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Breath Mints / Battle Scars
XXI
December 1st, 1998
She fell asleep.
She realizes it in the middle of her dream, as she sits in the center of a tornado of butterflies, and the panic wakes her up instantly.
So instantly, in fact, that she falls off the cot — lays sprawled, naked, on the cold flagstone of the Hospital Wing for several seconds, utterly confused.
Then it all starts flooding back to her at an alarming rate, and her body reminds her too. The soreness between her legs, the tenderness in her neck, the swelling in her lips.
Malfoy's sleepy face appears from over the edge of the cot.
"Did you sleep on the floor?" he mumbles, voice thick and groggy.
She flushes as his eyes widen a little — trace over her naked body, on full display now in the sunlight. But before she can get a word out, voices sound from the hallway just outside.
"Oh no," she breathes. She shoots to her feet so fast she almost elbows Malfoy in the face. "Oh no, oh no, oh no." She searches desperately for her clothes, finding the scraps of her nightshirt before she remembers him tearing it in half. Her cheeks flame and she rips the sheet off of him to wrap around herself. "Bloody hell, what do we do?"
Malfoy hasn't moved much. He pulls his knees up to his chest, naked save a pair of boxers. Casual. Always so fucking casual. "I dunno. You could leave."
"There's only one exit!"
He gestures to one of the windows and yawns.
"Oh, for goodness sake, Malfoy — help me!" She whacks at him with a section of bundled up sheet.
"Merlin, woman, just conjure yourself some clothes!"
"I can't! My wand isn't working."
The voices grow louder. Closer.
"What do you mean your wand isn't—"
"Draco!"
He sighs childishly, moves too slowly. But eventually he pulls out his wand and conjures her some robes.
"Thank you," she breathes out. "Thank you." Her pulse has only just begun to slow, however, when she notices. "What — no, Malfoy these are Slytherin robes."
He shrugs. "Suppose they are."
"Oh, you git." She balls up the sheet and throws it in his face, frantically pulling up a chair from nearby and shoving the remnants of her pajamas under the covers. "Give me your arm."
He raises an eyebrow. The voices are just around the corner.
"Oh, you must be joking — please. Please, give me your arm."
"Very nice, Granger. Manners are very important."
He gives her his arm and she yanks on it intentionally. Smirks when he winces. Part of her can't believe they're already back to bickering, after—
Poppy and her head nurse round the corner.
"Yes, there'll be some scarring, some soreness, but otherwise it's healing well," Hermione says, a little too loudly, as she pretends to study his Mark.
"Subtle," Malfoy murmurs.
She squeezes his arm hard. Makes him jolt.
"Miss Granger." Madam Pomfrey sounds surprised, coming to a stop beside them, her shrewd gaze setting Hermione on edge. "I didn't expect you this early. Certainly not after yesterday."
"I just wanted to check on it," she says, feeling her heart race. She tries to hide the green and silver tie by leaning further over Malfoy's arm.
Madam Pomfrey makes a little 'hmm' sound and bobs her head once. Turns to him. "And how are you feeling, Mr. Malfoy?"
"Potent," says Malfoy, and Hermione coughs. "You know — virile, even. I mean, I've been fucked."
Madam Pomfrey looks scandalized, and Hermione thinks she might just take that window option, but Malfoy continues.
"Because this thing's still stuck on my arm, of course. I've been royally screwed, so to speak."
She can do nothing, even as her face stains red, growing hotter with each second.
"But I'm lounging in the afterglow of Granger's uniquely stellar healing abilities." And Malfoy shoots her a sideways grin, obviously pleased with himself.
She digs her nails into his skin as she smiles up at Madam Pomfrey. "Who knew?"
Poppy isn't a moron, though, and even as she nods and walks away to her desk, head nurse in tow, Hermione can feel her suspicion.
"Merlin, Granger." Malfoy yanks his arm from her grip as soon as they're out of earshot, massaging the little half-moon indentations she's left.
"What is the matter with you?" she snaps, trying to keep her voice down. "Are you out of your mind? Don't answer that. Don't. Just — bloody hell, fix my robes. Fix them."
"I think you look better in green, actually."
"Malfoy."
"Draco," Pansy sing-songs from the doorway.
Hermione watches him go pale. Paler, anyway. All of the humor slides off his face like butter from hot toast, and in unison they turn to look at her.
Parkinson, for her part, goes violet. Purple like a beet. And even from this distance, Hermione can see her putting the pieces together. Connecting the dots, having seen Hermione here last night, and now finding her still here.
In Slytherin robes.
Pansy blinks once and turns on her heel.
Slowly, Hermione gets to her feet. Exhales deeply. "Everyone will know," she murmurs.
Malfoy finds his bloody shirt on the floor by the bed, tearing it down over his head without undoing the buttons. The same way he took it off…
"No one will," he says, snatching up his trousers. "Her pride will see to that."
She looks to him, but his eyes are down, his playfulness from moments ago completely evaporated. It's a stark contrast. Gives her mental whiplash.
"What is it?" she asks. Crosses her arms.
He doesn't look up, fumbling angrily with his belt. "What is what?"
"What's wrong?"
His eyes are icy when they flit up, but he paints over it quickly with the usual look of boredom. "Nothing, Granger."
"You think I regret it," she says flatly.
He throws his legs off the side of the bed, yanking on those fancy black dress shoes he's always wearing. He tugs at the laces like he wants to snap them. "It's pretty absurdly fucking obvious that you do." He mimics her as he ties one knot. "Everyone will know."
"What did you want me to do?" She waves a hand at the entryway. "Kiss you in front of Parkinson? In front of Madam Pomfrey?"
Laces done, he drops his feet and meets her eyes abruptly, glare sharp. "Maybe so, Granger. Maybe fucking so." He stands. "Pomfrey, can I go?"
Pomfrey shoots him a sour look for his rudeness. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy," she waves him off, "go."
He brushes past Hermione, faint scent of what's left of his cologne washing up against her. Reminding her how close they'd been less than a few hours ago.
"Draco," she finds herself saying before he can get too far, and it must be his first name that stops him.
He doesn't look back. Just stops. Waits.
"I don't regret it." Her voice is quiet, but certain. "Truly."
For a moment, he does nothing. Then he turns to the side — presents her with his profile. Stands motionless. And a moment later he's gone.
She folds and unfolds her fingers for what feels like several minutes, staring after him until Madam Pomfrey rouses her from her daze.
"Go to class, Miss Granger," she says curtly, and when Hermione turns to face her she's busily scribbling with her quill.
But as she leaves the Wing, it becomes clear there was no need to kiss Malfoy in front of her.
Pomfrey calls out an afterthought just as she passes beneath the archway.
"And I'll want to speak with you about contraceptive charms when you return."
In her panic, she'd forgotten about the bruises.
December 1st, 1998
Diary,
Prompt: What is the most important part of your daily routine?
Sitting by the lake. In the morning. In the cold.
Draco
December 1st, 1998
She doesn't know why, but she goes straight to Ginny.
She doesn't get far from the Hospital Wing when something low in her gut twists and makes a snap decision. Decides that it's time.
Maybe before. Maybe before last night, she could've shouldered it herself.
But not now.
There are too many emotions, so many of them conflicted and complicated, bubbling over like a cauldron inside of her. Too many to sort through on her own. Too many to keep tucked away.
And she forces herself to admit that a part of her just wants someone to know. Wants someone to talk to about it. Wants to try to put into words how the previous hours altered her physically. Chemically.
Harry flashes behind her eyes first, and she considers him. She really, really does. He's her best friend. She knows he won't judge her.
But he despises Malfoy too deeply.
She doesn't want to break his heart.
Well — it's that, and the thought of describing last night to Harry makes her itchy and uncomfortable.
Ginny is…safer. Calmer. More neutral.
And so here she finds herself, hiding in an alcove by the Great Hall, dressed in Slytherin robes, covered in love bruises again, with a useless wand, waiting for her. Last week, this scenario would've seemed like a fever dream.
She watches Ron and Harry head in to breakfast, and her nerves begin to awaken. Palms begin to sweat. Ginny can't be far behind.
Please.
Please understand.
Please.
Ginny's flash of red hair startles her so much, she almost trips out of the alcove.
"Ginny!" Hermione whisper-shouts as she sees her step off the stairs.
Her head whips to the side, scarlet hair flying, and for a moment she squints around.
"Ginny!" she calls again, a little louder, tucking herself further into the shadows as Dean and Seamus pass behind her into the Hall. Ginny steps off to the side, curiously following the sound until she's close enough for Hermione to yank her into the alcove.
"What in—"
"It's me, it's me — it's Hermione," she rushes.
"'Mione, what—"
"Come with me, please. Please. I need to talk to you."
For Ginny's part, she does a fair job of holding back questions until they've branched far out onto the castle grounds, towed along by Hermione with a rather fierce determination.
"'Mione, where are we going?" she asks at last, and Hermione can hear the other unanswered questions in her voice. By now, she's undoubtedly noticed her Slytherin robes, unless she's a witless idiot, and Ginny Weasley decidedly is not. She isn't sure whether she's seen the bruises yet, having followed behind her all this time, but it's inevitable.
She has no wand to glamour them away. At least for the next several hours.
"Hogsmeade," she answers after a long silence. "I need a Butterbeer."
"Hermione, it's nine in the morning. It's freezing. We have class."
"We aren't going."
This quiets her immediately — holds her tongue for the rest of the trip. Inwardly, she sighs, because yes, of course, the only way for Hermione Granger to truly seem off-kilter is for her to fall behind in her studies.
Even after a bloody war, she'll always be the know-it-all.
"You're squeezing too hard," says Ginny.
"Sorry."
As they pass through the village, rather empty at this time in the morning, blanketed in a light snow, Ginny casts a warming charm over the both of them. And Hermione finds that when she can no longer focus on the cold — focus on the shivering, her attention returns to the indescribable soreness below her hips.
It isn't how she'd thought it would feel, the day after. Painful. Intrusive. Like her body had been invaded.
Instead, it's the way a muscle feels after being stretched for the first time. That pleasant pain that somehow tells you you're growing stronger.
Unless that's entirely in her mind.
The Three Broomsticks is practically vacant — just opened, and Madam Rosmerta clamps down on what was likely a scowl upon seeing them. Realizes who they are and flushes pink, disappearing up the stairs.
War heroes have some privileges, it seems.
"Two Butterbeers, please," she tells the groggy barkeep.
"Oh, no, I'm alright. I don't—" Ginny starts, but she speaks over her.
"Two Butterbeers, please." And she glances over her shoulder at her as he waves his wand around and grunts, getting them started. "Trust me, you'll need it."
"Tell me what's going on," Ginny pleads, and now Hermione can see her gaze flitting up and down from her eyes to the bruises. The concern is plain on her face.
Grudgingly, the barkeep tells her the drinks are on the house as she turns back and tries to hand him a few sickles. She takes the warm mugs and leads Ginny to a secluded corner booth, sliding one across the grimy table to her.
"Tell me," Ginny says again.
"Sip first."
She lets out an incredulous little huff but puts the glass to her lips, watching Hermione's eyes and drinking until about an inch is gone — until Hermione nods.
"Happy?"
"Yes." And Hermione gulps down at least twice as much of hers before wiping her lips and clearing her throat. "You have to swear not to tell anyone. Even Harry."
Ginny looks offended. "You really think that's who I am?"
"No, no," Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose, "Gin, you know I don't. I just — I have to say it anyway, for…for my own sake. Just to know that I've said it."
"Fine, then. I won't tell anyone. Talk to me, 'Mione, you're scaring me. You're in Slytherin robes, for Merlin's sake." She pushes away the Butterbeer. Leans closer, gaze gentle — again with that frightened animal complex.
Hermione doesn't want to see that expression anymore.
Isn't some wounded deer.
She blurts out, "I was never seeing Zacharias."
Ginny blinks slowly. Purses her lips. "I think I knew that," she says after a tense silence. "Sensed it, I guess. I mean, he doesn't seem like your type, does he?"
It sends her mind elsewhere for a moment, and she wonders if Ginny realizes that Ron isn't her type either. That sweet and funny and warm aren't it. That it's somehow become coldness and depth and the absolute lack of safety and blindingly platinum blond hair.
"I'm sorry," she manages, bringing herself back to the present. "I didn't want to lie to you."
"Then why did you?"
"You…I…" she struggles for a moment. Takes another desperate gulp of Butterbeer, the sweetness warming in her stomach. "I felt like I had to. Parvati was so sure. So sure it was him, and you — you looked relieved when you heard his name. I just…" another deep sip, "it was better than the truth."
Ginny's face goes through a subtle assortment of emotions as she considers this. One red eyebrow quirks. "Going to tell me the truth now?"
She keeps the mug at her lips for safety. For comfort. Sips and says, "I think so, yes." She drops her eyes from Ginny's face, staring at the deep brown of the table instead. Tracing the dirty grooves absentmindedly. "Please try very hard not to hate me. I don't think I could stand to have you hate me."
"'Mione."
Ginny's tone draws her eyes up.
"I won't hate you."
Hermione gathers a thick, unsteady breath.
"I swear it."
She finishes off her Butterbeer. Slides the glass away and tangles her thumbs together. Picks at her cuticles.
"Who is he?" Ginny coaxes. "…Or she?" she adds after a moment.
Hermione huffs a laugh. "It isn't that. Bloody hell, I wish it was that."
"Tell me."
She can't force it off her tongue. Tries, feeling like she's choking on it.
Ginny tries to help her along. "Did he do that to you?" She gestures to the bruises scattered over the expanse of her throat.
Hermione nods.
"When?"
Her breath hitches at the thought of it. "Last night. Maybe early this morning." And she closes her eyes, balling her hands into fists until all the blood is forced out. "In the Hospital Wing."
There's a deafening silence.
She risks a glance, and Ginny's face is drawn up with confusion, brows furrowed. She squints at her. "The Hospital Wing…" she echoes. And then, like a match striking — like the snap of fingers, like the crack of a cue ball hitting the billiards — she puts it together.
It's obvious, because the next second she snatches back her mug and downs it one go. Coughs as she sets it down empty.
And she fixes a tortuously unreadable expression onto Hermione. "Malfoy?" she asks, but it's more a confirmation.
Hermione bites her bottom lip. Frees it. "Malfoy."
Moments later, Ginny is sliding out of the booth. Getting to her feet.
Panic flies in all directions from some sort of catalyst in Hermione's chest, and she reaches out for her. "No — no, please. Wait, Gin. Where are you—"
She squeezes Hermione's shoulder.
"I'm getting us another round."