Breath Mints / Battle Scars
VII
October 1st, 1998
Diary,
At least it's colder. The charms don't wear off as quickly.
That's the only positive thought I can give you, so take it or leave it. Starting another month here feels like torture. It's like looking a hangman's noose in the face. Like being condemned. These walls are too thick and too stained with fucking memories and I feel like I'm in a bloody prison.
Technically speaking, it is a prison. I'm not here of my own volition. I'm not free to leave if I like. If you really think about it, a magical contract is a lot like prison. Only, this way, more people stare.
Why didn't you lot put me on house arrest, too? With my mum? I don't care about finishing school. About furthering my education. No one will hire an ex-Death Eater as it is, so what's the point? Is it that you think we'll conspire against the Ministry together? Come up with some dastardly plan to break my Father out and escape to the further reaches of this bloody Earth?
Like I said, I don't have the energy.
I think you know that, too — which leads me to believe that it's most definitely punishment you're after.
Well, more power to you. You've made a fine choice. I feel like I'm in Hell. And if I get one more dirty look from those fucking Patil sisters or hear one more fucking word from that Irish prat, my patience will be spent.
And I've been very, very patient thus far.
Prompt: "Who makes you smile?"
Send me a new prompt, I'm not even going to bother with this one.
Draco
October 2nd, 1998
She went back for the letter later that day — didn't find it. Which just complicated everything. Because Madam Pomfrey responded the next day. Sent her a work schedule, beginning the following week.
Which meant that he sent it for her.
Malfoy.
And that didn't make any sense at all.
She's been wondering about it for days — wonders about it still, even now, with a half empty jug of Butterbeer dangling from one hand and Harry's arm slung around her other shoulder. They're singing a song in the Gryffindor common room. Some drunken, boisterous revelry she doesn't know the words to, but all of the Seventh Years have joined in and even some of the Sixth Years, and it's a Friday night and somehow Harry convinced her to stay. To enjoy it.
She knows she's only capable because she starts with Madam Pomfrey tomorrow. Knows that's the only reason the ever-looming darkness isn't quite visible just now.
But she doesn't sing.
She just sways along with the rest of them and drinks her fair share, and for once, it's nice to forget about everything. To ignore the fact that this is just pretending. That it won't make any of it go away. That the war still happened. People — friends, family — are still dead.
She takes another swig of Butterbeer to chase away those thoughts. Ron smiles at her from across the circle. She gives him a half-smile back — a drunken, lopsided, not-quite smile.
"Right, you lot!" calls Seamus. "It's time for the traditional Truth—" he thrusts his bottle of Firewhiskey into the air, sloshing some of it onto the red velvet couches, "or Dare!"
And Hermione realizes abruptly that she should've been planning her escape a long time ago. Because they play Truth or Dare with Veritaserum and — well, she hates the game to begin with. Can't even imagine what it must be like to be forced to tell the truth, which is the only option she ever picks.
So, under the cover of the mass of rearranging bodies and the chaos of alcohol-fueled whoops and hollers, she takes her leave. Slips out from beneath Harry's arm, past Dean and Neville, and through the corridor to the portrait hole.
The uncrowded air of the hall is nice — she gulps it down, pleasantly surprised to find the jug of Butterbeer still clutched in her fist. She giggles down at it. Lifts it up to see it in the light, watching the warm-colored liquid swirl against the glass.
It makes her lean back too far — sends her stumbling and tripping a little. She skips to a halt. Regains her balance and begins to walk across the carpet as though on a balance beam, laughing to herself all the while. One foot across the other. Hands up at her sides. Tipping this way. Tipping that way.
She hasn't felt this light in a long time.
And she doesn't know how she gets down the stairs. But, somehow, she continues her balancing act all the way to the first floor corridor. Continues skipping and tiptoeing until she sees unusual light in the entryway to the Library.
And so she tiptoes in — careens to one side halfway across the threshold and spills a little Butterbeer on her jeans. Laughs, because it's hilarious. What little remains of her rational brain reminds her that the Library is closed — or should be.
But there's torchlight ahead, in the back stacks. A section devoted to the Dark Arts. She loves that section.
Following the pattern of the floor like a game of hopscotch, she makes her way over, nursing the Butterbeer. She doesn't take it far from her lips. Books resorting themselves fly past her and over her head. One nearly knocks her over.
But she dodges, skips again, trips and then sort of tumbles into the corner where the light is, a loud giggle bubbling up out of her throat.
A chair screeches, but she's half-sprawled across a study table and has to right herself first to get a sense of her surroundings. She straightens. Staggers her feet for balance and thrusts her curls out of her face.
"I knew it would be you," she says bluntly, wagging a finger at him.
Malfoy is, of course, the source of the light. He's got a lantern on the table beside him, casting light across a rather large stack of books. Even in her state, she doesn't miss the pop of color — of purple off to the side. The ever-mysterious journal is here. And so is he.
He's still in his school things. White shirt. Green tie. Were it daytime, everything would look rather normal.
But it's the middle of the night.
She's startled him, and he's up out of his seat, one hand shoved into his pocket — clutching his wand, no doubt. And she really can't put together his expression, but maybe that's the Butterbeer at work.
"Are you following me, Mr. Malfoy?" she slurs. It sounds alright coming out to her ears, but she has to recognize that the world is sort of sideways at the moment. Her speech probably is, too.
"Granger," he says. Again, like a statement of fact. Why does he say it like that? And then, "What the fuck?"
She sways. Decides to lean back against the table a little. And she takes another swig of Butterbeer before setting the jug down. "The Library is closed," she says, curt. Official. But then she hiccups — and then she laughs again. Dissolves into a small fit of giggles because, really, it's so wonderful to laugh like this. She's missed this. This side of her. Knows that, come tomorrow, it'll be gone again.
"Granger, what the bloody hell's the matter with you?"
She sighs as the giggles fade, wiping her eyes and letting Malfoy come back into focus. "I asked first."
"Asked what?" His eyebrows are very funny when they pinch together like that. They twitch a bit with the force of his confusion. And it's rather fun to confuse him.
"Are you…" her hand finds the jug again, lifting it to her mouth, "following…" she sips but doesn't break their eye contact — swallows, "me?"
Malfoy looks nonplussed. Splutters for a moment, hand falling out of his pocket. So, she's not a threat? Interesting, she thinks.
"You…I—you're the one who keeps turning up everywhere I go."
She clicks her tongue at him. "Who says it's not the other way around?"
"Granger, are you completely smashed?"
She yanks the jug back up for another sip, shooting him a dirty look. "What a rude assumption to make." But after another gulp, she hears herself say, "And yes. Quite." Then she thrusts the jug out toward him. "Here. Have some."
Malfoy studies her for a moment — gives her a once over with sharp eyes and then wrinkles his nose when he looks back at the jug. "Butterbeer is for children."
She snorts. A loud snort. A very un-Hermione snort. "Seems to be working just fine for me."
His expression remains tight and suspicious for a moment longer, then goes lax and so does he. He leans back against the windowsill behind him, diamond-shaped panes making a kaleidoscope of his reflection as he moves. "I can see that." He stuffs both hands into his pockets. "How very — you. To get drunk off Butterbeer."
She sniffs at him. Sets down the jug and braces both hands on the table to heave herself up. And then she sits cross-legged, leaning on her palms. She lets her head hang back for a moment, enjoying the way it makes the world spin. "I've decided not to be offended by you tonight, Malfoy. Not one bit."
"Mature of you," he drawls.
And she thrusts her head back up too fast — feels the blood rush out and for a moment things tint black. She laughs a little as the whole room flips before her eyes, thrusting both hands out in front of her to regain balance. The Butterbeer teeters but she saves it. Saves it faster than she saved herself.
"Phew," she flashes him a grin. "That was close."
"What are you doing here, Granger?" And now his voice is all seriousness.
She shrugs. "I saw a light."
"You weren't following me?"
She shakes her head. Giggles — hasn't giggled so much since childhood, maybe. "Do you know, Malfoy, I think you and I might just keep ending up in the same place at the same time." She wiggles her eyebrows at him. "D'you know? Like —" she hiccups, "coincidence. Or—" another hiccup, "fate."
"Fate?" His tone is skeptical. Face even more so, when she manages to look at it. But there's something under it — maybe the hint of a laugh or a smile. The slightest hint of humor. She can't be sure. "Just how much have you had, Granger?"
Her gaze snaps from his mouth to his eyes, and she stares at him blankly for a moment. Then she smiles. A deep, mischievous smile. She holds up the jug, which has about a centimeter left in it, and swings it in front of him, victorious.
"You'll hate yourself in the morning," he says.
"I hate myself every morning."
A dull silence follows. One that's muted and thick. She realizes she's looking down at the surface of the table, and her cheeks are pink — not just with the flush of alcohol. She doesn't know why she said it. Didn't want to say it.
When she looks back up at him, his expression is tight once more, this time drawn in around his eyes. It's sort of a mix of confusion and something else. Concern? No, that's the Butterbeer again.
"Granger…" he starts.
"Mm-mm," she shakes her head. Opens her mouth to say I didn't mean that, but what comes out is, "I don't want to talk about it." And she sits back, upset with herself, brows furrowing. "That's not—" she tries again. "I'm — I'm embarrassed about it." And then she thrusts herself off the table because that isn't what she meant to say at all.
All the while, Malfoy stares at her like he's watching a circus tent collapse in on itself. "What are you trying to say, Granger?" And he has that tone. That damned tone her friends like to use on her. Even some of her Professors. That tone that means they think they're dealing with a lunatic. With someone fragile and easily provoked. She hates that tone.
"I'm trying to say I'm not fine," she splutters out. Gasps at herself. "No — I mean…no, I'm — I'm not fine." She thrusts her hands into her hair, squeezing her temples. "What the fuck? What the fuck?" she chants. And then, "I'm trying to say I'm sorry."
It's all run together like one word and she's furious with herself the moment it comes out. But it's out and she can't take it back and she has to force herself to look at him some time.
So she toughens up and yanks her eyes off the table. Forces them to meet his.
His brows are at his hairline. "You're…sorry?" he repeats.
"Yeah — and? What of it?" she snaps, reaching for the jug. She can feel her cheeks flaming. It's making her sweat.
"Sorry for what?"
"God," she says, exasperated, "just — stop asking me questions, I — I'm sorry for the way I treated you…the other day. For my behavior."
And then, suddenly, it feels like a weight's off her chest. She sits up a little straighter. Head feels a little clearer. She sets the jug back down. Risks a glance at him. And his eyebrows are still sky high but a softness she's never seen has bled into his eyes. It's a confused softness. A softness he doesn't seem sure what to do with. But it's there, none the less.
That is, until he tucks it away. Hides it back behind his usual mask as he brushes it off. "Doesn't matter, Granger."
"It does," she presses, and she finds she's taken a step forward. A step toward him. "I — I was wrong. I — I just…it hurt." Her hand absentmindedly finds her arm.
He tilts his head a little to the side, so that some of the blond falls into his eyes. "Didn't mean to hurt you," he says. And it's a fascinating phrase. A sentence she never thought to hear from his mouth.
It surprises her.
"I know you didn't," she says, and her voice is quieter now. Less vibrant. Less playful. The Butterbeer is wearing off, perhaps.
A long silence passes between them. All she can hear is the sifting of books as they fly across and stack themselves, and that's distant at best. They aren't really looking at each other. More like pointedly not looking at each other, but every now and then a mistake is made and one of them catches the other's eyes lingering.
They play this game for a good five minutes.
And Malfoy's the one to shatter the silence, when the time comes. "Drinking with Gryffindor tonight?"
"Hmm?" For a moment she can't process his question. "Oh — oh, well…drinking with myself really, alongside Gryffindor."
He nods.
And she just can't keep her mouth shut. "D'you know? I think this is the first time we've gone a full ten minutes without arguing."
And she's shocked when it forces a small huff of a laugh out of him. "A record, then," he says.
"Indeed."
After another, shorter silence, she finds herself offering the jug to him again, with another couple steps toward him. He opens his mouth, undoubtedly to say something else about its childishness, but she cuts him off.
"Just drink it. You liked my Muggle whiskey, so drink it."
That's about when she realizes how close she is to him. Almost as close as that day in the lavatory, but without the hostile air between them, it feels much closer. She holds the jug in two hands in front of her, and it's touching his chest on the other side.
Step back, she tells herself.
Malfoy quirks an eyebrow at her. It's a very elegant, aristocratic sort of eyebrow, she realizes, and it's a surprisingly dark shade of blond considering his hair. She follows it down as it relaxes, eyes snapping back to his when the weight of the jug transfers into his hands.
Step back.
He takes a large swig. She finds herself watching his throat as he swallows. And when he hands it back, she asks, "What about you? Why aren't you drinking with Slytherin tonight?" She sips. "I assume Friday nights are just as sacred down in the Dungeons."
"Probably more so, to be honest." He shrugs. "But I like to drink alone."
"You're drinking with me, right now," she points out.
"Well spotted." He takes the jug back.
"So, then what?"
He shrugs again. Glances away as he takes the second to last sip. "I'm not exactly well-liked, Granger."
She's almost too shocked to take back the jug. "But — I…"
He quirks that damned eyebrow again.
"Even in Slytherin?" she manages. "But…in earlier years—"
"Even then," he says. "I think they were more afraid of my father. Afraid of him and therefore friendly to me."
She wonders why the thought of it makes her sad. Why she feels the need to—
"I'm sure that isn't true."
"Yeah, well—"
"No, I'm sure it isn't," she insists. "Plenty of people liked you. Like Cra—" she stops herself. Fumbles for another name. "Pansy. Pansy liked you."
Malfoy laughs, then. A thick, throaty laugh she doesn't think she's ever heard before. "Pansy liked my sizeable inheritance — as well as the highly likely possibility of an arranged marriage, at least at the time."
"No, not just that," she says as she sets the jug on the table behind him. "You're handsome and intelligent and I'm sure she liked you for that, too." And when she looks back at him, she's quite pleased with her summation.
Until she sees the look in his eyes and realizes just exactly what she said.
His look of surprise isn't an obvious one — his lids aren't blown wide and his mouth isn't hanging open. It's a deeper sort of surprise. One that's detectable in the slight quiver in the muscles between his brows. In the flicker in his bottomless gaze. In the way his tongue dashes out of his mouth — nervously wets his lips.
She feels the blush fan out across her face like a wildfire, and she scrambles to remedy what she's said. "I — I, well, you see, I meant — I meant that you're attractive. No — not conventionally, uniquely. No — what? No. I just meant that you're beautiful and I — oh, my god — what the fuck is — no. Malfoy. Draco. God. I — I just meant that I've always thought you're—" and with a little shriek, she claps a hand over her mouth. Stops the runaway train that's on bloody fire at this point.
What — in — god's — name?
Now, Malfoy's surprise is obvious. Now it's written all over his face.
And she forces her eyes away because she can't bear to look at him and she stares at the jug on the table and tries to collect herself and dear god, what was—
She freezes. Takes in a slow, steady breath. There's a long silence.
And her voice is low and murderous when it finally comes out. "I'm going to kill him."
It breaks Malfoy, briefly, from his daze. "Wha—who?"
She yanks the jug off the table — smacks it against his arm as she does but doesn't notice. And she holds it up to her nose. Inhales.
In the next instant, she throws it to the library floor, and it shatters with a satisfying, somehow deafening crash. "Fucking Seamus!" she screams. She whirls around — begins to step over the shards as the tell-tale scent of Veritaserum starts to waft up at them. "I'm going to—"
His hand is on her wrist, then. His alarmingly cold hand, and she doesn't understand, and in the next instant, he's yanked her back. Turned her back around with a sharp tug and his other hand is suddenly molded against her cheek and it's just as cold and the words are ripped out of her throat and he's—
He's there.
His lips are on hers. His frozen, frosted lips. Against hers. Leeching the warmth out of them. Cold like stone. Unmoving. Just his mouth, folded over hers, waiting there.
Her pulse seems to panic. Stutters to a halt, then desperately tries to start up again. Beats too fast.
Malfoy's mouth is on hers. He's — he's not quite kissing her, but he's there. He's right there, and it's not kissing. Not quite, not yet, but—
It's her gasp that does it. Opens her mouth for him.
And then he's kissing her.
His hands find the edges of her jaw and he slants his mouth over hers and his lips force hers to part and — and he swallows that gasp. Swallows it and her next breath in one, and then his own breath gusts out against her lips — shaky, cold, with hints of peppermint — and his fingers bury into her curls and his nose brushes against the stretch of skin beneath her cheekbone that she'd never found important until now and he's kissing her.
What…what is this?
Her mind reels. Her fingers shake where they've stalled halfway from stopping him. Halfway between pushing him away — and starting something else. She…she doesn't know. Doesn't understand. Doesn't—
Oh.
His tongue brushes across the edges of her teeth. Flicks up in some erotic, enigmatic way she doesn't understand but it sends a pulse through her. Forms a knot in her lower stomach, no — lower — that tightens and builds tension. And he makes this sound. This quiet, little, soft sort of — she doesn't know what it is. Not a gasp, not a groan. Something subtle, something that's a mix between the two.
It does something, though. Lights up whatever nerve center that controls her hands and not her head, and she's suddenly tangling her fingers in his shirtfront. Twisting one around his tie. Pulling him in. Pulling him closer. And it's like she wakes up and falls asleep all at once.
She makes her own sound — a desperate sort of keen she didn't know she was capable of making and she wants him closer and she doesn't know why and her tongue meets his — flutters against it and it makes his hands tighten in her hair. Knot in it and draw her in further, if possible. Increase the pressure of the kiss.
And it's just about then that she realizes how much she wants this. Somewhere between his tongue delving deep and his eyelashes brushing against hers. Between the glass crunching under their feet and the chill of his touch. She — she wants this.
Her trembling hand leaves his tie. Finds the smooth expanse along the side of his throat. He gasps. Drops his hands from her hair. Belts his arms around her lower back instead and draws her body up against his.
He's cold. He's so cold. Why is he—
He spins them around. Presses her back against one of the bookshelves. Pulls her hips forward and slams them back against the wood as he kisses her, over and over again. And it's warm, suddenly — hot — and he tastes like — he tastes good — and her heart's stuttering and her brain is scrambled and heat pulses low and she doesn't — she doesn't — she can't reconcile the feel of his body against hers. The distinct, unspeakable hardness she feels against her inner thigh, and the racing pulse of his heart against her chest and—
He breaks away from her mouth, lips seeking something different, something new, and she doesn't know what it is to be kissed like this. But his mouth is where her pulse hammers — right beside her jugular and she idly thinks that he could rip her throat out with his teeth right now if he wanted to. Except it's his tongue — oh — his tongue that's tracing the veins in her neck, sweeping up and down where they run thick with blood and pausing every now and then so that he can warm the skin with his lips — suckle at it. She feels the bruises forming. Feels the rational thoughts escaping. But the sounds are wet and wanton and he's right below her ear and his hips are molded against hers and she can't, she can't, she can't, she—
One of the flying books misses its mark and crashes into a wall.
Malfoy stumbles back, startled and she has to grip one of the shelves to keep from collapsing without his body supporting her. Every inch of her skin prickles. Feels raw. Her lips tingle. Her chest heaves.
And she stares at him because she can't form words.
He runs a hand through his disheveled hair — did she do that? Straightens his tie and untucks his shirtfront. Drags it down over — oh.
He stands there, gathering breath for a long while. But when he opens his mouth to speak, the full weight of reality comes crashing down on her, and she can't bear to hear whatever he has to say. Can't bear to try and make sense of the last ten minutes.
So she runs.