Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 18: XVIII

November 13th, 1998

Diary,

I can't imagine anyone believes it. It looks so forced. And I can't fucking stand it.

Every time he kisses her on the cheek and every time she fucking reaches for his fucking hand, I want to carve my fucking eyes out the Muggle way. And I don't fucking understand that.

But he's not her fucking type.

I'm half expecting you to write an actual reply to this one, just so you can laugh in my face. What'll it say? Oh, probably something along the lines of: "And what, Malfoy? You think you're her type?"

No, I'm not her fucking type.

She's - she's probably very particular. I'd wager her type is a man who wears a waistcoat and a cable-knit jumper every day and drinks his tea with three fucking sugars. The type of man who'd kiss his wife when he came home. He's probably read every book by all those bloody Muggle authors she loves - fucking Shakeknife and whoever. He's probably also fucking memorized Hogwarts: A History because Merlin fucking knows she never shut her mouth about that one.

Yes, that's a must.

I'll bet he's into ballroom dancing and chess and he'll definitely like cats. He'll be an art aficionado and he'll do things like cook for her and learn her favorite poems and I'm absolutely fucking positive he'll be the sort to make love.

I'm not that fucking man.

I wear expensive, elf-tailored suits that would disgust her humanitarian disposition. My tea has to be black and over-brewed and if I ever had a wife, we'd already be divorced. I don't know a fucking thing about her beloved Muggle books and I used my copy of Hogwarts: A History to make charmed paper dragons. Mother made sure I could dance, but she never said I had to like it - and I made it my business not to. I cheat at chess and I fucking hate cats and I've never cooked a meal in my fucking life. I think poetry is pathetic.

And I wouldn't make love to Granger.

What a concept.

No - to her I want to do the things not written or spoken about in polite society. I dream about doing them. My hands itch when I see her. I so fucking badly want to do them.

And a part of me wants it to hurt her when I do it.

No.

No, I'm not her type at all.

Draco

November 23rd, 1998

Zacharias is pleased.

After nearly two weeks of spreading their fake relationship around the school, he tells her that the Slytherin boys have laid off. They no longer tease him. At least not for the reasons they did before.

And while she's happy for him, she wants to end this more than anything.

All of it feels wrong. Feels almost...sticky, if that makes any sense. Every time they kiss in front of Harry or Ron or any of their peers, really, she feels like she needs to take a shower. It's all wrong.

And it's entirely her fault.

So she's dedicated the next few days to thinking up some creative and believable way to end things. She'll talk it over with Zacharias. Maybe have some massive, scripted blowout in front of everyone. That way his reputation is protected, and she can be free to-

She stops her thoughts like she's stepping on an insect.

Free to do what?

She refuses to let her mind go in that direction. She's ending this for herself. So she doesn't have to lie anymore. For that and for only that.