Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 34: XXXIV

January 30th, 1999

Diary,

I forgot.

I didn't think it was actually fucking possible to forget what it's like to feel normal, but I fucking forgot.

And now I have to figure out what to do with myself.

Because I don't know who I am without that pain. For two years now - fuck, almost three - I've based everything off of it. Been making room for it. Accommodating it. Accounting for it. Expecting and preparing for it.

But now, no thanks to you lot, it's gone.

And of course - of fucking course she had to be the one to take it away. Because it wouldn't be my life and my luck if I didn't have to owe her one more thing. Always one more thing.

I feel...blank now, without the pain. None of my other feelings can possibly function as aggressively as it did, have as much power over me as it did.

Fuck, I'm wondering if I actually fucking miss it.

No.

No, that's not what I miss.

I miss the life I had before it.

Draco

February 1st, 1999

It's one of the only times she's late - and, conveniently, it's also one of the worst times she could be.

But she hasn't been sleeping well.

Therefore, on the rare occasions she does manage it, it's immensely difficult for her to wake back up, and today she's slept through all of breakfast as well as those precious fifteen minutes leading up to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

She scrambles in, hair askew, just as Hestia's going over the day's lesson, and it's embarrassing enough to interrupt with her tardiness.

It's so much worse that the last seat available happens to be next to him.

Worse still that now, out of nowhere, he's chosen to start attending classes again. Why today, of all days? Why? After she's resolved - made a bloody pact with herself - to stay away from him?

She stops dead a few feet from the door, everyone staring at her - including him. And Hestia.

"Miss Granger, wonderful of you to join us." There's no real bite to Hestia's tone, but she may as well have slapped her. The whole situation has spiraled so wildly out of control so fast. "Have a seat."

Malfoy wears a neutral expression as she makes a halting approach, her hand cramping in its fist around the strap of her book bag. Her eyes find his left arm instantly, a safer target than his eyes. Nothing seems amiss - all of her real work is hidden beneath the white sleeve of his shirt and his hand appears to be resting normally on the desk.

Still, though, that's only what it looks like. All manner of things could've gone wrong internally.

But she's not about to ask him. Not about to guide herself towards any situation that involves talking to him. She's decided. She's decided.

She stayed up half the night talking to Ginny after coming back from the Dungeons, and together they reached the conclusion that nothing positive could come from this. That Jackson Pollock was a dead end. Period.

She's decided.

She finally takes her seat. Jackknifes herself against the back of the chair, staring straight ahead and fruitlessly trying to force all of her attention onto Hestia.

She has to start breathing through her mouth as soon as his scent gusts up against her.

It reminds her of too many things. It's too easy, now, for her to pinpoint exactly where each subtle aspect of his musk comes from. The oaky citrus from his cologne. The watery freshness from the soap he uses. The clean linen from his clothes. And the peppermint. Of course the peppermint, from those breath mints she's tasted on his tongue - the ones she's stolen from his mouth on occasion and swallowed herself.