Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 12: XII

October 6th, 1998

Diary,

I am apparently conscious.

I am also apparently not in Azkaban. Yet. I expect that could change at any moment.

She...

Fuck, she fucking sent in a fucking entry. In my stead. For me. After she fucking stole it. After I fucking...

After I attacked her.

Merlin, I fucking attacked her - what the fuck was I thinking?

Remember when I was writing about how preposterous the idea of that was? Yeah - I know. The irony tastes like arsenic.

She just - she makes me fucking insane. I told you. I warned you. I fucking did. It's in writing. Granger. Fucking, fucking Granger. It's always Granger. With her fucking explosive fucking hair and those fucking freckles that look like cinnamon and those fucking brown eyes.

I called her a cunt. A fucking mudblood cunt.

I've never even used that word on Pansy.

She just - she fucking -

Fuck.

I want to fucking kill her almost as much as I want to kiss her.

No. No, that's not what I want to do. I don't want to kiss her. I want to make an indentation of her body in my mattress. I want to hear those fucking sounds she makes again. And I want to ruin her life.

The things she fucking wrote - fucking Merlin.

I should rip the page out. I should pass it off as fucking bullshit.

But I like looking at her atrocious handwriting.

Don't ask me. I don't fucking know why.

Draco

October 6th, 1998

The other girls in the dormitory stare at her.

They watch her while she dresses - watch her while she brushes her teeth. Their expressions are soaked in that pity she hates. Their eyes are low though. They're looking at her throat.

She wonders why she hasn't Glamoured it away. Doesn't think she will.

There's no use in hiding this one.

Havershim and McGonagall found her in the Owlery late the previous night, curled up in droppings and feathers, asleep - filthy. Tear-stained.

She's still upset with herself for such a pathetic display of emotion. Still embarrassed by the entirety of yesterday. Nott was wrong. She isn't starved for attention, she loathes it. And she doesn't plan to encourage it by giving in to these looks of pity and crying on someone's shoulder.

She isn't even going to acknowledge how sore her throat actually is.

She's going to square her shoulders and move on. It's what she's best at.

"'Mione, please - just hear me out. Hear my side-"

She's been silently ignoring him until now, but he's pushed her to her limits.

"No, Ronald - you don't have a side," she snaps, startling Dean, who's sitting beside her, into spilling apple cider into his lap.

Ron has been badgering her throughout dinner, having moved from sitting next to her to sitting across from her just to force himself into her eye line. To his credit, he seems genuinely confused as to how she can possibly be mad.

He saved her, right?

She huffs to herself, loudly slurping her own cider to drown out the sounds of his excuses. Harry, who seems to have taken pity on him, chimes in with, "Really, 'Mione, it was just a stupid mistake. His heart was in the-"