Disclaimer: I own one person—the only one you won't recognize—and that's it.
It's been two years since he left.
Water explodes around his thrown pebble in a burst of blue and white.
Two years since he embarked on his first airplane, waving cheerfully at his family.
He fingers the next pebble for a while—it's smooth and shiny and flashes gold in the sunlight.
Two years of touring Europe, stuffing himself with exotic food and flirting with foreign girls.
Winds float past him, ruffling his sea blue hair and making the tall, green grass sway.
Two years of her heart-breaking letters, detailing her life at school without him.
In the distance, he hears his best friend call for him to come over and play a game of Quidditch.
Two years of hearing her gush about her boyfriend and feeling like he'd like to rip that jerk limb from limb.
His last pebble soars through the air and lands with a satisfying splash.
Two years since he's seen her.
He walks over to the group gathered for Quidditch and wills himself not to miss her.
It's been two years since he left.
Blue silk winds around her hands as she ties her hair up in a ponytail.
Two years since he climbed into that godforsaken airplane without a second thought.
She touches the soft fabric, trying not remember that same shade of blue coloring his hair.
Two years of sleepless night as she lies awake, wondering if he thinks about her at all.
Her finger passes over a solid gold picture frame, holding a photo of him and her, laughing without a care in the world.
Two years of Christmas surrounded by family but lacking his colorful, cheerful presence.
Mistletoe hangs above her and her boyfriend leans in, but he's not who she wants him to be, and they both know it.
Two years of Valentine's Days spent without his chaste kisses on her cheek.
A smile is forced on her face as her boyfriend laughs—she's missed the joke, but she doesn't care.
Two years since she's seen him.
She walks away from the picture frame, hating herself for loving him so much.
She isn't Victoire.
Marcy's a sweet girl, but her hair's too brown and her eyes too green and her smile too toothless and her laugh too loud. She bites her nails and orders salad and diet soda and constantly tries to lean in for kisses he doesn't particularly want to give.
"Why won't you kiss me?" she pouts after their third date at some too-fancy restaurant. "I thought you liked me."
He doesn't offer meaningless platitudes and instead shrugs and apologizes somewhat lamely. She tosses her hair and storms off in a huff and he doesn't see her again.
Not that he wants to, anyway. He's perfectly happy without a girlfriend.
Mostly.
He isn't Teddy.
She sighes and looks Danny in the eyes—too normal, too brown, too dull, she thinks—and tells him its over. He's been nothing but sweet and charming and he doesn't deserve her breaking his heart, but it had to be done. The crushed look on his face nearly makes her take back her words, but she stays firm.
"I love you, Vicka," he says quietly and breaks her heart all over again. She apologizes and feels tears behind her eyes, so she kisses his cheek and leaves.
Someone like her—silly and stupid and too in love with a guy who'll never love her back—doesn't deserve someone as amazing as Danny. She cries herself to sleep that night and dreams of turquoise hair and dancing eyes and cheerful smiles.
She wishes he would come back home, and tries to tell herself she doesn't miss him.
Except she does.
When he finally returns home, he's smothered with hugs and kisses and laughter, but he doesn't see her until his welcome home party. He escapes outside for a breath of fresh air and finds her leaning against a grapefruit tree, wearing a blue sundress—it's supposed to rain tonight, but he doesn't think she cares—and drinking from a glass of ice-cold pink lemonade, and he wants to laugh because she looks beautiful and wild and so very Victoire.
She lifts her eyes—bright, bright blue, just like he remembers—and offers him a smile. Before he can think twice, he's crossed the ground between them and grabbed her in a hug and he can feel her surprise and her happiness as she hugs him back and her glass drops onto the grass and shatters but neither of them care.
He pulls back and tells her how much he missed her and her smile widens and she tells him she missed him that much and more. Her hair's been cut, he finally realizes, to shoulder-length, and she wears it in two braids and ties it with blue ribbons. He can't help but notice that the ribbon is in his favorite color.
Suddenly, her face is very, very and close and all he wants to do is lean down and kiss her.
So he does.
Her lips are warm and soft and taste like butterscotch and it's not his first kiss, but he wishes it would have been, because he's never had a better kiss.
The kiss ends and he rests his forehead against hers. "Will you go out with me?" he asks and the butterflies in his stomach start doing the tango.
"Of course," she whispers, then snakes her arms around his neck, and pulls him down for another kiss.
Author's Notes: ….Yeah, I can't do angst very well. Or run-on sentences for that matter. I would have included a section in Victoire's POV at the end, but when I tried, it gave me cavities, so I'm ending it here. If you liked this even a tiny bit, please review! You'll make my day!