AN: This is a work of fiction. I do not own the Harry Potter franchise, and this was written as a way to relieve stress. Lol. I definitely didn't make money from writing this one.
On another note, this was not beta'd. As in I wrote it in one sitting and just read it one more time to check if it looks good before posting. If someone is willing to proofread it, I'd be very, very happy. I'll probably go back and edit this one after thinking things through more thoroughly.
Summary: His eyes are drawn to her, like a moth flying to the flame. Instinctive, dangerous, inevitable. He never really stopped to think why, not until it's all he can think about.
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Vignettes
By Sapphire Snowflake
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He watches her from the corner of his eyes as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her left ear. The Quidditch star from Durmstrang has given her a single red rose and gave her an awkward smile.
He had definitely asked her out to be his date for the Yule Ball. Who would have thought someone famous like him would be attracted to a plain, stuck up know-it-all like her, he silently thinks with a raised eyebrow. It is amusing, to say the least, to see what her reaction will be if he teases her about it later but deliberated against it. He doesn't want to antagonize someone as famous as Victor Krum. He needs those connections later on in life.
As he lay on his bed that night, he wonders what Victor Krum sees in her.
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She's pretty, is the first thing that came to mind as the music starts and the contestants of the Triwizard tournament enters with their respective dates. He openly gapes at her. She is clad in a periwinkle dress, looking radiant and beaming widely at everyone. Beside him, Pansy scoffs and looks at him pointedly. "Make up is amazing," he replies offhandedly to mask his reaction, and shifts closer to her.
As he twirls Pansy on the dance floor, his eyes keep landing on her.
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She is sneaking with her friends to the Hog's Head Inn.
It has been a year since the Yule Ball. By now, his eyes are attuned to looking for her amongst the crowd, like a person with synesthesia zeroing into a letter from a crowd of numbers. Strange, he thinks. But he convinces himself that it is okay, that it is completely natural. With that big, bushy head of hers, anyone will definitely notice her.
He watches as a fog of cold air puffs from her mouth, as her big brown eyes look around her surroundings nervously.
He doesn't want to know why. And so, he continues to drink his Butterbeer and laugh with his friends from across the street.
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At fourteen, he considers finding her from afar a skill. After all, this helps him keep a close eye on her and report anything and everything to Dolores Umbridge.
It is the third time that month that he spotted Hermione Granger lurking along the corridor of the seventh floor. However, despite his self-acknowledged skill, he doesn't know where she vanishes. This irks him a lot until one day he sees the outline of a door slowly disappearing on the wall.
He reports this instantly to Dolores Umbridge. As the hinges of the door to her office closes, he feels an inexplicable pang of guilt in his chest.
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He continues watching her, unconsciously, involuntarily, like breathing. She is raising her hand eagerly, trying to get Slughorn's attention. It's Amortentia, he hears her answer, and he watches her with heavy lidded eyes as she moves forward to smell the pot of potion bubbling in front of them.
"… freshly mown grass and… and new parchment –"
Her cheeks are tinged pink and he would have found it pretty if she didn't keep on glancing towards Weasley. "Bloody lovebirds," he hisses under his breath. However, his attention is slowly diverted from the foreign feeling bubbling up inside him as Slughorn announces that he's going to give the Felix Felicis to whomever will brew today's potion the best. He can't be distracted. He needs it to complete his deadly task.
Later that night, he notices some nail-like marks on his palms. He doesn't stop to think why. He's too busy fixing the damned cabinet anyway.
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Gryffindor won the Quidditch match again. Dismayed, he is about to stand up and leave until his eyes fall upon her bushy hair. She is looking down on the quidditch pitch with a big frown on her face. He follows her line of sight and sees the love of her life passionately kissing another girl. His eyes lands on her visage again and he can see the tightness of her demeanor and the hurt marring her face. He watches as she blinks a couple of times as if the wind is blowing some invisible dust in her eyes. He sees her heave a sigh and slump her shoulders as she moves to leave.
He doesn't know what love is. Never really bothered to learn anything about it because love, according to his father, is a useless emotion. But despite not knowing anything, this, he thinks, this looks a lot like love. It looks bloody painful too. He wishes that he will never experience love in this lifetime.
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She is lying on the floor in his family's manor, screaming as his aunt carves the slur into her arm. Blood is slowly dripping from her arm to their carpet as quickly as her tears. He continues to watch, his heart beating loudly on his ears as his hands shake in fear and fury. He can't stop looking, even as he feels the vomit at the back of his throat.
At sixteen, he realizes why.
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Author's Note: I totally made up the scene at the Quidditch pitch.