Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 5: V

September 17th, 1998

Diary,

Saint Potter has it out for me. I'm writing this so you'll know who killed me when it eventually happens, yeah? Take notes.

He's been glaring at me all week, during meals, and I'll be honest - it would be a lot more threatening without those ridiculous glasses. I've no idea what the Weaslette sees in him. Square-faced, round-spectacled ponce. Surprised he's not on a victory tour across Europe. Soaking in the glory.

But he's here, and he's going to try and kill me, alright? And he'll make it look like an accident. He thinks I went after Granger, which is just - Merlin's right tit, don't get me started. As if I'd waste my time on something like that. I don't even have the bloody energy. Give me a little credit.

Anyhow. Here's your prompt.

"Think of some constructive mantras to help you through. List them."

1. "Drugs would be really helpful."

2. "How about some drugs?"

3. "Oh - I know! Drugs."

I'm assuming you've sent them along and the parcel's just been delayed by a wayward owl.

For your own good, that'd better be true.

Draco

September 19th, 1998

It's a bad day. She can feel it coming on, even as she wakes. The looming sense of dread. Like a heavy black curtain falling from above. She's had many mornings like these.

And so she takes counteractive measures.

She's got one more detention with Slughorn this afternoon, but otherwise it's a Saturday, and she's finished her homework ages ago.

The dappled light slipping in through the window beside her bed suggests it's as early as six o'clock. And yet she can't sleep another moment. She sits up. Slips her wand off the nightstand and casts a spell to tame her curls, feeling them right themselves around her head.

She moves quietly through the dormitory, maneuvering around the sleeping girls as she shrugs into a thick, chenille sweater - tucks her feet into a pair of boots. The days have been warm, but September mornings are anything but. And she wants to be outside. Needs to be, on a day like this.

Hogwarts is more peaceful in the morning. It has a less foreboding edge than late at night, but is equally empty. Equally calm. Even the ghosts rest, and the silence is a relief. Outside, on the Grounds, it's even better. Even quieter, and what few sounds break through are welcome ones - birds; water lapping; wind against blades of grass.

She's drawn to the Lake again. Didn't get to enjoy it properly last time, what with Malfoy...

Thinking about him brings back what he said the week before. About bias. She still isn't sure if he was accusing her of something, or if it was a comment about her blood status.

They were both right, though. Mandy Brocklehurst's spin on the story was the one that stuck, and by Wednesday of that week, the whole school assumed Malfoy had made an attempt on Hermione's life. Mind you, it changed very little about his reputation. His family is disgraced. Just like the Goyles and the Parkinsons. People will talk no matter what fuel they're given.

It doesn't make her feel better - but she squashes the thought before she has the chance to feel sorry for him. Reminds herself that he's a Death Eater. He chose this life. He comes from a family of murderers, and with any luck he would've joined them. So that's that.

She itches at her scar, then remembers what Madam Pomfrey said and gives it two sharp smacks instead. Itching inflames. Sharp pressure, though - it distracts from the pain a little better.