Breath Mints / Battle Scars
XXVIII
January 3rd, 1999
Diary,
Well, it would appear the Golden Trio is not all it's chalked up to be.
Fool's gold, if you ask me, considering how quickly two-thirds of it was ready to drop the last third on her arse.
I don't feel guilty, though. And a good portion of it is entirely Granger's fault.
She's indecisive and impulsive.
Things would've gone over much more smoothly, I'd warrant, had she told the lot of them ages ago. I'm under no impression that they wouldn't have tried to hex me at every given opportunity, but they wouldn't have been able to play the betrayal card so easily.
And then, of course, when she did finally make up her fucking mind, she decided her best option was Rita fucking Skeeter.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for shock value — and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it immensely. But it was stupid and impulsive, like Granger is.
No, she's not stupid.
She's a lot of things, but she's not stupid.
Mother hasn't written, which I find odd, but then again maybe they've taken away her access to the Prophet.
No, all I got was an owl from my solicitor, informing me that this was possibly very good for my image.
Ha. Good one, Attlebush. If only you could see the way the Gryffindors are looking at me now.
Draco
January 3rd, 1999
She isn't prepared the second time she knocks on Slytherin House.
Isn't thinking. Not about anything but Ron's last words.
"You're nothing."
And so it's really no one's fault but hers when Pansy Parkinson appears through the wall, because anyone in a rational state of mind would have seen this as a possibility.
She's dressed in an elaborate black negligée and an unexpected pair of fluffy green slippers. Her raven hair is drawn up into a bun and she has some sort of sheen on her face — likely an anti-aging potion.
Hermione is subconsciously thinking how pretty she really is, until her face scrunches up at the sight of her.
"What do you want?" she hisses.
How can she answer that? She doesn't know herself. Doesn't know anything, anymore.
So she just stands there like a fool, tear-stained and disheveled, staring at this girl. This girl who couldn't be any more different than her. Any more her opposite. Staring at her and gasping through a sudden attack of wracking sobs.
She hasn't felt this pathetic in a long time. Perhaps ever.
But it's all coming to a head. All of those dirty looks, coupled with the look in Draco's eyes — Harry's silence, Ginny's absence. The cold, clinical smell of Malfoy Manor. The itch of her scar.
She feels like a cauldron left sitting on a flame, abandoned for far too long. And the pewter is finally melting. She's finally boiling over.
Here, in front of Pansy Parkinson in her nightgown.
If that isn't bad enough, a moment later she's sobbing in front of Theodore Nott, too.
He appears at Pansy's side, smelling faintly of Firewhiskey and eyeing her passively. "Told you it'd be Granger," he says. "She's the only one who knocks."
She feels like she might be sick. Feels like the epicenter of all ridicule.
"Is she having a seizure?" asks Pansy.
Her knees buckle. It all keeps getting worse. Can't possibly keep getting worse. So much worse. She skins herself on the flagstone, shins hitting hard, but the sting is nothing compared to the throb in chest.
Nott's voice is muffled by the roar of blood in her ears.
"Possibly," he says. And then suddenly she feels hands looping under her shoulders. "Right, Granger. Up we go," Nott grunts, heaving her back onto her feet.
"Theo, no," Pansy snaps.
"You know we'll get blamed if they find her convulsing in our corridor."
Hermione sags against him. Can't think. Can't see through her tears. Can't breathe.
"We've never let a Gryffindor in," Pansy argues. "And she's a Mudblood. That's a terrible place to start."
Nott isn't listening to her. That becomes clear when Hermione feels herself being led through the nebulous, filmy sensation that is the false wall.
"She's going to bleed all over our carpet," is Pansy's last feeble protest.
Vague hues pass before her watery eyes. Deep emeralds and blacks, the orange glow of a fireplace. And even in her shaking, incoherent state, she's furious with herself for not being able to see better.
She's wanted to see this for ages.
"Right, here we go — yes, let go, Granger. Let go. Down. I'm sitting you down." Nott struggles to drop her into the soft depths of a black leather sofa, and with her muscles feeling like gelatin, it seems to consume her. Swallow her up.
"What the bloody hell is the matter with her?" Pansy shifts across her eye line. Just a glimpse of black lace.
"Panic attack, I'm guessing," says Nott.
Hermione forces herself to focus intensely on the tremble in her fingers. Uses the focus to stop them — to make them still. And slowly, though it feels like mounting an impossibly steep hill, she begins to come to her senses.
Just enough to ask, "Where's Draco?" in a barely audible rasp.
Pansy snorts from somewhere off to the left, and Hermione turns to her. Watches her slowly come into focus as the tears stop flowing. She's draped herself across a deep green, tufted velvet chaise lounge. Looks almost like a painting.
"Went for a swim," answers Nott from behind her. He comes walking around the edge of the sofa a moment later — hands her a black crystal goblet.
Idiot, she thinks to herself.
Why hadn't she gone to the Lake? Why hadn't she put any actual thought into Draco's usual habits and considered where he was most likely to be?
Why had she thrown herself into this situation for no reason?
She glances down into the goblet, a mess of emotions — dazed and angry all at once. Firewhiskey stares back up at her, and for the first time in her life, it's impossibly appealing.
She takes a generous sip. Grimaces at the burn. The spice.
"Yeah, that'll put you right." Nott collapses down into the adjacent sofa, the three of them arranged like the points of a triangle.
He's being very…amicable. Has been for a few weeks now. She doesn't know 't question it in this moment.
"Thank you," she mumbles, goblet already at her lips for a second sip.
"You can't stay." Pansy's words slice through the air. "Hope you know that."
Hermione glances over at her again, cheeks red. Mortified by every second of the past fifteen minutes. "I know," she says.
Slowly, her heart rate falls to a normal level. Her tears dry stickily against her face, making the skin feel tight. Swollen. The goblet still shakes a little in her hand. But a third sip emboldens her enough to sit up a little straighter, so she can look around.
Harry and Ron had said the Slytherin common room was dark and creepy. Had said it was cold and smelled damp. No light, no warmth. No comfort.
But now she thinks they only saw what they wanted to see. What they expected to see. And she pushes them from her mind, the thought of them too painful.
She takes in every inch.
Large, diamond-paned windows line the stone walls, lit with the serene, blue-green glow of the Black Lake. Dark shapes float past every now and then. Fish. Glimpses of Mer-creatures. Beside the windows, sconces hold gently flaming torches, each illuminating a different portrait.
Merlin, in his regal robes, hangs above the fireplace, his painting so large it's almost a shrine.
Her eyes sweep low. Take in the black marble study tables. The suits of armor. None of the furniture matches. No two pieces are alike. Velvet, leather, suede, marble, wood, granite. And yet it all goes together somehow.
The flagstone walls arch up, carved like a cathedral, columns and all.
It is more warm and comforting than she could have ever imagined. Regardless of all the decor she's certain comes from Borgin and Burkes.
Nott is watching her when she's finally looked her fill.
"Too gothic for your Gryffindor sensibilities?" He quirks a brow.
She sniffs. Wipes her nose with her sleeve and takes another sip, enjoying the slow burn in her stomach. "It's nice," is all she can think to say.
Pansy scoffs again and rolls her eyes dramatically. She yanks a bottle of Firewhiskey off a table behind her chaise — there seem to be bottles sitting just about everywhere. An endless supply.
"So what's gone hopelessly wrong for you now, Granger?" She yanks the cork free and knocks it back with prowess. "Get called names by a Hufflepuff?"
Hermione shifts where she sits, uncomfortable. Her skinned knee stings, a bloody patch on her jeans. She doesn't want to play Pansy's game. Not right now. Doesn't care about arguing or witty comebacks. Just diverts her stare to Merlin's proud, aged face and says, "By my best friend, actually." She goes to take another sip, but finds the goblet empty.
Nott juts his chin in the direction of the nearest bottle, on an end table to her right, and she's enormously grateful to have something to occupy her hands. To have more alcohol to numb her senses.
"I'm not exactly welcome in Gryffindor as of now," she says blandly as she pours to the brim.
"What makes you think you're welcome here?" snipes Pansy.
Nott sighs. "Pans…"
But Hermione just shakes her head. "I don't think I'm welcome anywhere." And it's the cold hard truth. Sinks into her gut like a bowling ball.
"Well, this can't be good," says a new voice suddenly, and Hermione jerks. Sloshes Firewhiskey into her lap.
It'd been just the three of them until now, but Blaise Zabini is strutting over from a curling set of stairs she guesses leads to the dormitories. He's barefoot, yawning his way over in an expensive looking black velvet bathrobe.
"Wait, wait," Nott says, stretching both arms out behind him in the vague direction of Zabini. "Don't sit down." He waves his hand as Zabini reaches the arm of the couch. "Grab me the box of tarts from the table, yeah?"
Zabini wipes an aggravated hand down his face and backtracks — lobs the box none too gently at Nott's chest a moment later before stretching out languidly beside him. Tosses his feet into Nott's lap.
This entire situation is absolutely surreal.
"So, Granger's in the Dungeons," he says, folding his arms behind his head and flashing gleaming white teeth, a stark contrast to his smooth, black skin. "First Gryffindor ever — what a treat." Though he says it rather viciously, like she's trapped prey.
"No, no," Nott says casually, eating a tart. "Romilda Vane, in Third Year…though I doubt she remembers."
He and Zabini exchange lascivious grins as Hermione fights to hide her surprise.
Pansy's is plain as day though, and she goes a dark shade of livid purple. Glares at Nott.
"What brings you to the dark side?" asks Zabini.
"Kicked out of Gryffindor," says Nott around another tart.
"Ooh, well done indeed. Very impressive."
It's impossible to tell whether he's being sarcastic. She's hardly ever spoken to Zabini — possibly never. She has no notion of his personality. Only knows he was once very firm in his beliefs about blood purity, and was only days away from being Marked before the War, according to his criminal trial.
"She's not staying," Pansy stresses, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Why not?" Zabini sends another dark smile Hermione's way. "She kept Malfoy from losing an arm. Saved this one's arse from fucking expulsion, I'll bet." He kicks a tart out of Nott's hand. "Seems pretty handy to have around. What if I accidentally trip another First Year? Detention is mind-numbingly dull."
"She's not staying!" Pansy practically shrieks.
And perhaps it's all the Firewhiskey, but Hermione hears herself ask, "Why do you hate me so much?" in a quiet voice.
Pansy goes still. Everyone does. The silver clock on the mantle ticks loudly in the fresh silence.
Hermione continues, deciding it's most definitely liquid courage guiding her words. "I know I'm a Mudblood and a member of the Order. I know you despise my cause. But me…specifically me. Why do you hate me? Not once have you and I ever had an altercation."
Pansy's expression twitches — a stony, pursed look of wavering fury and uncertainty.
"It's like you said," she answers at last, primly. "You're a Mudblood. What more do I need?"
"Somehow, I don't believe you."
Pansy's lip curls up. "Does it look like I give a shit what you believe?" And with that, she swings her legs over the side of the chaise. Sweeps up the bottom of her lace dressing gown and stalks off toward the stairs, tossing, "She can't stay," over her shoulder.
Hermione sinks a little deeper into the sofa once she's gone. Doesn't know why.
"She's just sour you managed to get Malfoy to come back for seconds," says Zabini.
The crassness of it makes her nose wrinkle up. Makes her almost, almost feel for Pansy. She finishes her second goblet.
"I'm rather surprised, though, actually," Zabini continues. "They really turned their backs on you?"
She feels fresh tears prick at her eyes. Forces them to evaporate by digging her fingernails into the heel of her hand.
"I thought Gryffindors were the high and mighty sort. Forgiveness and honor and all that bollocks."
"So did I," says Hermione, staring straight ahead at the far wall.
Zabini leans back on the armrest. Closes his eyes and smiles contentedly. "Don't we all love hypocrisy?"
And it just sums up everything perfectly. Flawlessly.
Nott sighs. "Eat a tart, Granger — you look like you're going to cry again."
She only just manages to catch it before it hits her in the face. Gives him a tucked lip non-smile but doesn't eat. Doesn't think she can stomach anything right now and doesn't want to compromise the strength of the whiskey burning in her gut. She just turns it over in her hands.
It's half past one in the morning when Draco finally returns.
She's been drinking herself into a stupor with Zabini and Nott for over an hour, in relative agreed upon silence.
Draco strides in soaking wet and faintly blue with the beginning stages of hypothermia. He's making his way purposefully towards the dormitory stairs, tossing a nod of acknowledgement to the three of them before doing a double-take.
One of these things is not like the others.
"The fuck?" he says flatly, all of the shock manifesting itself in his eyes. He hesitates where he stands, half-turned towards the stairs.
Hermione manages only a pathetic little wave with her goblet, spilling more whiskey.
"Good timing, mate — I think one more and she'd be sick," says Nott, lurching to his feet. Zabini yawns and follows suit, and Hermione drunkenly realizes they've been keeping her company. Can't really fathom it, though it seems to be the only explanation.
"What is this?" Draco makes his way over to them, brandishing a hand, incredulous. He sends droplets of water flying in every direction.
"Didn't they teach us drying spells in First Year?" asks Zabini around another yawn, apparently too bored to stick around for whatever comes next. He disappears up the dormitory stairs.
"Nott, what the fuck?" Draco says again, voice tight and low. He's sort of fuzzy to her eyes from where she's slumped on the sofa. She squints up at him, trying to form a proper outline.
It feels like the adults are talking.
"House turned her away," says Nott. "Found her a sobbing mess just outside."
"He gave me lots of whiskey. He was very nice," Hermione hears herself announce. She spills some of this whiskey down Draco's already soaked trouser leg and hiccups an apology.
"Bloody hell," he murmurs.
Next she knows, Draco's hooked an arm around her back, pulling her from the couch by her underarms.
"You are wet," she informs him as he leans her weight against his side.
"She'll be fine," Nott says, running a sleepy hand through his chestnut brown hair.
Hermione just barely catches the interaction between the two of them. The way Draco taps the back of his hand against Nott's shoulder, almost in thanks, before he too disappears up the stairs.
Draco looks at these same stairs doubtfully for a moment, adjusting Hermione against him each time she teeters. Then he sighs and seems to decide to put her back, this time on the larger chaise lounge.
"Oh, no…careful," Hermione slurs as he lays her out on it, hands strong. She likes his strong hands. "This is Pansy's couch."
"Every couch is Pansy's couch." Draco's voice is stern. Almost like a parent dealing with a naughty child.
It makes her frown. She reaches up desperately as he pulls away, taking hold of both his forearms after missing several times. Yanking him in close so he comes into focus. Water drips from his wet hair onto her face. "Do you hate me now, too?" she asks. Finds it to be a perfectly logical question.
Draco huffs at her, expression difficult to read in her state, although perhaps any other time it might be obvious. He pulls out of her grip easily and taps his fingers against her lips — a very gentle 'shut up.'
He conjures a blanket, throwing it over her. Conjures a waste bin on the floor by her head as well, an afterthought. Then he makes his way to the couch Zabini and Nott had occupied, stretching out on it.
She thinks she tries to reach out for him one more time before the exhaustion floods through her like anesthetic. Before her consciousness collapses into dark.
She startles awake to methodic ticking and pitch black.
Forgets where she is.
Her head throbs like never before — has her grasping desperately for the wand in her pocket. She casts a charm to dull the pain, sitting up as her eyes adjust to the dark.
The faint glow of dying embers in the fireplace starts to illuminate her surroundings.
And her heart feels like lead.
It wasn't just a vivid nightmare. She's really here, in the Slytherin common room, with nowhere else to go.
The clock on the mantle is the only sound. Ticks endlessly. She twists and squints up at it in the dark.
Four in the morning.
She lets out a shaky breath. Propped up on her elbows, she can see the vague outline of Draco on the adjacent sofa. His chest rises and falls with sleep, but not slowly. Not evenly. With each inhale, it seems to hitch in his throat. Trapped. The arm he has thrown over his head twitches, hand flexing — into a fist, out of a fist, into a fist, out.
She guesses he sleeps just as restlessly as she does.
Swallowing to moisten her dry mouth, Hermione sweeps her curls from her face and struggles to her feet. Sways a little with the remnants of the Firewhiskey.
At this time in the morning, no one will be awake in Gryffindor. No one waiting to ridicule her. She can sneak into bed, likely without issue.
And then she'll sleep for a day. Sleep through classes.
Sleep until it all goes away. Forever, if she must.
Vanishing the blanket she vaguely remembers him conjuring, she tries to step carefully past the table between the couches. Overestimates her balance and the steadiness of her knees.
She trips dizzily, legs wobbling, and she knocks against the edge of the table, toppling a goblet.
"Bullocks," she whispers, but Draco's already shot up off his back.
"What the fu—"
"Shh…" She waves him silent through the dark. "It's just me."
Draco sits panting for several extended seconds before flopping back down on his back. "Merlin, Granger. You're taking years off my life." He wipes a hand down his face.
"I'm sorry. I'm leaving. I'm sorry," she whispers, feeling foolish.
She tries to skirt around his couch toward the exit, still struggling with her balance — but she only makes it to the armrest before his hand shoots out. Grasps her by the thigh.
She jerks. Trips again, this time yanked sideways by his hand and landing on top of him. Knocking the breath out of him with a muffled 'oof!'
"I'm sorry!" she whisper-shouts again, struggling to get off and find her footing, but he just coughs and belts her down. Pulls her over him so that knees are no longer on stomachs and elbows are no longer jabbing into shoulders.
"Sometimes I swear you're not worth the trouble," he mumbles into her neck, tipping them sideways so she's squeezed between him and the back of the couch.
"What are you doing?" She continues to struggle, even as her body folds comfortably against the familiar planes of his. "I shouldn't stay here."
"No one gives a damn, Granger. Least of all here. Everyone already knows."
She thinks it's sleep talking. Is fairly certain he'd feel differently in the light of day, with a bunch of angry Slytherins staring down at them.
But the way his breath whispers across the sensitive skin at the crease of her neck makes it hard to argue. Hard to resist.
The couch is still slightly damp and so is he. She shivers as the residual cold leeches into her. Slowly lets her muscles go slack. Gives up.
Draco sighs sleepily when he notices. He sinks down deeper into the leather cushions and drives his knee between hers, sliding it up to rest against her inner thighs. Too close. Much too close.
"Not here," she breathes, suddenly tense again. Trembling, but not with cold.
"Not doing anything," he says against her throat. Clearly doesn't realize that, no matter how still he is, she'll never be able to relax in this position.
She lays there, breathing shallow, listening to the clock tick for a good five minutes or so. Isn't sure if he's fallen back asleep or not. Will in no way be able to herself. She's wide awake, now.
And she's thinking.
Thinking about his knee, just inches from where it shouldn't be. Thinking about this room, so unfamiliar. Thinking about Nott and Zabini and Parkinson, and then about Ron and Harry and Ginny.
Thinking and overthinking, as always.
"I smell smoke," Draco grumbles suddenly, surprising her, and he reaches up a lazy arm to tap his finger against her temple.
"Sod off," she hisses, glancing sideways at him. His eyes are still closed.
"Does anyone worry as much as you do? Do they offer positions in worrying?" His words are slow and careless, possibly still half asleep. "You should look into that." But his finger stops tapping and starts drawing little circles and swirls on her cheek.
Definitely half asleep.
"I have things to worry about," she whispers, ignoring the pleasant tingles his touch is sending to her brain. "I'm losing friends left and right."
Now he does open his eyes. Blinks slowly at her, gaze tracing over her face. He drops his arm — wedges the other beneath his head to prop it up a bit. "I'll be honest, though you won't like it. But part of me gets off on seeing you like this."
Her brow furrows.
He elaborates. "Seeing you lose things. Struggle. Suffer. It's immensely satisfying after watching you and the Wonder Twins triumph for so many years."
"I'm sure it is," she says after a long silence, feeling an ache blossom beneath her collarbone. She tries to assess why she isn't furious at his words. Why they don't set off alarm bells in her head. All she can say is, "The Wonder Twins. Another Muggle reference you should know nothing about."
Draco's eyes flit between each of hers. He bobs his free shoulder in a shrug. "Full of surprises."
She manages an unhappy smile.
"However," he adds after a moment, adjusting his knee between her legs. Her breath hitches. "I will say that Weaselby's going to have a very rough term."
She squints at him. Is so distracted by his words that she doesn't really register his hand as it glides its way down over her hip. Only notices when he starts unbuttoning her jeans.
She tries to stop him, pulse jumpstarting, but he pushes her hand away and slides down the zip. Leans in to brush his lips over her throat.
"I don't like what he said."
Her words come out broken — disjointed by the way his hand dips beneath the plain white edge of her knickers. "That…that I'm a traitor?"
Draco shakes his head, nose brushing against her earlobe. "Mm-mm."
Her voice wavers. "That I'm nothing?"
He bites her neck suddenly. So hard she jolts, the pain unexpected. "Yeah," he says against her skin, then laves his tongue over the abused flesh, like an apology. "That."
A shaking exhale is her only response.
Draco draws a slow finger up and down against her, making lazy circles and sending shockwaves through her nerve endings. "What's worse is you almost seem to fucking believe it." Then he pulls his hand away abruptly, the sudden loss of sensation a pain all its own — only to make her watch him slip that same finger into his mouth. Suck on it.
A strangled noise fights its way out of her throat. She flushes bright pink.
"Which is fucking absurd," he continues, sliding the wet digit free of his lips and guiding it smoothly back between her legs.
She gasps. Her hands find his shoulders, fisting in the damp fabric of his shirt.
"Pisses me off," he says, fingers finding a comfortable rhythm — gliding against her and making her hips jerk up to meet them. "But not as much as he does."
She buries her face in his chest. Can't bear to have him watch her while he does this to her.
"I want to hurt him," he purrs, words not matching his tone. Not matching anything as he teases her entrance. Swirls his callused finger around it. "Fuck, I so badly want to hurt him." And then he slides two fingers inside.
She muffles her cry against him, fingernails digging into his shoulders.
"Will you let me hurt him?" he murmurs in her ear, even as he pumps his fingers in and out, each time finding that odd, perfect spot she can't describe. The one that makes her toes curl and her legs squirm.
"Don't," she squeaks — weakly, barely.
"Please, please, I want to hurt him." His voice is rough. He increases the rhythm of his hand to match. "Let me hurt him."
This is wrong. She knows this is wrong.
But knowing that does nothing to stop the oozing, aching pleasure from building up between her hips.
"No," she whimpers, and he thrusts in a third finger in response, twisting so he's almost laying on top of her. Leaning over her. Driving into her.
She can't hide from him this way, and his lips capture hers with a bruising pressure. Bite. Suck. Hard. "I want to make him bleed. I want to cut him open with a Muggle knife."
She writhes against him, both in protest and in earnest. Craving. Needing. Terrified.
"Say I can. Say you'll let me."
She can only shake her head, eyes squeezed shut, biting down on her tongue. She's so close. Too close.
"Even if you don't, I think I'll do it anyway."
And with that, he's done talking. He hitches up her waist with his free arm, belting it under her to bring her closer. Tilt her, so the angle of his fingers is unbearable. And they drive in and out, in and out, so consistently — so mercilessly, until she's balling his shirt into fists and convulsing against him. Crying out against the skin of his throat as the orgasm explodes through her almost angrily. Vengefully.
Her hands are shaking when she finally manages to let him go. His shirt is wrinkled and creased. His lips are swollen.
And his gaze is savage. Delighted. Wickedly delighted that he managed to do this to her.
She trembles. Breathes out loudly in the sudden silence. Her shaking fingers find the smooth planes of his cheeks.
"Don't — don't hurt him. You don't have to hurt him."
He dips down. Kisses her too sweetly for what he says.
"I won't make you any promises."
