Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 3: III

September 8th, 1998

Diary,

Fucking bitch.

Not you. Not this time, at least - isn't that a surprise? The object of my immediate rage is someone fucking else for a change. Not that you're off the hook.

But it's Granger. Fucking Granger. You don't know her but you'd be sorry if you did. She's - she's fucking absurd. Fucking impossible to deal with. A hellish amalgamation of every living thing I can't fucking stand. Fucking egregious, loathsome, know-it-all, stubborn, salt-in-my-fucking-eye swot. I'd been so hoping I'd be ordered to kill her during the war. So hoping. (Fucking relax, yeah? I'm reformed.)

You'd kill her too, though, if you had the chance. You'd wring that ridiculous, avian little neck before she got a full sentence out. Because she'd probably be telling you you're wrong. Probably be making you feel like your head's up your arse, when really it's the fucking broom up hers that makes everything so fucking difficult.

To make matters worse, she's sulky now. Sulky. What goblin crawled out of a hole and decided we needed that particular hex on our lives? I want to shake his hand, because it's a fucking top-notch torture method.

Granger's already a know-it-all. I can't imagine anything worse than a sulking know-it-all. Add that frizzy fucking nest on her head and you've got dinner and a show.

I hate this. I hate her. I hate all of them.

I just want to be left the fuck alone. Is that so hard? So wrong?

Another prompt for today. Tossers.

"What methods are you using to incorporate balance into your day to day life?"

Firewhiskey just might be the answer to everything at this rate. And the occasional Stinging Jinx to the face. I do it myself. Feels great. Really helps me balance.

So yeah.

Get fucked.

Draco Malfoy

September 8th, 1998

She can only pick at the peppered Italian breakfast sausage, toying with it with her fork, although it smells divine. It's the only thing on her plate, and she can't make herself take a bite. Her appetite has been missing in action for a week or so. Since returning to Hogwarts, really.

And the incident with Malfoy the night before really doesn't help.

To make matters worse, for the first half hour of breakfast, he isn't at the Slytherin table, and for twenty-nine full minutes, she thinks he's actually dead.

Harry and Ron question the distraught look on her face more than once, but she brushes them off - blames a stomach ache and keeps staring, either at the table or the doors to the Great Hall. Occasionally at the windows. The ones facing the Black Lake.

The image of a pale, floating body is far too vivid, painted on the backs of her eyelids each time she blinks.

Is it possible that he actually went through with it?

She'd thought she made up her mind on the concept. On whether or not it even matters to her. Had decided it most certainly does not.

But now she's not so sure. She's disconcerted, to say the least. She wonders if she can afford to blame herself for anything else.

It's an ugly Wednesday outside. The sun beats down, with no clouds to disturb its hot haze, and the light of it streaming in through the windows is starting to give her a headache. She's debating giving the rest of her sausage to Ron - making some excuse about returning a book to the Library. And she's actually, truly debating whether or not to skip her first class and seek refuge under her covers for an extra hour. It's an incredibly alien thought. There was a time when even if she was vomiting, she'd force herself to attend. Use her Time-Turner to escape to the lavatory every few minutes. But that feels like centuries ago, now. And truancy might be exactly what she needs in this moment.