Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 7: VII

October 1st, 1998

Diary,

At least it's colder. The charms don't wear off as quickly.

That's the only positive thought I can give you, so take it or leave it. Starting another month here feels like torture. It's like looking a hangman's noose in the face. Like being condemned. These walls are too thick and too stained with fucking memories and I feel like I'm in a bloody prison.

Technically speaking, it is a prison. I'm not here of my own volition. I'm not free to leave if I like. If you really think about it, a magical contract is a lot like prison. Only, this way, more people stare.

Why didn't you lot put me on house arrest, too? With my mum? I don't care about finishing school. About furthering my education. No one will hire an ex-Death Eater as it is, so what's the point? Is it that you think we'll conspire against the Ministry together? Come up with some dastardly plan to break my Father out and escape to the further reaches of this bloody Earth?

Like I said, I don't have the energy.

I think you know that, too - which leads me to believe that it's most definitely punishment you're after.

Well, more power to you. You've made a fine choice. I feel like I'm in Hell. And if I get one more dirty look from those fucking Patil sisters or hear one more fucking word from that Irish prat, my patience will be spent.

And I've been very, very patient thus far.

Prompt: "Who makes you smile?"

Send me a new prompt, I'm not even going to bother with this one.

Draco

October 2nd, 1998

She went back for the letter later that day - didn't find it. Which just complicated everything. Because Madam Pomfrey responded the next day. Sent her a work schedule, beginning the following week.

Which meant that he sent it for her.

Malfoy.

And that didn't make any sense at all.

She's been wondering about it for days - wonders about it still, even now, with a half empty jug of Butterbeer dangling from one hand and Harry's arm slung around her other shoulder. They're singing a song in the Gryffindor common room. Some drunken, boisterous revelry she doesn't know the words to, but all of the Seventh Years have joined in and even some of the Sixth Years, and it's a Friday night and somehow Harry convinced her to stay. To enjoy it.

She knows she's only capable because she starts with Madam Pomfrey tomorrow. Knows that's the only reason the ever-looming darkness isn't quite visible just now.

But she doesn't sing.

She just sways along with the rest of them and drinks her fair share, and for once, it's nice to forget about everything. To ignore the fact that this is just pretending. That it won't make any of it go away. That the war still happened. People - friends, family - are still dead.

She takes another swig of Butterbeer to chase away those thoughts. Ron smiles at her from across the circle. She gives him a half-smile back - a drunken, lopsided, not-quite smile.

"Right, you lot!" calls Seamus. "It's time for the traditional Truth-" he thrusts his bottle of Firewhiskey into the air, sloshing some of it onto the red velvet couches, "or Dare!"

And Hermione realizes abruptly that she should've been planning her escape a long time ago. Because they play Truth or Dare with Veritaserum and - well, she hates the game to begin with. Can't even imagine what it must be like to be forced to tell the truth, which is the only option she ever picks.