A warning: This story contains depictions of PTSD, emotional and psychological abuse, trauma, self-harm, and essentially an un-sugarcoated account of two people coming together at their worst. It is rated M for a reason. Please step away now if this is not for you.

Breath Mints / Battle Scars

I

August 1st, 1998

Dear Diary,

That's fucking stupid, actually. Whoever said it had to start that way? You aren't dear to me. I don't know you. I don't want you. I'm — I'm doing this because they said I have to. For healing purposes. To be perfectly honest, I hate you, Diary. Just as I hate all things like you. Things that are frivolous and unnecessary, like you. You're fucking useless. Not to mention ugly. Ugly, fucking book. You don't even have lines. What fucking useless sort of fucking journal doesn't have lines? Oh, because "lines will interfere with the authenticity of it." Bloody fucking hell. Fucking load of bollocks. What about a Quick Quotes Quill? No, of fucking course not! Why make anything simple for me? And now look! Now they've got me talking to you like you actually exist — like you're a fucking human being. Turning me into a fucking head case. Perfect! Here you go, you bloody tossers. Just for you! Some perfectly natural, unscripted, stream-of-fucking-consciousness writing. That's what you wanted, right? Here it is. Oh, you're going to fucking regret it. I'll make sure of it. You're going to want to burn this stupid, fucking, ugly, purple, fucking book until it's fucking black. I don't need this.

Fuck you.

Draco Malfoy

September 1st, 1998

She picks at a thread on the knee of her jeans — stares as it snags, starts to take other threads with it. The hole widens. Gapes. Harry and Ron have changed already, and idly she wonders how much stronger that makes them than her. She can't put on those robes. Not yet. Even as the train barrels through the last of the tunnels before Hogsmeade, leaving ten minutes — maybe — before they reach the station. Even as Ron says, "'Mione," quietly, sort of pleadingly, as if he thinks he needs to remind her. She can't. She can't.

Her arm itches. More than it usually does. And Harry looks strange in his Gryffindor tie. Looks…wrong. Misplaced in the clothes of a child that he is not.

The trolley witch makes her jump — makes her spine shoot up straight so quickly she almost hits her head on the back of the compartment.

The witch yanks the Honeydukes Express to a halt in front of the sliding glass door. "Anything from the trolley, dears?" Her face is plump and pink and smiling, as always. "Last sweets to tide you over before the feast?"

"Oh, I'm stuffed."

"No, no, thank you."

Harry and Ron both answer politely, but by the time Hermione even manages to form words in her head, the witch is gone. And she looks back from the door to find both boys staring at her.

"Hermione," says Harry gently. Too gently. "It'll…it'll be all right. It'll get better."

This should be a great comfort, coming from him. He went through the worst of it. Still — somehow, it isn't. She nods, though, swallowing what feels like a stone in her throat. "I'll — erm, well — I'll go get changed, I suppose." And she gets to her feet, pretending she doesn't feel the blood rush to her head, ignoring the dizziness.

She wishes she was as strong as Harry. Wishes she knew how to cope.

Wishes she could breathe.

It would probably be better, in some sick, morbid sort of way, if it didn't look so much like it used to. If the stones hadn't been repaired just so, if the bridge hadn't been rebuilt to look so precisely like it once had.

Maybe if they'd left some of the bloodstains on the ground in the courtyard.

It's that part of her brain. The strange, new cluster of emotions she doesn't quite understand yet. They make her think dark things, every now and again, with a bizarre, lighthearted sort of vibrance. It's gallows humor, she thinks. A coping mechanism.

Harry and Ron walk ahead of her as they enter the castle for the first time since the war. Again, she wishes she had their courage. Wishes she didn't still see those bloodstains, even when they aren't there. But she does.

She sees them all.

This really is the worst idea the Ministry has ever had — their takedown and capture of Muggle-borns the year previous notwithstanding. It's another coping mechanism, of course. Acting as if it all never happened. Moving on — continuing where everyone left off. But it's a worse mechanism than even hers, she thinks.

She's been through too much, seen too much — done too much to just fall back into routine and finish her final year. To slip back into the current and let it drag her body along. It feels wrong. Surely, she can't be the only one who feels that way? She catches herself looking around at the others as they file into the Great Hall; a sea of vaguely familiar faces and some that are far too familiar. And the wool of her robes is scratchy against her too-sensitive skin, the tie around her neck too tight. She searches desperately for someone who looks — feels — as out of place as she does. But the odds are not in her favor if even Harry is doing so well — acting so natural. Ron is Ron, still. Always. Even after losing Fred. And her eyes find Ginny, whose face is split by a rare and very real smile as she talks to what looks like old friends. Hermione doesn't remember their names. She wonders if she should. Wonders if she knew them, once. She finds Neville next, who seems to have blossomed, of all things, after the war. He's a few inches taller, but miles more confident, and he and Luna are practically joined at the hip. His voice booms over the others as it never has before, alight with some story he's telling that has Luna thoroughly entranced.

Hermione's almost certain she's it — she's the only one who can't move on, the only one who can't get past—

Oh.

Oh.

Her stomach drops into her shoes. She's suddenly overly conscious of the dead skin on her dry lips and the ever-present itch in her arm. She scratches compulsively at it as she stares at him, her feet having stuttered — hiccuped to a halt.

He's sort of half in robes, half out, his shock of blond almost covered by a black, knit beanie. She's never seen him wear a hat before. It confuses her eyes so much that she has to blink — once. Hard. He's bundled up in a scarf, too, despite the warm September weather, and she thinks she sees the stripes of his Slytherin tie buried beneath it, but she can't be certain.

No — no, he's not in robes at all, actually. Now she's sure of it. It only takes a second more to realize. He's in an overcoat. Long and black, almost like robes. He's dressed for winter and it's not his tie, it's part of his scarf, and his face is pale as ever, his lips a sickly red-orange. The skin around his eyes is sunken and darkened, and he looks like some sort of unnatural, albino raccoon. He's leaning against the stone wall, waiting for the bulk of the crowd to pass through the gold doors first, and he's so tall he's practically looming there. Gazing down at all of his former peers and all of the giddily oblivious First Years like a very omen of death.

He does not look well.

He — he looks awful.

And she thinks it's that part of her brain again that somehow finds comfort in it.

Draco Malfoy looks awful. As bad — no, worse, than she does. The war is not gone for him, either. And yes, it's comforting. It's despicably fucking comforting. Because even if it is him, it means she isn't a complete lunatic. It means she isn't the weakest out of all of them because she can't move on.

It means that someone gets it. Someone's going to struggle as she does.

Even if it's him. Even if it's him.

His eyes flit upward then — meet hers like a car crash. A head-on collision. She thinks she actually takes a step back.

Those vacant, grey depths fill with something. Grow less empty. And she watches them squint — twitch in the smallest of movements, almost too small to catch. Then he resets his jaw, straightens his back a little, leaning fully against the wall so that he looks down on her now, too, even from their distance. One of his long, bony hands fusses over his forearm — another tiny movement she almost doesn't notice. But she sees his fingers flick — jab — scratch at the fabric over the skin for just a split second. It's the last movement she sees before their eyes disengage and he slips off the wall — slips around the edge of the doors and vanishes like a ghost.

And for a moment, she's almost giddy.

Because Draco Malfoy's been ruined by this war and he's as out of place as she is and — yes, he has scars too. He's got an even bigger one.

She wonders whether one day they'll compare sizes.

Ha. There it is again.

Gallows humor.