Breath Mints / Battle Scars
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October 5th, 1998
He knows.
He has to know by now. The same way she knows now that this is the last thing she should've done. A line she shouldn't have crossed.
She'd spent all night flipping through it, and less than three entries in she'd known it was something she wasn't supposed to be seeing. It was too personal. Too close.
And it made too much fucking sense.
Scrawled across those first few pastel lavender pages, she'd found evidence of alcoholism, abuse, self-harm and regret. So, so much regret. Unfit parents. Drug overdoses. Death.
She'd pieced it together: this wasn't so unlike Muggle parole. He has to submit these entries weekly — or perhaps even daily — to a psychiatric healer. Those moronic First Years hadn't been entirely wrong about the situation.
But she's trapped now.
She can't give it back to him. He'll know she took it. She can't keep it from him. He'll be arrested for not submitting entries. She can't unsee what she's seen.
It's too, too personal.
What was merely a petty attempt at revenge had backfired violently.
I'd love to be gone. I'd give anything to be gone. Let me be gone.
The slant of his handwriting is the sort you see from psychopaths. Ink is splotched everywhere. It's almost as messy as his life, and it's riddled with things she'd never have known from looking at him.
It's also riddled with opinions about her — opinions she hadn't been prepared for.
…bitch…
…Mudblood…
No, she'd been prepared for those. But not for ones that said things like confusing… and changes my mind… and everywhere I look, she's there…
Those entries were of a rarer nature, and they'd sort of coagulated towards the end — the most recent. She'd been changing his mind about her.
But she's read over the entry from October 3rd over and over again, and nothing.
Nothing about the kiss.
It's childish of her to expect him to write about it. After all, it didn't mean anything, did it? But thinking about it has her thinking about his antics at the snogging bench, and an unwelcome shiver slides down her spine.
Above anything, she hates a puzzle she can't solve.
The purple binding feels hot in her hands — feels like it's burning her with guilt. She lets it fall to the sheets between her knees. Uses her wand to check the time. Six in the morning.
She hasn't slept.
How could she? With both the past and the future colliding inside her head? With the touches he's already given and the hate he's going to give when he finds out?
It's the first time she acknowledges that she doesn't want him to hate her.
It's also the first time she acknowledges that kissing him was…different. None of the sloppiness and stickiness she'd gotten from Ron. None of the fumbling hands and knocking teeth. Kissing him was clean — crisp and succinct, every movement having meaning, every touch placed where he wanted it to be — and yet at the same time entirely unclean. Dark. Demanding. Sensual. With his bold tongue and adventurous fingertips. She'd never imagined Malfoy could kiss like that.
She'd never imagined kissing Malfoy at all.
And yet now she can't imagine why.
She sits back against her pillows, tangling a nervous hand in her curls as she, for once, allows the image of him to seep into her mind unfettered. Undeterred. Why hadn't she ever thought of Malfoy in that way? His despicable attitude notwithstanding, there was never a conceivable way to pass off his looks as average. He's tall — taller than most of the boys she knows, and even though she's always told herself that height should have nothing to do with it, there's something about sinking into the inky darkness of his shadow. His hands are long…delicate. Aristocratic in every way. There would've been no way for her to know in the past how smooth the pads of his fingers are, but after feeling them trace her naked hipbones after slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans, she knows. Oh, she knows.
She doesn't expect the sudden spark of arousal when it comes, but she snuffs it out quickly, ushering the image of him out of her head like a disease and forcing herself to stand up. To get away from the bed, with its sheets and its pillows and its connotations.
Her eyes find the violently purple journal again, and any lasting arousal is flattened by fear and guilt.
She hasn't decided what to do yet. Part of her wants to play it by ear, but that's too open-ended. Too mysterious for a rationally-grounded brain like hers. She knows he won't believe that he dropped it — she'd had a rough enough time slipping it from such a deep pocket when he'd been leaning over her like he was.
And even if he did believe that, he'd never believe she hadn't read it.
Moments like these make her regret giving up her Time Turner.
Right now, there's nothing she can do. Nothing but wait. But it's Monday, and spending all day in bed avoiding him isn't an option. They have classes together. Bloody hell.
A fresh wave of panic fans out inside her chest, and she's so fucking furious at herself for getting into this situation. Her old self — the girl before the War — would never have done this. She would've minded her own business and studied…hard. She wouldn't have been caught dead letting Malfoy push her up against a bookcase.
Old Hermione wasn't a girl like that.
She wonders now, though. Is she a girl like that? Because no matter how many top coats of denial she slathers onto it, the base coat is and has been since Friday night that she wants more than anything to feel those cold, rough lips again.
One of the girls stirs in bed — Parvati. It jerks her into motion and out of her thoughts, and she shoves the diary under the silk of her pillow, making her bed in a rush. There'll be no more sleep this morning.
She's the first one down to the Great Hall for breakfast, and she's come armed with reading that's weeks ahead of what they're learning in class. Still, it makes her feel like old Hermione. And she'll do anything to chase that shadow.
It has all the makings of a nice morning. Warm porridge. A London Fog steaming beside her open books. Silence. No one to disturb her.
But, as of late, nothing that seems right stays right.
The thud of a book bag on the bench startles her. She splashes London Fog onto her hand and hisses at the burn.
And of all people, a Slytherin sits down at the table. Her table. It isn't the usual Slytherin. Not the one that lights up her nerve endings like fuses.
It's Theodore Nott.
And he comes with his own index of complications. He, having been the object of her First Year girlhood crush. He, having been her nemesis in academic merit for all the years following. He — sarcastic and slippery and dressed as always in a perfectly starched shirt, thrown off by an absurdly uneven tie.
They don't speak.
Until now, apparently.
"This is the Gryffindor table," she says childishly, instantly regretting it.
Nott grins, and unlike Malfoy, it isn't a rare sight. He's been flashing her winning smiles ever since he beat her to highest score on the Potions final, second year. "I'm shocked, Granger. Shouldn't you know all about Muggle segregation? How wrong it was?"
She gawks at him. "Who are you to lecture me about segregation, Death Eater?" And even she realizes that it's an overreaction. She swallows and sits back a little, flushing. "Sorry," she mutters. She wonders where her filter has gone.
"Touchy, touch-y," he tisks. He's never had a fragile ego. Just a large one. In all the years she's known him, she's never seen Theodore Nott lose his cool.
Sweeping the chestnut brown hair out of his face, he turns and rifles through his book bag, and suddenly he's spreading parchment and quills and texts out onto the table across from her.
"What are you doing?"
"Studying."
"Not here, you aren't."
"House tables aren't exclusive. They're suggestions, to prevent brawling." He dips his quill into ink and starts writing, ignoring her stunned expression.
"Nott," she snaps, and he finally looks up at her, expression bored. "Why are you sitting here?"
He bites down on the feather tip of his quill — a disgusting habit. "War's over, Granger. I can sit where I want. Today, I wanted to sit here."
She scoffs. Bristles. Opens her mouth to argue. Can't think of anything.
She isn't an idiot. He isn't sitting here on a whim. But he's also Theodore Nott, and asking him to explain himself is like asking grass to grow in winter.
All that's clear is that he isn't leaving.
And she feels like she's fallen into a snake pit. So many snakes. Too many fucking snakes.
Transfiguration is the class she's been dreading all day — the only class of her Monday schedule she has with him.
She itches at her scar as students flood into the classroom, shuffling in her seat. It isn't just her scar that itches, it's her very skin. Every inch of it. She can't get comfortable. Can't stop thinking about what's under her pillow at this very moment.
She can't even remember what lesson they're supposed to be learning today.
A wave of icy cold slides down her back as she catches sight of his white-blond hair in the doorway. He's walking with Nott, and it makes her doubly nervous. She starts to wonder if Malfoy has something to do with their run in this morning.
Luckily, their eyes don't meet, and as the two of them take a seat at the desk behind her, she starts to relax a little.
He doesn't suspect her. If he did, he would've confronted her immediately. Malfoy isn't shy.
Havershim leaves her office. Starts writing on the blackboard with her wand. Parvati walks in with a minute or so to spare, smiling at Hermione as she takes her seat beside her and gets out her books. Everything seems exceedingly normal.
Until—
"Oh, 'Mione," says Parvati, and she digs further into her bag. "Almost forgot."
The color purple, up until yesterday, had never had an association with panic and despair for Hermione. It was just purple. Not her favorite. Not her least favorite. Purple as in plums. Purple as in candy hearts.
Now, though — now purple is panic. Purple is a fever dream and an electric shock. Purple is that feeling in your gut when a parent catches you in a lie. Purple as in pain. Purple as in perfect — just perfect.
Purple is the color Parvati is handing to her.
Mafloy's journal.
"The house elf was remaking the beds this morning and found this behind your headboard. Thought you might've needed it for class. I said I'd bring it to you."
She's shaking. Parvati's holding it out to her.
She doesn't have to look to feel the searing burn of a gaze from behind, like a hot poker digging into the back of her neck. She doesn't want to take it. She stares at Parvati wordlessly until her face starts to change.
"Hermione, are you—"
Her hand closes around the binding, and she knows she's sealed her fate. "Thank you," she says, somewhat dazed.
She has to look. She can't help it. Out the corner of her eye, she sees Malfoy's stare — like the barrel of a gun. Sees the way his fist is balled on the desk.
A knot forms in her throat.
"Right — yeah, of course," says Parvati, looking at her like a bird with two heads before turning to face the front. Hermione barely hears. All she can think in this moment, of all things, is how much she regrets S.P.E.W.
Fucking traitorous house elf.
The class passes like a hallucination. She never raises her hand. Botches two spells when asked to perform them. Feels at every moment that she may vomit.
She never looks back again. The journal is sitting at the top of her desk, continuously catching her eye like a threat. Taunting her with its vibrant color. Every now and then she hears a sound from behind. Malfoy, tapping his quill against the side of the desk.
He may as well be stabbing her with it.
"Class dismissed."
Her stomach drops. The most ridiculous word flies through her brain at all sides. Run, run, run, run, run…
It's idiotic.
She urges rationality to come back to the forefront. Tries to think clearly as people stand and shuffle all around her. What is she so afraid of? Malfoy isn't dangerous. Moody, pompous, headstrong, yes. Perhaps even a little mentally unstable. But dangerous?
She's been overthinking. She can just tell him the truth.
Gathering a shaky breath, she stands slowly. She'll head back toward the Great Hall — collect her sanity, calm down a little. And then she'll go and find him and return it. Like an adult.
With a determined huff, she picks up the journal, slings her bag over her shoulder, and strides confidently out the door. She watches the flagstones pass beneath her feet as she walks. Swipes her thumb along the textured cover of the diary.
Overthinking. That's all it was.
Offhandedly, she throws a glance over her shoulder. Doesn't expect to see what she sees.
Malfoy is following her.
No, not following. Charging. Striding swiftly, purposefully, one hand toying with the knot of his tie — loosening it — the other gathered into a fist at his side. And his eyes — his eyes are blazing. He knocks shoulders with other students as he walks, and even when they turn and say things like, "Hey, watch yourself, mate," his eyes never deviate from her.
She stumbles. Trips as she tries to increase her pace. Tears her eyes away as her breath falls out of her in a wave.
She does it. Does what her foolish brain has been telling her to do all breaks into a run.
Coward, another side of her thinks. But she's never seen that look in someone's eyes. No — no, she's wrong. Once before, in Bellatrix's.
Her book bag slips from her shoulder and clatters to the stone floor, spilling quills and ink across the hall, but she abandons it. Instead, her free hand goes to her wand in the pocket of her skirt.
"'Mione?" It's Harry — leaving another classroom. She doesn't see him, but she recognizes his voice. It doesn't stop her.
At every side, people are staring, but she's sprinting now. Her heart rate kicks into high gear, because she can hear Malfoy's own footfalls, heavy and fast on the stone behind her. He's running, too.
He's actually chasing her.
Fuck, fuck, fuck…
It's the worst scenario she could think of realized.
His legs are longer than hers. He's faster.
She only makes it as far as the statues in the entryway before he catches up, but her wand gets caught in her pocket as she turns, trying to yank it free.
And the height she'd been admiring just this morning becomes a suddenly damning disadvantage. He crowds her into the wall, backing her up until she's pressed against the rough stone beside the doorway to the Great Hall.
Her hand is stuck — pinned in her pocket, and before she can get a word out he's got one of those long, slender hands she'd once let caress her around her throat. The other holds his wand, and he places the raven-black tip of it under her chin, letting the wood press into her flesh.
Even if she could move, she wouldn't be able to. She can't even speak. Can't breathe.
And she just knows she was wrong. So, so wrong.
Malfoy is entirely dangerous.
"Fucking mudblood cunt," he growls, jerking her once. Her head knocks back against the stone. And as she sees stars, she thinks about how she's never heard him use that word before.
Malfoy swims back into focus, the pressure of his hand on her throat increasing. He's as close as he was on Friday night, and her frazzled brain almost can't discern between intimacy and violence in this moment.
The tip of his wand reminds her.
"Do you have any fucking idea?" he jerks her again. "Any idea where they'd put me? What they'd fucking do?" He drops his wand and reaches down to snatch the journal from her limp hand. "Do you know how fucking important this is?" He shakes it in front of her face, eyes like a madman.
Hazily, she sees figures approaching fast from over his shoulder. She knows they're running. Any yet, they seem to move in slow motion. Her unfocused eyes slide back to Malfoy's, finding them sharp like shards of ice. She knows she's in shock. Knows she could get herself out of this if she could only shake the numbness from her hands.
But she can't.
And she just releases one shaky breath, watching it gust up against his face. His fingers loosen around her throat. Just a fraction. Vaguely, she wonders if the new bruises will cover the old ones.
Malfoy's dark blond eyelashes flutter as he blinks once.
But his hand has barely released her when another arm belts across his chest from behind.
"Mate, mate, mate — what are you doing?" It's Theodore Nott again, ripping Malfoy back, and without his body pressed up against hers, her knees buckle.
She falls just as Malfoy does, yanked to the ground by Nott and dragged back. The next hazy figure to come into focus is Harry. He seems sort of torn between joining Nott in restraining Malfoy and attending to her.
Idly, she thinks that she doesn't need attending.
She doesn't even feel hurt. Just dazed. Dazed as though drugged.
Harry's at her feet, crouched down, eyes wide. "'Mione — 'Mione, are you hurt? Are you—"
"Stop it, Draco — stop," she hears from behind him. Nott's still got Malfoy's arms strapped in like a straight jacket.
Everything everyone's saying is melding together into one. Her breath still hasn't returned, and all she can do is stare past Harry, his mouth moving but the sound not making it to her ears. She stares at Malfoy, his face red, jaw tight, fighting his friend's grip, gaze still locked on her.
The only thing he's held onto is the journal, clutched so tightly he seems to be denting it.
She knows now.
Knows that it represents his second chance. One that she almost stole from him.
Havershim is the third figure to approach. She seems to have seen enough to make a quick decision, and she promptly stuns Malfoy.
The last thing Hermione sees before the world goes dark is Malfoy going limp in Nott's arms.