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I.
Scaramouche Balladeer grows up knowing he is on top of the world.
The purest of all pure blood. Destined to be anything and everything. Everything is handed to him on a silver platter, and he takes and takes and he has no regard for those who need. He feels too little and takes too much. He is Scaramouche Balladeer, and he takes what he wants.
He is Scaramouche Balladeer, and he takes anything he pleases until he can’t, and he is drowning in golden blonde hair and eyes like the sun and a smile so perfect his heart stutters and he wants. He wants.
“You’re pretty,” she smiles at him. “I’m Lumine. Lumine Viatrix. Can we be friends?”
He wants to be offended, pretty, she called him, as if he were only a little girl. Pretty, she called him, as if she didn’t know her smile outshone the sun and all the stars. Pretty, she called him, as if she didn't know her smile made him want to rip his heart out.
Instead, he racks his brain for any mention of her. Lumine. Lu - mine. Viatrix. Vi - a - trix.
“...A muggleborn?” He asks. She nods, confused, and with a sneer, he stalks away, pitch black cloak swaying dramatically behind him. She watches, and he doesn’t look back.
He cannot want her.
II.
She is sitting in his compartment on the train. Ajax Vaganov invited her, and she is as radiant as the stars.
She takes her pink lips into her teeth as she watches him enter. He knows, because he is staring. He knows, because it is only so easy to watch her do any mundane thing. He knows, because he is suddenly ordering her outside and telling her never to come back.
He knows, because Vaganov is glaring at him and escorting her outside, hand in hand, in a way he would never. He could never. He should never.
They are too different, he reminds himself. He is the purest of all pure blood, and she is at the bottom of the barrel. He is destined for everything. He has everything, and she has nothing. He is everything, and she is nothing.
She is sorted into Gryffindor, and the divide is bigger than ever.
III.
She is a natural at everything.
Perhaps she only exists to spite him, he thinks.
She hops onto a broom as gracefully as one can. She answers any question directed at her with only a sweet smile. She charms anyone with a simple tilt of her head. She is helpful and kind, and all the students and teachers adore her. She makes an effort to talk to anyone and everyone. She loves the plants, she loves the animals, she loves the people – she is Lumine Viatrix, and she is perfectly perfect in every single way.
He is Scaramouche Balladeer, and he hates her. He hates her. He hates her.
IV.
He decides that she is an eyesore.
Too bright. Too sunny. Too... annoying, his brain supplies. Yes - that was it. She was annoying, and he needed to get rid of her. Dim her light. Threaten her a little. Make her run crying back to the muggle world.
Mudblood, he calls her, as if he doesn’t know any better. But he does, and time stops for just a moment before he is on his back cradling his bloody nose.
She walks away, and a mob of angry students point their wands at him. “You have some nerve,” a green haired boy from Slytherin growls. He wants to laugh. His own house, turning its back on him - for a girl with no wizard blood to speak of, and yet had magic coursing through her veins all the same.
He shrugs. He smiles, a bitter little thing, blood staining his teeth red against stark white, before turning and walking away. He does not look back, even with vicious curses being hurled his way, even when his throat starts to tighten, even when his head spins.
V.
He does not enjoy tormenting her. Not when she only rolls her eyes, not when the houses have taken to ignoring him, not when she barely acknowledges his presence. Not when she acts as if he doesn’t exist.
But he exists, damn it, and he’ll make her see. He’ll make her pay.
VI.
She is getting prettier, he notices, and boys from his house are all stumbling to take her hand.
He wants to call her unsightly. He wants to call her hideous. He wants to sneer at everyone for wanting such vile blood - for wanting such nothingness - but he can’t.
He can’t.
Not when he is dreaming of golden hair splayed between his fingers, not when he is dreaming of eyes like sunshine peering up at him through thick lashes, not when he is dreaming of smooth skin against his, not when he is dreaming of his name said from parted lips.
He can’t. Not without feeling like everything he’s ever known - everything he’s ever wanted to know - was a lie.
VII.
Going to breakfast is becoming more and more irritating.
Every morning, without fail, she enters with her increasingly male entourage, with a laugh so much like tinkling bells he is forced to look up - it’s like staring into the sun, he thinks, whenever he looks at her.
She is always just so bright.
Vaganov invites her to their table, all boyish grins and a hand on the small of her back. They like to touch her, he knows, because wanting to touch her is a complexity he is becoming more and more familiar with as each day passes. He knows, because he’s seen the way Alberich lays his wandering hands on her with only affection in his eyes. He knows, because he watches as Vaganov finds any excuse to invade her personal space.
He knows, because he is suddenly stomping his way out of the Great Hall. He knows, because if he had any less self control, he would’ve hexed Vaganov off of her. He knows, because he is a coward, and all cowards do is run away.
VIII.
There has to be a name for the feeling that crawls up his throat whenever he sees someone touch her. It burns like a raging fire, but then she smiles in his direction, and it turns into a pleasant warmth quietly brewing in his heart.
He is Scaramouche Balladeer, purest of all pure blood, and he wants to hate the warmth she gives him.
(But he can’t. He can’t.)
IX.
She is prefect in their sixth year. He knows, because he is one too.
He knows, because he walks in on her in the prefect’s bathroom wearing only a towel.
He knows, because she suggests they take a bath together.
He knows, because he agrees.
Then he wakes up two hours later, sweaty and out of breath, and he wants to be disgusted.
He isn't.
X.
They are civil to each other now. She greets him in the morning, and he acknowledges her with a grunt. He cannot handle any more than what they have, so he keeps a distance. He does not touch her. Never even grazes her.
The headmaster announces the start of the Triwizard Tournament. The Great Hall’s doors open wide. Durmstrang Institute arrives - and a tall blond man stands firmly at the front.
When the man sees her, he drops to his knees, takes her hands in his, and says her name like a prayer.
XI.
It is all anybody wants to talk about - they are childhood sweethearts, people said in hushed whispers. Their mothers are friends. They are to be promised to each other. They belong to each other.
He laughs. Dainsleif Antonov is a pureblood, and Lumine Viatrix is muggleborn. They did not mix. They were not to be promised to each other, and they certainly did not belong to each other.
So imagine his surprise when it is Dainsleif Antonov, and not Lumine Viatrix, who confirms the rumors.
XII.
He watches as Antonov puts his name in the Goblet of Fire.
He waits until he leaves, and he takes one last look at his name written in perfect script on a small piece of parchment paper before he drops it in.
XIII.
Dainsleif Antonov is Durmstrang’s champion, and she smiles up at him before he takes her hand in his once more and kisses it in a perfect display of what childhood sweethearts are supposed to look like.
Scaramouche Balladeer can barely hear his name being announced as the Hogwarts Champion through the ringing in his ears and his heart sinking into his stomach.
XIV.
He wins the first challenge.
He leaves early, of course, because Dainsleif Antonov and Lumine Viatrix are in the champions’ tent together, looking at each other like they are the only people in the world. Like he isn’t there. Like he doesn’t exist.
But he is there. He exists.
Why won’t she look at him? He was – he was right there. Why won’t she look at him?
XV.
She is wearing a gown of white and gold, and he’s forgotten how to breathe.
She enters alongside Antonov with the same brilliant smile he’s dreamt about for years, arm in arm, pearls dangling from her ears. They dance throughout the night, and Antonov is generous enough to lend her to people when she asks. He is sweet, he hears her say to a girl from Ravenclaw. I’d love to marry him.
He wants to throw up. He wants to rip his heart out. He wants –
He wants to leave. So he does, cloak swaying dramatically behind him like it did when he left her, all those years ago.
XVI.
The rest of the competition goes by like a blur, and he throws himself into winning the Triwizard Cup instead. He wins the first and last tasks easily, but the second one – the second one is –
He sees Lumine Viatrix unconscious in the water. His blood runs cold and he can’t move. He is frozen in place, and the ringing in his ears won’t stop. He doesn’t move until he sees Antonov pushing her up into the surface. He wins third place for the second task.
When he is presented with the Triwizard Cup, he feels nothing. Not when she is sitting next to Antonov with their hands clasped together. Not when there is a glittering diamond on her ring finger.
XVII.
Lumine Viatrix is getting married to Dainsleif Antonov as soon as they graduate.
XVIII.
Lumine Viatrix is getting married, and Scaramouche Balladeer doesn’t know what to do.
XIX.
They brew amortentia in their seventh year. A bit late, he supposes, but with the Triwizard Tournament, he understands.
What he doesn’t understand, though, is when his potion smells like the stars and the sea and windwheel asters and –
Lumine. His potion smells like Lumine Viatrix.
He understands now, what that feeling in his throat was. He understands now, why it always seemed like she glowed in the dim light of the castle halls. He understands now, why he dreams of golden hair and feather light touches in the comfort of his bed.
He understands. He understands that he is in love with Lumine Viatrix, and he can’t do anything about it. Not anymore.
XX.
He does not go to their wedding, but he does send a gift. A bouquet of purple lilacs the color of his eyes. He hopes she gets the message, but all he gets in return is a thank you note signed with a smiley face.
Now here he was, five years later, looking at the newspaper. She is on the front page with her happy family, and they are expecting baby number two. He traces her outline, and kisses her waving hand.
That night, he dreams of the woman he fell in love with at first sight - of the woman he is still in love with. He dreams of a family he’ll never have. He dreams. He dreams. He dreams, always.
He still dreams of her, even after all this time.