The Night is Young | Hermione Granger

8. The Holidays Are For Those You Love

At precisely 11:59 on the morning of Christmas Eve, I deem it the appropriate time to scold Maxim Yaxley for not coming down the stairs (as he should) so that we can go eat breakfast. It's noon, now, and I can tell him I've waited all morning but he never came.

So I take the stairs up the boys side of the dormitories, his roommates having gone home for the holidays, and open the door to find Max pacing - or rather, shuffling - around.

Shaking his mop of curls out of his forehead, his eyes hold a glare that reminds me of his fathers as he kicks aside a discarded article of clothing on the ground. I hate that look, hate that I see him and it reminds me of the older Yaxley, especially when I know that all Max wants is to be nothing like his father.

He's still in his pyjamas, unkempt, unshaven so his stubble is casting a shadow on his face, and his head lifts barely to look at me, not bothering to diminish the glare. His normal olive face is pale with lack of sleep, which looks odd and out of place with the rest of his body. I'm guessing it's one of those days he's decided to hide out in his room. But I'm not Isola, I don't know what time he'll be 'alright', as she says. It worries me to see him like this.

"Look at this cesspool I live in." He comments, motioning to the unmade beds and neglected clothing and other items scattered around the room from him and his dorm mates.

With a wave of his wand, the items fling themselves onto their respective owners beds, clearing the floor. Max then throws his wand to his bed and stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking away and shuffling again.

I'm not really sure what to say to him. But there's really nothing else to do now, breakfast is going to be replaced with lunch soon, I've finished all my work for the holidays, and no one else I care about is in the castle. So I go over to his bed with caution, and when he doesn't stop me, I fix it, and sit atop the sheets.

"You missed breakfast." I say, and he's looking around the room, face still angry.

"Really." He hums. "What'd they have?"

"I don't know, I've been waiting for you."

"Well, that's quite stupid." He scratches at his cheek, the stubble creating a noise from the motion.

"You need to get dressed."

"No, I don't." He looks at me, and I don't like him looking at me with this expression.

"Please." I say, and though I have no emotion, no change of tone, I never say please. Max knows this, so he turns his head away as avoidance. "Max, get dressed, please."

He grunts.

"Pass me a shirt." He throws his hand in the direction of his nightstand, where a few articles of clean, folded clothes lay in the drawer. He sits on the edge of his bed, facing away from me with his head hung a bit, like he's tired, as I reach over to pull out the first article on the pile.

When I turn to him, he pulls his pyjama shirt over his head and drops it to the floor. His back is exposed to me and I freeze. Littered across his skin are various scars, some thin and long, some deeper and round, some fresh, some faded, but all painful to look at. They decorate his back between freckles and birthmarks like a brutal and unnatural painting that makes my stomach turn.

I think I take too long, because Max turns and grabs the shirt from me, I clear my throat slightly.

"You have a lot of birthmarks." I say, which is pretty stupid because his body is littered with ones across his face and arms that I see every day.

"Isola's taken to naming them like constellations." He says so as to avoid the topic of his scars, putting the clothing on and standing up. My head follows him up as he turns back to me.