1.2 Chell and the Not-Half-Bad Idiot

Wheatley learned three things in his pursuit of friendship with the Gryffindor, Chell:

Chell didn't talk much.

Not that she was timid or shy, she simply did not see the need to talk when a nod or gesture will do. Very odd, but Wheatley supposed there was logic in the idea. Her silence could be intimidating, downright scary it was, being stared down by those grave gray eyes. Her silence could silence him when she got angry enough. Impressive, very impressive.

Chell was also very serious.

All the time. While other girls were giggling and downright silly, Chell would give a soft half-smile and go about her studies. She was content to listen, to participate, but rarely contribute. Fun seemed a foreign concept that Chell keep at arm's length, and Wheatley wondered why. She was accepted easily enough, he did not know why she was so different from her friends.

He started right away. Looking for in the Great Hall and settling beside her, on the outskirts of her group. Following her to the classes they shared and quickly claiming seats for the both of them. Looking for her in the library and the empty classroom she used for brewing her potions.

She would always look up at him, blink, and go back to whatever she was doing; but when he asked her a question, she answered with a gesture if possible, or a brief response. But she never asked him to leave. She never balked at his presence. And she never forced him away. And to Wheatley, who had been either shunned, or barely tolerated, he treated it as an invitation to continue.

And that was the third thing: Chell was ungodly patient.

What she lacked in social ability, she made up with a fierce tenacity. A refusal to give up on any assignment, and to put up with him. It was refreshing, having someone to talk to, who didn't roll their eyes and the like. Someone to finally appreciate all he had to say. Someone who could just give him that little bit of help he needed. Just a bit of help.

Chell chalked up her new…companion to his very desperate need of someone to talk to. Because that's what he did. He talked. And talked. And talked.

However, he was very entertaining. While most of his rather one-sided conversations were nonsense with no proper train of thought, he was funny. He always spoke him mind, no matter if it was wise or not. The mental filter that should have told him what was rude or would incite anger did not function properly. Sometimes he showed enough wisdom to stop himself mid-sentence; most times he didn't and Chell wound up talking down the offended or forcing Wheatley to apologize.

She had stood up for him, and he had latched onto her like a desperate puppy for protection and attention.

But it wasn't half-bad.

She didn't hate the other Gryffindors, but she couldn't connect with them. They sensed something different about her. And Chell had a good idea what it was. Once, Muggle-Borns, Half-Bloods, and Full-Bloods existed together just fine, after the Second Dark Wizard War. Magic was dying, and all wizards and witches had been needed to carry on the gifts.

There was peace and all Magical beings came together.

Then, some crazy man in the Ministry of Magic messed everything up. Everything. He had been fixed on Muggle science, absolutely fascinated. She didn't understand what had happened, she hadn't even been born. But the wizarding population plummeted. Muggle-borns disappeared, and Half-Bloods were treated warily. Chell had overheard once that Science was the reason. Some horrible monstrosity had been the cause, people had died. People had changed.

Chell didn't want anyone to know that her origins were…questionable. Distance between her and everyone was the best bet. She didn't want to be treated differently, like a freak, like a .

But Wheatley wasn't half-bad. He treated her with a mix of respect and arrogance. His family was old blood, but he was a pariah of his own. He couldn't help his personality, and she partly appreciated the attention he gave her, and partly wrinkled her nose at it.

"—And well, me, being just a small, curious little bugger, snuck into the room and took the shiny amulet. Not my fault, really, if you think about it. Real pity though, what happened to the cat—Why are you smiling like that?"

Chell started, looking up from her lunch. Wheatley stared, big blue eyes wide, one eyebrow cocked up high. Her attention had drifted and he noticed for once. She shrugged, taking a sip of the pumpkin juice. He stared still, and Chell stared back now, not blinking or even apologizing for not giving him the fullest attention.

But then, she said, "I recalled how we met."

He snorted and looked away, the smallest hint of a blush on his face. "That was bloody two years ago, why would you go thinking about that?"

She shrugged again, tilting her goblet back and forth.

"You were covered in that rank slime! I remember, never asked about that, did I? I figured it was just some Gryffindor thing."

A snort escapes, and Chell shakes her head. "I was working on a Potions' assignment."

"You had to cover yourself in slime for homework? Is that Advanced Potions, I've never heard of that. Don't really see what the appeal would be, quite honestly. I mean, I guess if the slime did something besides stink. Like, made you strong, or invisible. Though, I guess it might have made you fearsome. I remember, you stepping in before I could properly counter those smelly Gryffindor thugs."

Like always, Chell nods away, still smiling. It had taken her a year to smile like that, easily, without the fear of something snatching it away. A year of this bumbling bugger who wouldn't leave her alone, a year of learning that even though he obviously was attempting to use her, he couldn't help but be charming and funny. He begged for help in class, and hid behind her when threat emerged, and Chell thought that maybe she should stop volunteering to fight his battles. How could she though, after he returned laughter and silliness in a drab, dark and serious world of hers?

"—I'd think that'd be a brilliant idea? A potion that could turn your hair different colors! Imagine, being a blonde, like me! Not that your color is bad or anything just that, a potion could make it a bit more…shiny. Oh! speaking of Potions, did you hear? We have a new professor this year. Heard the History of Magic teacher talking about it that Advanced Charms teacher...erm...oh! Professor Atlas."

"Hm?"

"I don't know much about it, but, let's see, Prof Johnson, old wench she is, can you believe she gave me ten detentions last year? She's bloody mad! Not my fault if she didn't explain that inflammable and flammable mean the blood same thing. But anyway, Old Johnson started the year but decided she couldn't take 'nother round of torturing poor students, I suppose. Just up and retired, just like that. So they had to hire a new one, someone from the Ministry volunteered."

Chell nodded, gathering up the books she had planned on looking through. Potions, she thought. Johnson she could handle, old, and a tense kind of concentrated friendly that bordered on creepy. She had been fair though, Wheatley was just a bad student. Chell often dreaded Potions class. Before she only need sit in the corner. Now, she had responsibilities. Because Wheatley, though fun and sweet, somehow became her responsibility.

She sighed, how would this new professor be? how would they react to the...mess of Wheatley. She was up and walking away, probably outside. Wheatley scooped up his things and a handful of chips from the table as he followed her. He was talking again, about this new professor, not that he knew anything concrete. But suddenly she wasn't in the mood to listen, or pretend to listen, to his ramblings. Her gut tightened and she shivered. Before she could tell him to shut up, however, he stopped midsentence. A sense of cold fear dropped over her, and Chell looked at Wheatley, who had indeed ceased to talk.

The doorway to the fairly empty Great Hall was blocked by a tall, very severe looking woman. Hard, harsh eyes surveyed the Hall, looking over the few students and then, finally, falling on Chell and Wheatley. Eyes that were a yellow bright and calculating.

"Speak of the devil," he whispered to Chell, who clenched her books so tightly her knuckles were turning ashen. "I think that's the professor there, my father works in the Ministry and she looks familiar. Works in the Research Branch, I think. Her name'sd-"

"Gladys."

Chell shivered and began to step back just as Wheatley pushed her forward.

"We should introduce ourselves! We'll make a good impression and she'll be nicer to me-us."

She couldn't turn and run, or, she couldn't get her legs to turn and run. Chell bit her lip. As soon as her body remembered that Chell was in charge, the professor was right in front of her, eyes locked on her face.

"Allo, Professor Gladys!" Wheatley smiled, full bright, cheery charm. "I'm-"

"Ah."

The voice, just as cold as everything else about the woman, shut Wheatley up quick. Chell couldn't look away, Chell couldn't run, couldn't speak.

The woman stepped even closer, she was so tall, and Chell felt so small. Gladys leaned forward until their eyes were level. Chell saw intelligence there, an astounding level of intelligence. She saw pride as well. She saw anger. And, worst of all, Chell saw recognition.

"It's you."