Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 33: XXXIII

January 29th, 1999

It must be twenty degrees below freezing. At least.

When she steps through the wall, it feels like shards of ice are being driven through her skin. Every muscle tenses, every joint locks into place. Her eyes fly shut instinctively, as though to guard against it, and she shoves her hands into the already cold pockets of her bathrobe.

But somehow she forces her lids to open. Watches the steam cloud of her breath rise in front of her as her gaze settles on him.

He's sitting on the sofa the way one would as they read the morning paper. Casually. Loosely. One knee propped up, his elbow resting on it. As though his fingers aren't dark blue. As though he isn't frozen against the leather. She can see where it's fused to his clothes. His skin.

He glances sideways at her, and his eyes are vacant.

"Granger," he nods. Sounds bored.

And she wants to slap him again. Cruel, unfeeling bastard.

"What are you doing?" she asks instead, voice trembling with the cold. She's already lost feeling in her toes.

"Enjoying an evening to myself," is his answer, and just like that, all of her caution flies out the window, sucked out of her just like the warmth.

"No, you aren't," she spits. "You're being selfish. Disgustingly selfish."

His gaze doesn't change, but his posture adjusts. He sits back a little. Looks her up and down. Says nothing.

"Your friends are out there." She points behind her angrily, breath coming in steamy bursts. "Worried sick. You've dragged them all out of bed to stand around this ridiculous bloody igloo of yours, and they're casting useless spell after useless spell trying to save your life."

He blinks at her.

She fumes. "Pansy had to go to Gryffindor to get me. She had to threaten her way in. You made her do that. You."

He snorts, then. Examines his fingernails. "Pansy, in Gryffindor. That's an image."

"Why don't you take anything seriously?!" she shouts, voice bouncing off the icy walls.

And just a fraction of the strange, indifferent fog over his eyes clears. He looks up at her. "Why do you always assume I'm trying to die?"

She folds her arms over her chest - a dual purpose, to guard against the cold and against him. "Perhaps because you're always putting yourself in deadly situations. Correct me if I'm wrong."

"You sounded much more polite on the other side of that ice," he says.

"Well, now that I can see how much of a child you're being..." She can't stop herself. Can't put any restraints on the anger that's built up from that night, even though she knows she needs to be more careful. Knows this is precarious. But she can't stop it. It's compulsive.

Malfoy cracks his knuckles. Resumes his bored expression. "Isn't that what you've always thought of me?"

She sniffs with fury. "Don't pity yourself."

He drops both elbows onto his knees. Rubs one eye. "Why are you here, Granger?"

And she splutters - gestures aimlessly, trying and failing to form some sort of response to that.

"This has nothing to do with you," he says.

"You're joking, Malfoy." She starts to pace. It feels like the blood is freezing in her veins, and she's trying to keep her knees from locking up. "You - look at you, you're self-destructing! This is a cry for help -"