Breath Mints / Battle Scars
XXV
December 19th, 1998
Diary,
Is there a fucking spell to make sense of things?
Draco
December 24th, 1998
She spends days planning it.
Puts in the same amount of devoted effort as she would a term essay in First or Second Year. Except, it's almost harder, because she can't expect an Outstanding. She can pour as much concentration and careful consideration into this as possible and still not be able to depend on an outcome.
Can't even be sure he'll let her finish her sentence.
It's Christmas Eve, though. She can't wait any longer. It has to be tonight.
She stands in front of her four poster for a good twenty minutes, staring at what must be three quarters of her wardrobe spewed out across the bed. She doesn't have Ginny or Parvati here to consult. She's the only Seventh Year who chose to stay.
And warding off that nagging part of her brain that keeps insisting this is utterly ridiculous proves to be quite an undertaking.
Eventually, she settles on a pale blue chenille jumper — the forest green piece she'd had in mind seemed too pretentious. She pulls it down over a pair of simple jeans, wraps a white silk scarf around her neck and tugs on her boots.
It's only as she struggles to magically pin her hair beneath a knit cap that she realizes she never did this for Ron.
Certainly, she'd put a great deal of effort into her reveal at the Yule Ball. But it had been just that — a reveal. Her chosen moment to display herself as more than just the mousy know-it-all. And it had been for everyone. And for herself.
This, though — she's never done this with one person solely in mind.
It's…oddly exhilarating.
And equally terrifying.
Every time she thinks she's finally comfortable with how she looks, something flips like a switch and she decides she looks absurd. And it eventually becomes so frustrating that she smacks her hand against the mirror, snatches her bag off the foot of her bed and practically throws herself down the stairs from the dormitory.
She's timed everything meticulously. She cannot afford to waste precious minutes fussing over meaningless details.
But the nerves really start to set in as she walks the deserted halls, decked with holly just as the carol suggested. She has no gauge for Malfoy's reaction, and she's spent the last several days working herself into a frenzy thinking of all the possibilities. Her resolve is firm, though. She's going to go through with it, even if her knees wobble the whole way.
And they do.
By the time she reaches the Dungeons — reaches the spot Harry and Ron once told her hid the entrance to the Slytherin common room — she's pretty sure the tremors are visible.
Even so, she adjusts the pendant under the scarf and takes out her wand. Performs three magical taps on the wall — a loud knock.
Idly, as she waits, she wonders if anyone's ever knocked for Slytherin House. She pulls the pendant out from under her scarf and toys with its sharp edges between her thumb and forefinger.
And then, all too quickly, a confused and suspicious Theodore Nott materializes a few inches in front of her, like he's stepped through the wall.
She jumps back. Catches her breath.
"Granger?" His dark brows arch up like small mountains.
"Erm — hi," she manages at last, collecting herself. "Hello."
"Did you just…knock?" he drawls, and her earlier thoughts are confirmed.
"Yes, I did, I…" she thumbs the hem of her sweater, "I was hoping to speak to Draco."
A thin seam of panic starts to widen. She hadn't really accounted for Nott being the gatekeeper. She'd been too distracted by her relief that Parkinson was going home for the holidays. And she can't be sure he won't just scoff at her and slam the door — well, wall — in her face.
"What for?" asks Nott, and she pulls herself out of her thoughts.
Indignation is certainly not the best way to go in this moment, but old habits die hard. "That isn't really any of your business, is it?"
Nott's eyes tighten. He adjusts the collar of his sweater as he considers her. "Actually, it is, Granger, as I've explained to you countless times at this point. But I'm bored of it, so I'm not going to explain it again."
And then, to her utter disbelief, he steps back — disappears, and moments later Draco materializes in his place.
He's in all black. A black cable-knit jumper. Black trousers. It's stark against his pale skin, his platinum hair. But, for the first time in a long time, he looks rested. The deep, defined rings of purple beneath his eyes she's grown so used to seeing have diminished some.
And his eyes themselves have snapped instantly to her neck. To where her fingers still play nervously with the pendant.
The sentence she's so carefully rehearsed evaporates in her head.
"Granger," he acknowledges, and she can't discern anything from his tone.
"It's Christmas Eve," is all she can think to say.
"Well spotted."
She clears her throat. Tries to reorganize her thoughts. Tries to remember why she's even here.
"It's…well, it's Christmas Eve," she says again, "and I…well, I wondered if you had any plans?" Her heels knock together. She itches the back of her ankle with the toe of her boot.
"Plans?" He echoes the word like it's foreign.
"Yes. Are you busy this evening?" All of her phrasing feels childish. She can't remember anything she planned to say or how she planned to say it.
"Why?" He shows his first small flicker of emotion. Quirks a thin brow.
And she breathes out slowly through her mouth. "I'd like to go on a date with you."
There's a long, painful silence. Her eyes flit over him, trying to avoid his penetrating stare at all costs.
"A…date?"
She hates it when he repeats her.
"Yes," she says. Folds her arms over her chest, forcing her gaze to meet his.
The other brow quirks now, and he adjusts his posture, leaning back languidly against the wall. "You realize, Granger, that the word 'date' tends to have romantic connotations?"
Her heart pounds. She's almost certain this is his way of rejecting her. "Yes," she says anyway. "Which is why it's…appropriate."
And finally — finally — she sees emotion in his eyes. Sees the faintest glimmer of surprise.
But then, less than a second later, he's sinking back through the wall.
Her chest throbs. Painfully, like she's been struck with a mallet. She glances down at her feet. Feels suddenly idiotic in her sweater, tugging at its hem as she turns to walk away.
The logical part of her brain had, of course, accounted for this possibility.
But the emotional part had not.
She lets out a shaky breath. Starts to walk fast. Wants to run. Run away and hide.
Except, there's another pair of footsteps echoing hers — catching up. And she whips around to see Draco closing their distance as he tugs on a long, black peacoat, a pair of gloves in hand.
Her pulse stutters. Stumbles and trips over itself.
"I assume we're going someplace cold, judging from you." His eyes give her a sweeping once over, hesitating on her shocked face. "Lead the way, Granger."
They apparate from Hogsmeade, hand in hand — and even through the fabric of their gloves, the contact sends shivers up her arm.
When they arrive, appearing in a dark, snow-dusted alley, he lets go immediately. Puffs out a steamy breath, turning a small circle as he tries to figure out where they are.
She injects herself with courage. Reaches for his hand again, squeezing onto it tight. And she doesn't wait to see his reaction — isn't that brave, not yet — before pulling him along after her out of the alley.
Soon enough, they're weaving through crowds of people along sidewalks.
She's taken him to London.
His fingers flex against hers in her hand, almost nervously. "Are we going to Diagon Alley?"
She squeezes again — glances sideways at him at last. "No."
And the relief in his eyes is clear as day.
She'd thought about taking him there. About a proper wizarding date. But then she'd considered that most members of the wizarding society weren't likely to treat him with a great deal of kindness.
And this was meant to be an escape. For both of them.
Seeing his eyes now makes her doubly glad she planned things the way she did.
"Where then?" he asks.
"Trafalgar Square. There's a Christmas market there."
She analyzes his reaction carefully as they walk, seeing the slight hesitation. The uncertainty. "A Muggle Christmas market?" he murmurs.
"Yes."
They're only a block away. And neither says another word until they've stepped around the corner and into the bright and colorfully lit square, its centerpiece a massive tree beside the fountain, glowing like a beacon. Canopies of Christmas lights hang from above like stars, and little tents that look like log cabins are set up in rows, filled with sweets and gifts and wonders.
It's very crowded, couples and families with small children milling about in all directions, all in high spirits.
"Is this a test?" asks Draco quietly, staring straight ahead when she glances sideways at him.
"What?" She almost laughs.
"A test," he repeats, deadpan. "Are you testing me?"
She's silent for a long moment. Then she scoffs. "Yes. This is a test. I wanted to see if you'd go on a massive Muggle killing spree." She releases his hand. Gestures widely in front of them. "Have at it."
Draco raises an eyebrow at her. Huffs.
And she laughs again, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous, you know. Utterly ridiculous. No, this is not a test. I wanted to take you somewhere we wouldn't be bothered. Somewhere pretty and Christmassy. I brought you because I thought you'd like it." And she's pleased with herself for having put it so simply.
Even more pleased when his brow smooths out and she feels him take her hand again.
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Granger."
They spend hours there.
She takes him first to a small hot chocolate stand, rolling her eyes as he gripes about having to wait in line.
"There are lines at Honeydukes. At the Three Broomsticks. You have to wait in the wizarding world, too," she counters, turning to order as they reach the front.
"Yes, but their hot chocolate is hand-stirred and melted down by Elves! And it's served in a silver flagon, not some flimsy paper—"
She shoves the flimsy paper cup in question into his hand, effectively silencing him.
"This is Swiss hot chocolate," she says, guiding them away from the line. "Don't say another word before you try it."
Draco narrows his eyes, looking down into the cup suspiciously. He removes one glove with his teeth — an unexpectedly distracting action — and then dips his pinky finger in the whipped cream, cautiously dotting it on his tongue.
"Oh, yes, certainly check for poison," she snorts, raising her own cup to her lips. And finally, he follows suit, taking a measured sip.
It's immensely gratifying to watch his eyes widen. To watch him instantly tip his cup back for more and then burn his tongue.
She doesn't say 'I told you so.' Doesn't say anything. Just quirks one brow and smiles triumphantly before turning and leading him off to the next tent.
They smell scented candles and study the craftsmanship of unique Christmas decorations — well, she studies, he critiques. He's inordinately confused and enamored by wind-up toys, having had all his toys charmed as a child.
She catches him paying special attention to a small, mechanical carousel.
"You like it?"
"It's nonsensical," he says, too loudly and right in front of the shopkeeper. But his eyes are glued to it as he watches it spin. Watches the little gears turn as it plays a music box form of Silent Night.
"You like it," she says again, no longer a question.
Draco huffs and straightens his shoulders, striding away with what's left of his pride, and she buys it while his back is turned, slipping it into her bag.
"We'll have to go to Diagon Alley, you know," he says as they peruse the display of gingerbread houses — part of a competition.
"Why?" A small flutter of uncertainty awakens inside her. Is he really that uncomfortable around Muggles?
But then he says, "To go to Gringotts. I have no Muggle money and I want another one of those flimsy hot chocolates and you are not paying for anything else."
The urge to kiss him is suddenly almost overwhelming. She turns away to hide her wide smile as she hooks her arm through his and spins them around, back toward the hot chocolate stand. "I asked you on the date. Surely, you have some respect for tradition. I'm paying tonight."
"Tradition?" he splutters. "If you've any respect for tradition, then the man — being me, unless there's something you haven't told me, Granger — would be paying for everything. But you blindsided me."
"How wonderfully sexist — two hot chocolates, please."
He continues to argue with her even as he eagerly takes the offered cup, and they sit on the edge of the fountain, sort of absentmindedly people-watching as they drink.
"Your thoughts?" she asks, a little afraid to know the answer as she gestures to the market as a whole.
Draco sips deeply from his cup, unknowingly painting a white, whipped cream mustache above his lip. "Crowded and bizarre…and yet not entirely unpleasant." He turns to face her, flashing that sideways half-smile she can't get out of her head at night. "And this flimsy hot chocolate is—"
She kisses him. Intends to kiss him quickly, to clean the whipped cream from his lip, but now he tastes of sugar and chocolate and always that faint tinge of peppermint and she finds she can't stop. She turns more fully to face him, the cold of the skin of his neck leeching through the wool of her gloves as she pulls him closer.
She hadn't realized how much she's missed this. Hadn't realized how impossibly hungry she's been since that night in the Hospital Wing.
And if she has any ability to read body language, he seems to feel the same. His hand finds her thigh, dragging her closer, hot chocolate forgotten somewhere as his other hand fists in her hair.
Someone whistles at them.
Draco breaks away instantly, cussing under his breath, and she laughs as she feels him reach for his wand. Kisses him again until he forgets to care.
Later, he asks about the possibility of a third hot chocolate, but instead she takes him to dinner. To one of her favorite restaurants from childhood, where she and her parents would go after the theater.
She'd thought about not going there. Thought it might be too hard.
But then she'd considered the possibility of making new happy memories there, and it had won out.
They talk about their childhoods. Talk about their favorite things and their least favorite things and the things they've done — everything they should've known about one another years ago, had they not been so preoccupied with hating one another. She becomes intimately acquainted with Draco's sweet tooth, hiding another smile at his excitement over the mince pies for dessert.
He loves Quidditch and she can't stand it.
She can cook a four course meal and he doesn't know what a colander is.
He's mastered every Potion in the Hogwarts curriculum, and so has she.
She's afraid of snakes…and so is he.
They have nothing and everything in common.
Throughout the meal, she catches his eyes flitting to the pendant around her neck over and over again.
"What does this mean?" he asks at last, spoon playing with the melting pistachio ice cream they're sharing. He gestures with his free hand between the two of them. "This."
She leans on her hand, and one of the only things she'd actually prepared to say this evening — planned and wanted to say — crosses her lips.
"It means I want to grow up — and start going after what's good for me."
Draco lets the spoon sink into the ice cream. Sits back, eyeing her pensively. "I'm not good for you."
She plays with the pendant, not taking her eyes off him.
"Actually, I think you are."
He breathes out audibly and she continues before she loses her nerve.
"I'm stubborn and selfish and have been too prideful to admit it, but I think I've needed you for a long time."
His eyes darken, turning gray like steel. His foot glides up the side of her ankle under the table.
She gets the check.