Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 8: VIII

October 3rd, 1998

Diary,

I...

Well it's really none of your business, is it? As for your prompt: "List some of the scents that bring you calm. Consider placing them around your bed at night."

Don't tell me how to organize my nightstand. But, if you must know - chamomile, teakwood and pine. I'd say mint, but I'm sick of it.

That's all I have for you. I'm sure you'll chew me out for it.

Draco

October 3rd, 1998

It's a hangover.

Not her worst, but decidedly her most recent - and it always feels like the worst in the moment. She wakes up in sticky, sweat-laden sheets with her hair damp and tangled and her temples throbbing.

It's overcast, thank god, but even the pale light leaking in through the bed curtains is too much. Makes her squint.

She wants to stay in bed. Lie there all day and swear off Butterbeer forever. Wants to piece together her memories of the party last night and determine exactly how much she had. Any other Saturday, and she might've.

But Madam Pomfrey is expecting her - less than an hour from now, in fact - and when she lurches out of bed, her stomach lurches too. She shuffles into the lavatory, knocking into things and cradling her head.

She doesn't truly start work in the Hospital Wing until next week, but today was scheduled as a training day. She won't allow herself to miss it because of a self-inflicted migraine.

Avoiding mirrors at all costs, she uses her wand to wash, dress and repair what is undoubtedly an owl's nest on top of her head. The stairs leading down to the common room are a much larger beast to slay, and she finds herself gripping the walls to keep her balance the whole way down.

The common room is something of a mess. Confetti and streamers litter the floor. Empty bottles clutter every surface. The stains on the ruby red carpet could be any number of things. And yet the majority of Gryffindor is already awake and sitting amongst it, talking over tea and enjoying a slow Saturday morning.

She sighs, flicking her wand to rid the room of the mess as she passes through, finding an empty sofa in the corner on which to down a few shots of espresso.

Gaze in her lap, forehead buried in her palm, she's one shot in when she first starts to feel the eyes on her.

She looks up once - quickly, expecting to pass it off as nothing. But they are most certainly staring. All of them. Dean, Seamus, Parvati, Harry, Ginny...every Gryffindor already awake. They aren't even trying to hide it.

She bristles, sitting up straighter. Had they never seen her drunk before? Last night can't have been that scandalous. Not enough to deserve this. Each of them look equal parts confused and shocked in their own right.

"What?" she snaps. "Have I got something on my face?"

For a long moment, no one says a word, but they have the nerve to continue to stare, unashamed. It's Harry, though, who breaks the silence at long last.

"...Little lower..." he murmurs.

It surprises her. That's it? Something on her chin or neck? What, a stain? Vomit, god forbid? Even then, there'd be no need to stare. Not like that. She huffs angrily, heaving herself back onto her feet as she swallows another bitter shot of espresso she's conjured.

Moving to the long, tilted mirror above the fireplace, she mutters - half to herself and half to them, "From the looks on your faces, you'd think I had some sort of gaping wou-"