Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 28: XXVIII

January 3rd, 1999

Diary,

Well, it would appear the Golden Trio is not all it's chalked up to be.

Fool's gold, if you ask me, considering how quickly two-thirds of it was ready to drop the last third on her arse.

I don't feel guilty, though. And a good portion of it is entirely Granger's fault.

She's indecisive and impulsive.

Things would've gone over much more smoothly, I'd warrant, had she told the lot of them ages ago. I'm under no impression that they wouldn't have tried to hex me at every given opportunity, but they wouldn't have been able to play the betrayal card so easily.

And then, of course, when she did finally make up her fucking mind, she decided her best option was Rita Fucking Skeeter.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for shock value - and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it immensely. But it was stupid and impulsive, like Granger is.

No, she's not stupid.

She's a lot of things, but she's not stupid.

Mother hasn't written, which I find odd, but then again maybe they've taken away her access to the Prophet.

No, all I got was an owl from my solicitor, informing me that this was possibly very good for my image.

Ha. Good one, Attlebush. If only you could see the way the Gryffindors are looking at me now.

Draco

January 3rd, 1999

She isn't prepared the second time she knocks on Slytherin House.

Isn't thinking. Not about anything but Ron's last words.

"You're nothing."

And so it's really no one's fault but hers when Pansy Parkinson appears through the wall, because anyone in a rational state of mind would have seen this as a possibility.

She's dressed in an elaborate black negligée and an unexpected pair of fluffy green slippers. Her raven hair is drawn up into a bun and she has some sort of sheen on her face - likely an anti-aging potion.

Hermione is subconsciously thinking how pretty she really is, until her face scrunches up at the sight of her.

"What do you want?" she hisses.

How can she answer that? She doesn't know herself. Doesn't know anything, anymore.

So she just stands there like a fool, tear-stained and disheveled, staring at this girl. This girl who couldn't be any more different than her. Any more her opposite. Staring at her and gasping through a sudden attack of wracking sobs.

She hasn't felt this pathetic in a long time. Perhaps ever.

But it's all coming to a head. All of those dirty looks, coupled with the look in Draco's eyes - Harry's silence, Ginny's absence. The cold, clinical smell of Malfoy Manor. The itch of her scar.

She feels like a cauldron left sitting on a flame, abandoned for far too long. And the pewter is finally melting. She's finally boiling over.

Here, in front of Pansy Parkinson in her nightgown.

If that isn't bad enough, a moment later she's sobbing in front of Theodore Nott, too.

He appears at Pansy's side, smelling faintly of Firewhiskey and eyeing her passively. "Told you it'd be Granger," he says. "She's the only one who knocks."