Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 27: XXVII

December 25th, 1998

Diary,

The Muggle date - as a concept - is not wholly ridiculous, as it turns out.

The lines are ridiculous, and Muggle London is highly overcrowded, but their hot chocolate is good and their toy craftsmanship is...tolerable.

No, forget all that. Muggle dates are probably fucking ridiculous all the way around.

But Muggle dates with Granger are-

Fuck.

Well. Brace yourselves.

Things are about to get very fucking ugly for me.

Draco

January 3rd, 1999

She's left every letter unopened, save a very brief, scribbled missive from Ginny which read:

I'll be there soon. Don't panic.

It was dated from Christmas, but hadn't arrived until the next day, along with most of the others. Included in the envelope was the clipping from the Daily Prophet, which Hermione had ended up tucking away in her nightstand.

But she'd been very careful not to look at the senders on the other letters. Had seen one written in Ron's furious scrawl and stopped checking after that. There was likely one from Harry - maybe more than one. Definitely several from Parvati. Romilda. Eloise. Maybe even Neville, if she had to guess. Likely not Luna - she tended not to pry. She winced at the thought of one from Molly Weasley, but she had to accept that it was probably somewhere in the pile, too.

Thankfully, not many students had stayed at Hogwarts over the holidays, and hardly any from their year. What immediate attention she and Draco did get from the article came mostly in the form of ogling First Years - "isn't it romantic?" - and the occasional, haughty disapproval of some Fourth and Fifth Years who knew more about their history.

Draco, though - she'd been very apprehensive about his reaction. Didn't know what to expect. And he'd stared at her with that alarmed expression for a concerning amount of seconds. Had her doubting and second-guessing, the way he always does.

Now, though, he's got his head in her lap as she reads Merida Swoglot, so she figures she must've done something right.

They're in the Divination Classroom, again. It's become their regular haunt. And as she reads, he casts lazy variations of Charms spells above their heads, yawning. Over the past several days, no longer hindered by the need to sneak around, they've discovered how much they enjoy one another's silent company.

No need to talk. No need to entertain each other.

Just mutual, undemanding silence.

She doesn't usually break it. Hates to. But today she feels she must.

"What time does the train get in?"

Draco's paper dragons hesitate in midair. Start to fly counterclockwise. "Noon," he says, examining his wand. "But you already knew that."

"Can you blame me for being nervous?" She glances down at him over the edge of the book. He doesn't look at her.

"No. But I don't particularly want to talk about it."

"Shouldn't we have - I don't know, a plan, or something?"

Now he does glance up, and it's with an expression she's becoming increasingly familiar with. A look that seems to say, 'Really, Granger?' without saying anything at all.

"What?" She snaps the book shut. "It's not a terrible ide-"

"People don't usually have to rehearse conversations with their friends," he drawls.