September 21st, 1998
Diary,
Not that it matters, but Muggle whiskey doesn’t taste all that bad in coffee.
Prompt: What is your favorite happy memory?
See? I hate this shit. Why do you care? You don’t — that’s easy. I know you don’t. And for the record, I don’t feel healed at all. None of this is helping me. None of it’s taking any of it away. What’s the point?
My favorite memory isn’t even a happy memory anymore. It can’t be, thanks to people like you. Thanks to your side. Because my favorite memory is my mum making lemon tarts for me when I was eight and Father was out and it was raining. She sat by me on the sofa in the parlor and let me play with my noisiest toys for hours because Father wasn’t there to insist on silence. On decorum. And — and we went for a walk. In the rain. Got wet. Got covered in mud. Tracked it into the foyer and didn’t care. Mum was happy. I was happy.
And now she’s on house arrest and Father is in prison.
So I don’t have a favorite happy memory, yeah? Hope it gives you a good laugh.
Draco
September 26th, 1998
Small mercies.
They still exist, in depleted numbers. And today, they come in the form of Madam Pomfrey.
Miss Granger,
I was informed by Professor Slughorn that it was you who assisted with the brewing of antidotes for my stores last week, and I must say I was most impressed by their strength. Should you have any interest, I would like to offer you a temporary position in the Hospital Wing. You would be working closely at my side, every other day of the week after lessons, assisting with antidotes, healing spells and experimental projects.
Headmaster McGonagall supports the idea, and should the situation arise, she says she will be happy to excuse you from lessons during periods of high volume in the Hospital Wing.
A position like this could put you well on your way to a prestigious career at St. Mungo’s, if Healing is a future interest of yours.
I hope you will consider.
Sincerely,
Poppy Pomfrey
The letter is on her windowsill in the morning when she wakes, likely delivered by an owl in the night — and it’s the first good news she’s had in nearly a month. The first since she’s been back at Hogwarts.
She reads it twice. Three times. Sets it down for a moment and reads it a fourth. Madam Pomfrey is known to be very particular about her work. Hermione has never seen a student assisting her in the Hospital Wing before.
It’s a compliment — a large one, as well as an incredible opportunity. She knows that’s the important part. But more than anything, to her, it’s a distraction. An escape.
A chance to be at Hogwarts without trying to relive the past. A chance to do something meaningful, rather than study what she’s already read — test what she already knows. It’s new. It’s different.
Her reply is a scrawled mess of excitement and anticipation, and it’s far from subtle with regard to when she should start. She finds herself practically flying to the Owlery to send it, waking up portraits left and right from their early morning sleep.
It’s a chance. A chance to feel normal again. One she can’t let slip by.
She scampers up the feather-laden steps, actually able to enjoy — for once — the crisp morning air against her face. But it’s short-lived. Because as she rounds the corner through the doorway, she collides with him. Knows his voice from the muffled “—bleeding fucking hell—” that comes out on their way down.
They hit the stone hard, landing in feathers and owl droppings, and Malfoy is back up on his feet in the very next instant. He wipes at his trousers with all the panic of an aristocrat in expensive clothes — because that’s what he is, after all — but it’s the flashes of purple in his hand that draw her eye.
