Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 17: XVII

November 11th, 1998

Diary,

I don't know why I did it.

No, maybe I do.

But that's worse. That's so much worse.

I don't know what I was thinking, I just-

Oh, bleeding fucking hell, she's here.

November 11th, 1998

After an absurd performance by Zacharias, in which he feigns great affection and concern, Hestia tells her she'll excuse her from the rest of her classes. To take the remainder of the day to rest and to eat some sweets.

But Hermione's feet don't make a move for the Gryffindor Common Room at the foot of the Grand Staircase. They turn, almost instinctively, and lead her out into the courtyard.

Her mind is a haze, at best. Still a little foggy from the pain. Her skin seems to tingle, the way it did for hours after they apparated to the safe house that day. Like it's trying to restitch itself after being invisibly carved up.

So she lets her feet do the work. Trusts them. Has a hunch of where she's headed.

Lately, whenever she follows her feet, they somehow lead her to Malfoy.

This is no exception. She finds herself stumbling down the familiar hill towards the Black Lake, and halfway down she can already see his silhouette - an ink stain against the sparkling surface of the water, glistening as the afternoon sun sinks below the hills.

He's sitting, hunched over his knees, and for half a moment she thinks he might be crying.

But no - he's scribbling ferociously. She should've guessed.

Her feet crunch against the icy grass. She sees him tense. He snaps the journal shut.

Had she not been so numb, she might've rehearsed something to say in her head. Might've approached this moment with some small measure of grace or tact. Instead, her fractured mental state delivers the most cold, unabridged version of her thoughts to the back of his bright blond head.

"So you're afraid of becoming your father."

For almost a full minute, he doesn't say anything, just stares out at the water. It laps against the silence. Then he exhales, quietly, distinctly.

"Observant as always, Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor."

She bristles at that, even as she knows she deserves it. She gathers her robes about her to fend off the cold and debates whether or not to sit down.

It's wrong to be here. She should be committing to her chosen lie - should be pretending to bask in Zacharias's attention and playing the helpless girlfriend. That's her side of the deal.

But this is where her feet put her, and with every nerve ending in her body fried to crisp, she can't argue. She folds herself down onto the scratchy, dead grass. Says what she's thinking, because every time she tries to filter her words, she fails - so why put in the effort?

"Why did you do that?"

Malfoy doesn't answer. Stares straight ahead at the horizon, one hand absentmindedly reaching up to tug at his eyelashes.

"I could've handled it myself."

"Not everything is about you, Granger," he snaps, tone colder than the November air. Then he gives a low, angry sort of growl before she can respond, ripping his wand from his pocket and uttering a spell under his breath.

Hermione watches an opaque blanket of white ripple over his body, visible for just a moment before it fades away. Malfoy's shoulders relax.

She knows he won't answer if she asks. Murmurs, "Specialis revelio" instead. Malfoy barely flinches as his spell is revealed to her. Seems to have expected her to do it, really.