watch you, I see that you aren't as attached to him as you pretend to be. That's when I notice it. The sideways, longing glance to the one guy I hated more than Diggory. Oliver Wood.

I study your movements as you slink across the room like a shy minx; trying to go undetected, but you shine too much for that. You arrive at the refreshment table, and I contemplate approaching you to say hello. But again I have to remind myself I must only be as the shadows; dark, mysterious, and clinging to the corners of the brightly lit room.

Wood approaches the table, and your eyes dart in his direction. I see you watching him with your chocolaty, diamond eyes that sparkle like a thousand shooting stars. I long for you to look at me like that, but know that it could only happen in my dreams. He doesn't even notice you, the fool, and he's probably about the only man in the room who doesn't.

I slide along the wall, moving closer to where you stand, yet still far enough that I'm at a safe distance from you. I can smell your sweet perfume. The delicate scent so subtle and warming, more than intoxicating. Your creamed peach skin shimmers in all its silkiness under the dazzling glow of crystal chandeliers as your hand flinches. You're yearning to reach out and touch him, I know it, but you're far too timid and mindful of the proper conduct to do that.

The knot in my chest cavity grows with each slow, painful throb of my lonely, aching heart. I have to turn away for a second as I catch myself stepping closer to you. When I turn back, the first thing I notice is that you're biting down on your glossy, pink rose petal lips. They're so luscious and full-looking that I'd die for just one kiss, one simple brush of that satin mouth on mine. But the truth remains just as it had before: it'll never happen.

I step closer, just a few feet behind you now, and I can see the glistening strands of your golden brown hair as your head turns, eyes following him as he walks away. How could he not see you practically offering up your very being to him? Is he so blind to the beauty that is you and your character?

Another step closer lets me pick up on your gentle breathing. However soft, it's still awkward and uneven as my own. It's obvious that we're both trying to be still hearts which are merely secluded and reaching out for the love we covet. But the one we each crave knows not of our adoration and affection for them.

I wish I had the courage of a Gryffindor at this very moment. If I had, I would take those last few steps to you, take you in my arms, hold you tight, and kiss you as you've never been kissed before. On the other hand, I'm simply a sneaky Slytherin who inherited his father's money and has to look for momentary comfort in the shallow, meaningless one-nightstands with girls whose names become yours halfway through the night.

But they will never be you, and I'm sadly reminded of that when I wake in the morning after the Firewhiskey has worn off. I feel ashamed when I spot the head full of blond or raven hair on my pillow, so I can only retreat to the shower where I hope to drown in my sorrows and the hot water.

Shaking myself from my reveries and regrets, I see that your head is bowed in sadness; your heart silently, secretly breaking. I'd love to take you from that unhappiness, heal your heart and show you all the devotion in the world. But it wouldn't be enough for you. You would always long for Oliver Wood, but be married to Cedric Diggory. And I will forever be Marcus Flint, the one man who's truly in love with Hermione Granger, but can never have her or show her my feelings.