Doing a one legged rhumba here, people. That was a lot of Ambrosia and nectar you guys sent my way.

My dog's looking at me with a Yoda-like expression as if he wants to say, "Harry Potter, you own not."

Chapter Two

I do love you, but I may never have your love…

Hermione Granger clutched her sides as the pain made her stumble.

After the events of the ministry, it had taken three weeks to completely shake off the effects of Dolohov's curse. And even now–after two months–she still got these sudden pains which made her want to curl in herself.

She stumbled to the nearest bench in closed eye panic. The pain was much sharper today than it had been most of the days. She knew it would pass in few moments, but those few moments felt like hell.

'Are you all right?' When she opened her eyes to answer the man who was standing in front of her, she found herself unable to look away.

His was one of those faces that haunted you with its beauty.

His skin was pale with olive undertones, stretching over the sharp bone structure which was a work of art in itself. Straight nose divided his symmetrical face followed by lips that were the epitome of male beauty. His eyes were jade–clear and crystalline as if he could see inside her very soul and know all her secrets. Light scruff covered his cheeks, making him look like a rogue prince.

Air caressed his dark brown hair which was rich with streaks of gold.

Clad in plain black slacks and a dark blue shirt, he was exactly the type Hermione Granger preferred. She realized that she had forgotten the jabs of discomfort while she had been ogling this stranger.

He was looking at her with a bemused stare as if he perfectly knew what kind of thoughts were going on in her head. Blushing, she lowered her eyes to the ground before remembering he had asked her something. How could she be such an idiot?

'I am fine,' she murmured, her eyes still downcast. She was twisting her fingers in a rather complicated looking pattern, further attesting that she was indeed very nervous in this stranger's company.

'Do you mind if I sit here?' he asked. She couldn't see his face but she could tell that he was smiling.

She moved her head to signify her assent and scooted further on the bench to make room for him.

He was a beautiful man, late thirties by her guess. Age suited him. In fact, it made him much more appealing. He wasn't a native of Britain. His voice still had that slightly exotic tinge of an accent.

'I'm Anton,' he said with a smile that had curved his lips in the most pleasing shape.

'Hermione,' she said; her voice low and full of hesitation. Where had her confidence gone?

It seemed as if this man was slowly robbing her of all coherent thoughts and speech patterns.

'Are you always this shy, Hermione?'

Her startled eyes met his only to find mirth dancing in them. He looked godly when he smiled.

She shook her head. Really? What was with her and conversing in sign language with this man? She had never been this way with Viktor, and he had been a world-famous Quidditch player.

'Then am I special for you to behave like this?' His tone was teasing and that banished her tongue-tied persona in a single moment.

'No,' she huffed.

Deciding to ignore the good looking man sitting on her right, she extracted her half-finished 'Percy Jackson and Sea of monsters' and started with where she had left off. She was trying to catch up her reading in muggle literature while she was home from Hogwarts.

She kept peeking at Anton after she finished every page. He was busy in sketching, his notebook propped on his knees, his lips pursed, and his hands moving gracefully on paper–he looked like the modern, much more handsome version of DaVinci.

She was immersed in Percy Jackson's dialogue with the Cyclops when the soft expletive uttered in complete frustration broke her concentration.

She looked over at him only to find him staring at her.

'What?' Why was he looking at her like that?

'You moved,' he said simply, closing his sketchbook.

Her confusion must have been plainly written on her face. 'I was sketching you.'

For a moment nothing registered in her mind except for the intense stare of those clear jade eyes, but then reason permeated the fog of attraction.

'Why?' Her eyebrows were raised in a silent demand for an answer.

'You are pretty, Hermione.' She could feel the blush warming her cheeks. How could he say things like that so easily? She was already charmed. He didn't need to dial up his charming persona. She was distracted for a moment by his strong bare forearms.

For a moment she thought there was a tattoo or something on his forearm, but it was gone the next moment she blinked.

'I assume the muggle literature you are reading is very fascinating?'

Her gaze was still trained on his strong capable hands with long pianist fingers when his question registered with her brain.

Had he said Muggle?

She looked back at his face, his eyes teasing her with the shared secret. Her brain to mouth filter had never been a problem before, but it seemed his presence had messed up that system as well.

'You're a wizard?' It came out as an accusation.

'You have a problem with that?' He was still his charming self, his smile still blinding and personable.

'No, I mean I've never met a wizard who–' looked as comfortable as you while trying to play muggle. Or as good as you in muggle clothing.

'Ventures willingly out among muggles?'

'Well…yeah.' She bit her lip, trying to stop her word vomit that she was sure would follow.

'It had never been like this always, Hermione.' His eyes were far away as if he was thinking about a time long past. 'Recently, I find myself enjoying all the surprises this world has to offer more and more–Muggle and magical alike.'

He was fascinating. She had never seen someone accept their faults so openly.

'So, you paint as a hobby?' She knew she was fishing but you couldn't fault a girl for trying, now could you?

'What do you think?' He opened the page to his half-finished sketch. Her face stared out at her from the austere white. Done in just pencil shades, bold strokes that made her look like a dream she was not. She watched the slant of her brows and curve of her lips in awe. This man could make mundane, extraordinary.

'This is beautiful.' Her tone was wistful and dreamy. She sounded like Luna to her own damn ears.

'I have not even captured a fraction of your beauty, krasivaya,' he said, his eyes intent on her face with a look that spoke of things she didn't understand.

They looked at one another, gazes assessing, and hearts frantically beating. He could be anyone for all she knew, and yet she didn't feel anything but safe in his company.

'I have to go, Hermione,' he said suddenly, his eyes tightening. It was the only sign of discomfort she had seen on his face during the entire time span of their encounter. His hands were curled into fists, fingers digging into his palms.

'Are you all right?' She realized she was repeating the same question he'd asked in the very beginning of their conversation.

He laughed. It wasn't as carefree as it had been before; if she didn't know any better she would say he was in pain. But he had been perfectly fine earlier, hadn't he?

'Don't worry about me, uvazhayemyye Hermione. I'm afraid our encounter was destined to end at this time today, but I'm hopeful that we'll meet again,' he replied as he got up.

'Farewell, Hermione. It was nice to meet you.' He smiled, his eyes full of light and joy and then he disapparated, leaving behind an enamored and awestruck Hermione Granger…

She was not waiting for him, and yes that was a blatant lie.

She had not been able to sleep properly; her dreams had been haunted by his face, his voice, and his jade eyes.

She sat on the same bench she had been sitting on yesterday, pretending to read her novel while stealing glances around her for his arrival. Maybe he wasn't going to come today. Maybe it had been just a one time thing.

Her face fell. She had wanted to see him again.

She engrossed herself in the pages of the Last Titan.

'Did you already finish the one you had yesterday, Hermione?' Her head snapped up. There he was, clad in a black shirt and dress pants–trying his damnedest, in her opinion, to look like a modern day prince.

The smile on his face seemed strained and entirely for her benefit. She could see the shadows lining his jade orbs.

She gave a tentative smile in return, scooting to make space for him. This was all so new. Her heart galloped in her chest, the sensation entirely unique but not unsettling. He was magic, and dreams. In a single moment, he had made Hermione Granger understand what it meant to crush on someone. A single look and all she wanted to do was to spend all her time in his company. He seemed intelligent and interesting; a combination Hermione had not been able to find in her almost seventeen-year existence.

He opened his sketchbook, settling at a blank page to start sketching again.

Was he drawing her?

Just like yesterday, she couldn't concentrate. After fidgeting for awhile, she closed her book and turned towards him, only to find him staring at her.

'What?'

'You're beautiful,' he said before concentrating on his sketch again.

She laughed, her head thrown back and her eyes closed in amusement, she was the very picture of a pagan goddess. 'You do know that sounds weird, coming from a man like you?'

'What do you mean "a man like me"?' He sounded miffed.

'I wasn't trying to offend you. It's just that, you are you.' She gestured wildly towards him but apparently he didn't understand. His sketchbook was a forgotten entity lying on the bench; his hands were crossed in front of his chest and his eyebrows were raised in demand of an answer.

'I mean you are good-looking and mature.' She could feel the blush staining her cheeks. She didn't remember the last time she had blushed. Maybe in the second year when Professor Lockhart had come to Hogwarts? In fact, she wanted to add many more adjectives to the bare good-looking she had uttered in reply.

'And?' He was enjoying this. The prat. She could tell by the slight curve of his lips, and the angle of his head.

'And I'm me. Plain, know-it-all Hermione Granger,' she completed the sentence in frustration.

Silence reigned. Had she crossed any invisible line that she had to adhere to?

'Who told you that?' He sounded angry. Why would he be angry?

'Nobody has to tell me that. I have eyes and I own a mirror.' To her own ears, she sounded petulant and whiny.

'Then your mirror lies, Hermione. Ty tak krasiva. If only you could see yourself from my eyes, then you would understand the beauty my eyes find in your face.' She knew it was cowardly to not meet his eyes, but he sounded so wistful. Had he loved someone in his life?

He sounded like someone remembering his love. The thought of someone else on the receiving end of Anton's affection felt vaguely unsettling.

Why was it unsettling?

She had only known this man from one conversation. A single meeting didn't tell a lot about the person, did it? And yet Anton didn't feel like a stranger. There was something in the way he talked; in the way he looked at her that felt familiar as if he knew her. But that couldn't be, right? She was sure it was only their second meeting.

She realized he was waiting expectantly for her to say something. She didn't know what to say. What could one say in the face of such conviction?

'You're a painter,' she mumbled.

'So?'

'You can see beauty in almost anything.' Now she raised her head to look in his eyes, and god his eyes…

They held the entire world in them. Every tiny bit of feeling she felt in this moment, it was there in his eyes, stark and bare for her to see.

Needy, his eyes were needy.

'Not in everything, Hermione. Never in everything.' He stared at her as if he could unravel her being and understand who she was in a single look. This moment felt frozen, but she knew it couldn't remain so for a very long time. It was better if she broke the eye contact.

With some effort, she managed to drag her gaze back to her book. He went back to his paper the moment she went back to her book.

Was it possible that he liked her?

She knew it was childish to even think that he might like her at some level. He was the first man who had tried to see past the exterior of Hermione Granger. He was the first man who had understood why she compensated her beauty with her intelligence or tried to. He was the first man who had made her feel desire in such stark fashion. So, blame her if she was curious about him.

She liked the way he got invested in his own work, forgetting the entire world as he sat with his ideas and paper for company. Sometimes he would absently bite his lower lip between his teeth, and Hermione was sure he did it a lot. Unfortunately for her, whenever his lips went between his teeth, her concentration went down the drain.

It was disconcerting.

And she was staring.

And he'd caught her.

'If you were someone else, I would say you were staring at me, Hermione,' he said playfully, a smile blooming across his lips.

'And if you were someone else, I would say you were fishing for compliments, Anton,' she retorted, her own smile held in check.

'Then let's assume I'm that some else, vozlyublennaya.'

'Well, then I would say you are very distracting.' She couldn't do anything about the blush that stained her cheeks. The least she could do was to meet his eyes.

It was a good thing that she did just that.

They changed so swiftly–his eyes. They changed from that of a laughing man to a predator's. It was but a minuscule shift, and yet it changed the whole persona of Anton. He was no longer the same smiling man who had teased her just a few moments earlier. Now, he was someone else.

His hands snaked around her when he stood up, pulling her to him. She knew she should at least protest at his man-handling but she was gobsmacked, and yes probably too dazed to utter a single word. That unholy fire burning in his eyes was too addictive.

'Stand behind me,' he whispered; his lips at the shell of her ear. For a moment she didn't understand, but she had no more time for contemplation as he pushed her behind him and drew his wand to cast the first curse.

He fought like he had always been fighting.

Quick, deft flick of his wand had Death Eaters dropping left and right.

'Why Rabastan, look who we have here?' That baby talk could only come from one person.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

'It's Potter's mudblood.'

Before the Death Eater at her right could say something else to Bellatrix, he dropped like a stone, his flesh melting from his body in front of her very own eyes.

The unholy shriek coming from the madwoman in front of her could only mean one thing.

The man was dead.

Hermione didn't know what to feel. Decidedly the spell Anton had used was on the dark spectrum of spell casting, but he had used it to save their lives. Did it make the use of dark arts okay?

Bellatrix attacked Anton with renewed anger, and yet she was no match for him. They had come in a group of seven, and only two remained.

Bellatrix and one large man dwelling beside her.

'Avada Kedavra.'

Anton's spell hit the large man squarely in the chest. He toppled, his head thrown backward, mask displaced from his bulbous pale face. He was no one she knew and yet she couldn't help but feel bad for his fate. The small fission of dread at the base of her spine had grown, and Anton's unforgivable was not helping.

She looked at him.

And wished she hadn't.

His wand made the familiar motion. The sharp movement accompanied with the burst of purple light that escaped from the tip of his wand was familiar.

After all, she had taken his curse on her heart, hadn't she?

One could forget faces and names, but she doubted if anyone forgot their pain.

'Hermione?'

The park was silent. There were no bodies, no mad death eaters, only Anton-no, Antonin Dolohov.

'Hermione?'

Why had he come after her? Had he come to drag her to Vol-Voldemort? Had he been here to know more about Harry?

God, Harry!

Did he mean to use her to get to Harry?

'Stay away from me.' Her wand was drawn, and her heart thundered in her ears.

She might not be a match for him, but she would die before Harry was in any problem because of her stupid attraction towards a Death Eater.

She disgusted herself.

'Hermione?'

'I was fooled for a moment, but not anymore. Go back to Vol-Voldemort and tell him you failed, Antonin Dolohov.'

I feel as if someone brewed anti-Amortentia and injected it in my veins. Poor Antonin. Send me loads and loads of Amortentia (duh, I know you know that it's my code for reviews) so that I can recover.