Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 31: XXXI

January 11th, 1999

He doesn't move. Not an inch.

His eyes are cold and hooded and masked - she can read no expression in them.

"You knew. You knew. You planned this."

His warming charm fades away, and an icy gust of wind sweeps up against them. She barely feels it.

"Planned is a strong word," he says, no emotion in his voice, either. Nothing. Emptiness. "But you can always count on Weasley not to finish his work on time." He cracks his knuckles. Rolls his shoulders. Casual. Always fucking casual. "So, no - less of a plan and more of an educated guess."

"You already finished that project," is all she can manage to say, deadpan.

He has the nerve to shrug.

She thinks she's going to be sick. Right here. On the floor. Feels the bile rise up in her throat. But no - no, she isn't going to let that happen. Isn't going to be that pathetic. Refuses. No, she doesn't need to be sick, she needs to...she needs -

Hermione takes one step forward and musters as much force as she can.

Backhands him across the face.

His jaw is a cold, hard slab of stone against the sensitive, thin skin of her knuckles. Stings, the pain hot and sharp. And the resounding crack is loud in her ears.

Malfoy doesn't make a sound. What force she managed has swept his neck to the side, and for a moment he stays facing that way, allowing her to watch the angry scarlet bloom across his cheek.

His eyes are tight when he slides them over to her again.

"You are sick," she breathes, feeling her blood boiling beneath every inch of flesh. "Twisted and sick." She's unsatisfied and unfulfilled by the violence. She isn't sure anything could satisfy her in this moment.

But the slight flicker in his expression - the crack in the stone - is a start.

Even so, it's painful just to look at him.

She can't. She needs to leave. She needs to run. She - Ron. Ron is the priority.

Ron.

Malfoy's still fucking talking.

"Maybe so, Granger." He shrugs again. Again.

And the poison bubbling up in her veins seeps out. Curls her lip and lashes out like a whip on her tongue.

"I hate you."

And no. No, that's not enough. Won't hurt enough. Needs to hurt. Needs to hurt as much as she does.

"You're nothing."

That's it.

That's the pain she needed to see.

The way the breath exits his mouth and the way his shoulders deflate with it. The way his jaw slackens and his sharp eyes go dull. The way he blinks.

It gives her legs the strength to move.

And she's running.

January 11th, 1999

Diary,

Nobody fucking taught me.

Nobody sat me down and explained. Explained how the fuck I'm supposed to feel. What I'm supposed to do. How I'm supposed to act.

Mother and Father never told me, 'Yes, Draco, this is how much it's going to hurt,' and 'This is how hard it'll be to trust,' and 'This is what you should never do. Never. Ever.'