Breath Mints / Battle Scars

XXXVII

February 8th, 1999

"Well..." Seamus pauses for effect. "There's finally some peace and quiet around here."

Scattered laughs. A few looks tossed at the near-empty Slytherin table. Hermione catches herself grinding her teeth, hand tightening on her quill. She struggles to keep her eyes down — keep her focus.

She doesn't have time for any of it.

In the deceptively long elevator ride out of the Ministry's holding cells, amongst McGonagall's pinched silence and her own vacant state, it'd become abundantly clear there was only one thing to do.

What she does best.

Malfoy's warning hadn't gone unheard. But it certainly hasn't earned the response he was hoping for.

Because she isn't intimidated. Isn't scared.

She's furious.

At the Ministry. At Seamus's smirking face. And at him.

Because how dare he ask so much of her? How dare he ask her to act so against her nature? So against everything she stands for and believes in...

Asking her to sit this out is no different than asking an apple to taste like a peach.

So she's elbows-deep in research. Isn't even trying to hide it from the rest of the Gryffindor table, though they seem not to notice or care. Not enough to actually put together what she's reading and subsequently writing down.

As far as she knows, all they see is Hermione Granger attending to her studies. Like always.

Only Ginny knows that it's Slytherin family lineages she's taking note of. Historical events involving the Parkinson and Nott families she's committing to memory.

Only Ginny knows what's filling the bottom drawer of her nightstand.

Ginny who, for the first time since that morning at the Three Broomsticks, looks unsettled. Looks as though she regrets encouraging and consoling her.

Hermione wonders if she thought it was just a phase.

The corner of Harry's Daily Prophet keeps flashing with Malfoy's face — an unwelcome distraction. He glares out from the black and white at the world. At her.

Almost too perfectly. Almost as though he's saying, "Don't you dare. Don't you dare do this."

But the danger hasn't come into her mind even once since he brought it up. Rather, her head is full to bursting with the intellectual challenge of it. Of defending the products of generations of zealots and murderers.

Of making them look redeemable, even when their family ties stain them black.

Nott is particularly challenging. His ancestors have been tangled up in enough genocides and cover-ups to make Muggle mass murderers blush.

But Hermione doesn't waste time. With the trials looming just days away, she's made a solemn promise to lock old Hermione away. Safe, sensible Hermione.

And the moment she'd arrived back at Hogwarts from the Ministry, she'd split off wordlessly from McGonagall. Found the first, most pliable-looking Slytherin she could — one of the few who remained — and bribed her with Galleons, forbidden spells and a year's worth of completed essays.

In exchange, Hermione now has a foot-tall stack of pastel and neon-colored journals hidden in her nightstand, one of them violently and familiarly purple.

She studies them each night before bed like bibles. Doesn't stop to let herself feel ashamed. Feel perverse. Like she's intruding, even as she is.

A necessary evil.

She needs to know these witches and wizards better than her best friends if she's to have any hopes of defending them.

Some don't have journals, presenting complications — but those select few also weren't sentenced to psychiatric treatment, making them easier to defend in the first place.

And then there's Malfoy.

His high profile is one of the most powerful factors working against him. Almost no one would hesitate to take a stab at the Malfoy name if given the opportunity. It's his defense that requires the greatest attention to detail — and yet, even without being there, he somehow manages to make things harder still by impairing her focus. Constantly. She catches herself lingering on his entries. Entries totally irrelevant to his trial, but entirely relevant to that throb in her chest.

Diary,

My fucking Amortentia smells like flimsy hot chocolate now and I'm not fucking okay with it.

Diary,

Viktor Krum can go fuck himself with his own broom.

Diary,

I'm reading fucking Shakestaff or whatever for indexing purposes. Filing away quotes to insult her with when she says I know nothing about Muggles.

I know fuck all about Muggles.

But I want her to think otherwise.

Diary,

Hypothetically speaking, how hard do you think it'd be to convince someone you're no longer a twat?

Diary,

She's a cunt.

I think I need her.

...

Merlin, what a cunt.

Her hands are shaking by the time she closes it each night — always the last journal she reads. The hardest one to put down.

And those moments — when her head hits the pillow, just before her eyes close, as she stares at the endless, gruesome red of the curtains —

It's then that she's scared.

"'Mione?"

He finds her in the Library, the night before the first set of trials. Zabini's and Pucey's.

Blaise and Adrian, she reminds herself. Blaise and Adrian.

She can't use surnames. Not in court. Not if she's trying to humanize them.

"Hi Harry," she says distractedly, not looking up. Sifting through old Prophet articles. She reads through a paragraph or two before noticing that he hasn't said anything. That he's just lingering there, shifting from foot to foot. It makes her nervous. "What is it?"

"I, erm…" His eyes flit between hers and the floor behind his glasses. "I know what you're doing."

She bites down on the inside of her cheek. "Well, yes, I'm doing resear—"

"I know you're defending them."

A tense silence ensues. They blink at one another, and she believes they're both entirely aware this will be a defining moment for them. For their friendship. For their future.

"Don't lie," he says finally, voice low and quiet.

"I'm not going to lie to you again, Harry." She's surprised at the sobriety of her tone. "I don't see the point."

"Good."

She nods. "Good."

Still, he lingers. She sighs, stirring a few sheets of parchment. "Say what you came here to say."His fingers twitch at his side. Harry — her Harry, always having such trouble standing still.

"You shouldn't do this," is what he manages. What she's been expecting.

"I know."

"But you're still going to…" Not a question.

"Yes."

Harry clears his throat. Shifts awkwardly and then digs into his pocket. "Right, then. Erm. I'm supposed to read this to you."

And her expectations fly out the window as she spots all-too-familiar handwriting on the corner of the page he uncrumples. Her mouth runs dry. "What are you —"

"Just remember that I'm not the one saying any of this, yeah? I'm just reading what he wrote." Harry doesn't meet her eyes. His face is colored by a blush, but she can't tell whether he's nervous or embarrassed. Can't focus enough on it to be sure.

He clears his throat again and dives in.

"Read this to her if she decides to be a stubborn little axe wound about things. And for fuck's sake, Potter, don't censor anything or she won't fucking believe you."

Hermione sucks in a sharp breath.

"Granger, for once in your life don't be a fucking idiot. Yes, I'm calling you an idiot. You're an idiot for thinking I'm enough of an idiot to think you're pliable enough to listen to anyone other than yourself." Harry struggles with that line. "And you're also an idiot for being so fucking stubborn. It's entirely your fault that I have to involve Saint Fucking Potter. I already know you never do what you're told. I know you didn't listen to me. I know you're going to try to go to the Ministry tomorrow.

Do yourself a favor, though, and just try not to be a cunt for two fucking seconds and fucking listen to me.

I'd have sent this directly to you, but I know you'd burn it before you finished it and then what's the fucking point? I'm trusting Potter — Merlin, what a fucking concept — to force you to listen to the whole fucking thing. I'm suffering a hand cramp for it, so you're going to suffer too.

This thing? You and me? It's been good, yeah?

I can admit that. I can. I've enjoyed myself. Not to speak for you, but — " Harry's blush deepens considerably — "judging by the sounds you've made, I'd say you've enjoyed yourself too."

She flushes to match. Adjusts her posture awkwardly in the library chair.

"Here's the thing though, Granger. We can enjoy it all we want but it still doesn't make us right for each other. And sitting here having nothing to do but think has put a lot of shit in perspective for me. Like, seriously, how many fucking times does catastrophic shit need to happen for us to take the fucking hint? We're volatile. Toxic. Pointless."

Her hands gather into tight fists beneath the table.

"To simplify, this whole thing between us has just been an exercise in self-harm and it isn't fucking worth it. In time, I'm sure you'll come to agree. So I hope this helps free you from this ridiculous notion that you have to defend me. You'll do more harm than good. I've got a new solicitor who comes highly recommended and that's all I need. I don't need you."

She squeezes her eyes shut. Thinks of that jagged scrawl saying exactly the opposite in his journal.

"So please stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong and stay out of it. Okay? I'm going to pretend you're nodding. Okay. You can stop reading aloud now, Potter, you utter dickh— oh, erm. Right." Harry stops. Winces because he knows he has to meet her eyes.

But she can feel it. The expression on her face has warped to blank, her stare passive. For a moment, Harry looks relieved, but then seems to realize this is all the more concerning.

"I'm sorry, 'Mione," he says. "I know it was harsh and most of it was unnecessary, but that's Malfoy for— well, I mean. Anyway, I'm sorry. But I do think he's right."

She blinks at him. "Do you?"

"Only about not going to the Ministry," he rushes. "Not about you being a waste of time or any of—"

"Thank you, Harry," she says flatly, looking back down at her research.

"Mione—"

"Oh, on your way out…" She scribbles quickly on a spare scrap of parchment. Folds it and holds it out to him. "Would you mind taking this with you, please? To send back?" Somehow, miraculously, she manages to keep her face entirely blank. Her voice toneless.

Harry looks at her like she's grown a second head. Horrified, like she's covered in blood, or something of the sort.

Like he doesn't know her.

"Erm…" he manages after long silence, "yeah. Yeah, sure."

"Thank you."

She watches him leave, his steps a little wobbly, his eyes a little dazed. Knows for a fact he'll unfold the letter the moment he's out of sight.

But she doesn't care anymore.

What does it matter if he sees? What does it change?

Nothing. The answer is nothing. And all he'll see is:

You're right. I never do as I'm told. Try harder next time.