AN: This story will be rated M in the future.

Prelude

She wears the ghost of a smile etched into her face, almost nineteen years worth of laughter formed into invisible lines in her cheeks. She's tasting victory, while he wears the mask of something he does not know. His "side" lost, but he feels something along the lines of relief rushing through his body, coursing through his veins. He shouldn't feel this way, or so eighteen years worth of life would have him believe, but he does if only because of that ghost of smile still fading from her face as she makes small talk with other members of the resistance. He knows he will be a member of the downfall of the victory, a soon to be convict, someone who never got to chose for himself but he must deal with his parent's actions, but for now he will be a attender to the immediate celebration, he will watch for those honey colored eyes and that wild mass of hair in the crowd.

He yearns for her to meet his eyes, to acknowledge his existence if only for a minute, so that after her eyes meet his, he can make the motions to move on. Move on from nothing to nothing, he never had anything with the spectacular witch he watches. He watches knowingly as she joins fiery haired, gangly Weasley. The smile returns on her delicate face and her hands joins his hand. Weasley kisses her hand softly before placing another kiss on her forehead. And here is the heartbreak he feels watching her in innocent love with someone he will never be. She deserves this happiness, he knows this but he had a dream once that it was him making her smile. It was a ridiculous dream anyway.

He turns to leave the crowd, he needs to go home and start sorting his father's affairs anyhow. He misses seeing her give Weasley a peck on the cheek before rushing off to the edge of the crowd in the same direction as he is travelling. Neither are paying attention when they collide, she nearly topples over unto the cold, debri covered stone path, but he reaches out and steadies her. Her hand in his and he feels tingles and sparks so strong that he knows she must feel it too, but she maintains her normal demeanor. A small, thankful smile for him spreads across her chapped lips.

"Nott," she breathes and his name is like a melody formed from her tongue. Sweet and beautiful, he yearns for another taste of his name on her lips. "Thank you."

She gently pulls her hand from his and in the motion, he sees the scar, red and abrasive, marring the creamy skin. "Mudblood". Without thinking he grabs her arm to see, to touch the word. Her honey eyes widen in shock but he has her speechless as his thumb runs over the scar, raised and jagged with the beginning of healing.

"This isn't you," he manages despite the monster clawing at his throat forbidding him to finally, finally, speak to her after seven years of long stares, daydreams of what could be, memorizing details of her face, catching her in her favorite nook in the library, seven years of longing. He knew at eleven years old that the buck-toothed plain girl, who wasn't considered the same blood as him but who had powers beyond any of his other classmates, was special. He could feel it his bones and surging through his blood. His father would sooner he'd die than for him to be in love with a "mudblood", his friends would have made him an outcast if they had known, so he spent seven long years laughing at jokes he found no humor in and discussing with his father the Dark Lord's ideas. "Your blood is the same as mine, Hermione Granger."

He can tell she is processing everything that has happened in these short moments. She pulls her arm away gently from his grasp and hold it to her body, cradling it as if to protect it from harm. Nervously, she licks her lips, and her voice finds it's way to the world. "Your father tried to kill me, he's a Death Eater and he's just been detained and is going to Azkaban. You laughed at jokes about me and my blood status. Why are you saying these things to me?"

"I always thought this was the truth since meeting you. Why, if you are a 'mudblood', do you constantly best me and the other purebloods? Why do you captivate me the way you do? Why can I not find myself without thoughts of you? I am happy my father is going to be sent away and I am happy to see your side has won."

She laughs, a disbelieving laugh. The sun is making it's way through the morning overcast and her hair shines and bounces with her laughter. He cannot help himself, he just wants to know what her skin feels like beneath his lips, so he leans forward and presses his lips to her temple. She radiates warmth and he feels his stomach turn over, he has dreamed of this moment many times but under other circumstances. Perhaps if he had been braver, if had fought for the Light instead of being a bystander, afraid to act for fear of the repercussions from his father. Perhaps if he had been braver throughout his life then Hermione Granger would want him and would love him. Oh, it is love that he feels for this witch even as he feels the sting of a slap across his face.

"What are you playing at Nott?" Even angry his name on her tongue is beautiful. He doesn't get the chance to answer before someone in the crowd calls for her. She gives him one final look, her face mixed with confusion and contempt, before she turns and leaves him standing by himself in a sea of people. He imagines himself running to her and professing his love, but that's the brave side of himself that he has suppressed for years. Besides, Weasley seems to make her happy. And she deserves happy. He will always have his dreams, the memory of their hands touching, the memory of the warmth of her skin beneath his lips. Now, now it is finally time for Theo Nott to move on.