Disclaimer: Not mine.

Ch. 10: Of Books and Conversations

Harry left the next morning while Malfoy was still asleep, which the latter did almost constantly for the next two days. Snape visited each day, but never stayed long and never required taxing conversation. The only other visitor Malfoy had was Headmaster Dumbledore, who came by on the third day, when Malfoy had healed enough to sit up and stay awake for extended periods of time. (Harry had briefly considered stopping by, but decided that he had wasted enough time and energy on the difficult blond for the time being; the ball was now in his court.)

"Draco?" Ever since Mafloy's breakdown in his office at the beginning of the year, Dumbledore had made a point of calling the boy by his first name. Malfoy might not have liked either of his names, but the Headmaster figured that the first was preferable. He did, after all, have to go by something.

Malfoy opened his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping, just. . . meditating. "Sir?"

"How are you recovering?," the old man asked kindly.

"As well as can be expected, sir."

"Good, good." They eyed each other for a moment, as if assessing the other's intentions and mental state.

"If you expel me, Voldemort will have me killed," Malfoy stated tightly, a sudden onslaught of real fear gripping his lungs.

"You are not being expelled. But you surely understand that a repeat of last Wednesday is simply not acceptable?"

Malfoy nodded, eyes cast down. He was a little surprised at his own reaction – he had been feeling significantly less ready to fly off the handle since getting shocked. Irritable, yes, but not on edge.

"I know you have refused Professor Snape's help with regards to resolving your issues. But don't you think it is time that you at least try to resolve your issues? In whatever way you think the most acceptable?"

Now Malfoy felt angry, and he leaned forward in the bed, but his anger was tempered by fatigue and lacked its usual fury. "I have been trying! It's really hard! And I have been making progress!"

Dumbledore looked unfazed. "Yes, you have Draco. And everyone has noticed your improvement. Which is why we think you are ready to really start piecing your life back together."

Malfoy allowed himself to calm, but didn't know what to say or how to respond; so he went with the old standard, "Fine."

Dumbledore smiled, and his eyes twinkled with humor, and possibly affection. He reached into his robes to suddenly brandish a very old book. From its looks, it was being held together by sheer magic alone. He placed the book in Malfoy's bandaged hands. "Don't try to read it now, Draco. Wait until you find the attention it deserves. I think you might find some answers to your confusion."

Malfoy looked at the heavy book in his hands. Its cover read, "A History of the Science of Magic," and its publishing date was 1437. It looked to be just about the driest and most boring read ever. "Uh. . . Thanks? I guess. . ."

Dumbledore's smile widened, and Malfoy would have sworn the man was laughing on the inside. "Well, then, I will leave you to rest then. I'm sure you will recover quickly."

Malfoy nodded and Dumbledore headed towards the door, though he stopped after only a couple meters to look back. "Oh, and Draco? If something like that happens again, you will not find me so lenient, so try not rage at any more skies, hmmm?"

The young Slytherin was left thinking how insufferable Dumbledore was.

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Malfoy stood in the Infirmary bathroom inspecting himself in the mirror. The broken capillaries had mostly healed, the bandages were off his hands and feet, and he had generally been restored to his previous appearance.

He narrowed his eyes spitefully. "I hate you," he hissed at his reflection. "You're dirty and disgusting, and you are not my body." The mirror had stopped talking to him ever since his first visit to the infirmary in the beginning of the year, when he had attacked it (to the harm of both himself and the mirror) for telling him that he was beautiful.

He turned his attention to his thin but firm arms, and traced his still partially numb fingers along the pale flesh there. The marks of loathing that he had clawed there over the summer were gone, and with them the passion with which he hated this strange body. It was his now, whomever it belonged to before, to do what he wanted with; nothing productive could come from destroying it. Though he did like the scar through his eyebrow from where he had dashed his head against the wall in an effort to get to the tortured mind within. He liked the scar because it marked the body as HIS.

Finally, he looked back up at himself. His hair was dry and damaged, and jutted out in messily. He knew he had the ability to. . . well, change it, but it wasn't an ability he was willing to reveal. As far as he could tell, his hand only held a few good cards, and he was going to keep them hidden as long as possible. His old self had been. . . very adept at poker. The bitch of wizards' poker though, was that if you kept the same cards too long, they would unexpectedly change on you. The blond sneered at his reflection: Malfoy's cards had changed big time.

He exited the bathroom on feeble legs. It had only been five days since the incident, but he was recovering well. He was a little wary of returning to the student population while still so weak, but he doubted anyone would give him too much shit after his display of power. A real smile finally made it to his thin lips.

He was proud of what had happened. Yes, it was uncontrolled, he was out of control, he knew that, but he still had power, perhaps even greater power, if he could just master it. Everyone had considered the blowing up of the carriage a freak incident, probably caused by the incompetent use of magic by the more idiotic Slytherins that had been beating on him at the time; but now it was obvious that it had been Malfoy who was responsible. He felt better about himself, and more hopeful, than he had since his father had died.

He went by his bed to pick up Dumbledore's book before leaving the Infirmary with a "Till next time" to Mme Pompfrey.

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Harry had received a fair amount of shit from his Gryffindor housemates for risking his neck for the crazed ferret, but not too much; after all, it was widely accepted amongst that crowd that Harry saved people, that was what he did. Talk of Malfoy's feat, however, was rampant, and it grew with every retelling, despite the Trio having originally thought that there was little that could be added to make the event more impressive than it had actually been. Ah, but how wrong they were. By the time Malfoy was released from the Infirmary, legend had it that he had called in a hurricane from the Jet Stream, which proceeded to rain down deadly icicles, and that it was he who had produced the lightening that he then used to fire up at the sky. No one would be picking on Malfoy any time soon.

In truth, Harry was a little relieved that this year his position as chief gossip magnet had been replaced. Never had so many people had so much to say about a Malfoy over such a short period of time since. . . Deralina Malfoy had held half the Ministry hostage (and periodically killing individual members) for two months in 1807.

Malfoy was released in time for dinner on the fifth day, and he walked in without his characteristic haste and scowl (but with a shocking broom of hair). Harry suspected that the leisurely saunter was more an attempt to hide Malfoy's physical weakness than anything else, but it was reminiscent of the "old Malfoy". The brooding and inaccessible expression, however, was a new model. His lack of attention to those around him was as wide as the birth given to him. A school of students who had just weeks ago been badmouthing Malfoy and laughing at him behind his back, tripping him in the halls, and ganging up to beat him in abandoned classrooms now stayed well away.

The Great Hall warily watched his entrance. At the Slytherin table, a few tentative expressions of esteem were directed towards the blond, then an applause spontaneously broke out. Malfoy looked a little surprised, but took it stride and nodded to his house, which thereby took another step towards recovery. Malfoy's abandonment of his position as their leader had put a great strain on the house's relationships, and cracks in house unity had become obvious, particularly between those whose families supported Voldemort and those whose didn't – it wasn't obvious to outsiders who was which side, but the Slytherins all knew. Malfoy, despite his father's affiliations, had always been the inspirational focal point around which his house's loyalty and pride centered. His radical change and rejection of them in the beginning of the year had been deeply repercussive blow; but Slytherins were good at adaptation, and they subconsciously yearned to reclaim Malfoy, so they unknowing jumped at any reason to rally their support. His leading the Slytherin Quidditch team to victory had been the first step towards reconciliation; the applause and endorsement of Malfoy and his recent display of terrifying power were the second.

The other houses watched the display with mixed emotions and varying commentary before returning to their localized conversations. Hermione returned to detailing (or ranting, depending on the point of view) about what she had planned for her DA session scheduled for the day after the next. Apparently, and unsurprisingly, she was going to emphasize the importance of research and preparation. While Ron and Harry were forced to agree with her, neither one was looking forward that particular DA session. Hermione, on the other hand, had already figured out what she would have each member study based on how she thought their strengths could be best expanded.

"Whatcha gonna spring on me?," Ron asked with no small amount of trepidation before shoving an entire half of a potato in his mouth.

Hermione smile craftily. "What do YOU think you would most benefit from studying?"

Ron actually took a moment to think about it (or to finish chewing, but everyone at the Gryffindor table was well aware of how unlikely the latter possibility was). Ron sounded a little upset when he finally answered, "Is this a trick question?

"No," Hermione responded with a giggle. Even Harry managed to turn his attention away from the Slytherin table in order to smile in amusement. "Don't worry, Ron. I have the perfect thing for you. And, Merlin forbid, you may even find it interesting."

"Yes, well, as you said, Merlin forbid," Ron retorted indignantly before shoveling some more food into his mouth. He was being even more piggy than usual, and there were pees, potato bits, bread crumbs, and Pumpkin juice splotches decorating entire the table cloth within a half meter radius of his plate.

"Geez, Ron. Could you be any more disgusting?," Hermione asked disapprovingly.

Ron pretended to look puzzled for a moment before deadpanning, "Yes." Then he lowered his head to his plate, grabbed a large chunk of steak with his teeth, then forcefully shook his head from side to side, spraying meat juice on Hermione and Harry, as well as everyone else in the vicinity.

Harry took the splattering with a rolling of the eyes, and Neville just gave Ron a hurt look, but Ginny, Dean, and Hermione all shouted various obscenities. The two girls were particularly pissed off.

"Ron, you shit!," Ginny accused, beating Hermione to any retaliation. She grabbed her glass of pumpkin juice and emptied it her brother's general direction. Harry grimaced as some of it splashed on to him too.

In moments the two siblings were both standing, looking as if they were about to have a vicious go at each other. Hermione, despite her irritation at Ron, decided that she would really rather not have Gryffindor receive another round of detentions for petty in-house fighting, and pulled rank. There was, after all, some responsibility that came with being Head Girl.

She stood up, and put on her highly effective voice of authority. "Ron, Ginny. Twenty points from Gryffindor. Both of you, stop, this is completely unacceptable behavior. Just look, the rest of the Hall is staring at your immature idiocy. Especially you, Ron. You're supposed to be a Prefect. Now, either finish eating or excuse yourself."

She was right too, most of the rest of the Hall, and especially the rest of their house was watching in morbid amusement and distaste at the altercation. The professors too were eyeing them to see if an intervention would be necessary. But no; after one last glare, Ginny sat back down to finish, and Ron sulkily left (he really was too soaked and sticky to continue doing anything that didn't involve a shower).

And so Hermione and Harry were left studying each other, friendlily but confrontationally, as if there was something on both of their minds regarding the other. .Hermione finally broke the silence. "I can see your interest in Malfoy. Your looks are anything but subtle; and, for once, anything but murderous. What do you think you're playing at?"

Hermione's look, her entire personality, her perceptiveness – it all demanded honesty, so Harry dodn't even bother with anything but the truth. He leaned across the table so that he was only a decimeter from Hermione – to a stranger, it would have appeared to an intimate exchange. Harry smiled mischievously. "I want him on our side and this is our chance!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows skeptically, but wasn't surprised. "He needs a lot of work."

They both leaned back somewhat and there was a beat before Harry responded persuasively, "That's why you're going to help me."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course. . . Ron'll throw a fit, which is reason enough to do it. . . but what makes you think Malfoy'll be game?"

Harry shrugged; he looked over at the Slytherin table again, and this time his eyes were met by unreadable gray ones. "It's just a feeling."

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The next day was Tuesday, November 15th. For those who had passed the required OWLs in potions, a double dose of Professor Snape was how Tuesdays kicked off. Hermione and Harry were the only Gryffindors in the class, surrounded almost exclusively by Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Hermione had dragged Harry to class early after breakfast, and Harry was pleased to see that, while most of the students still hadn't arrived, Mafloy was in his seat in the far corner; and, as luck would have it, he hadn't dozed off yet. Instead, he was scowling darkly at his homework scroll. It was an assignment Snape had given him to complete during his stay in the Infirmary, and it was the only assignment of any considerable length that he had managed (admittedly, with great difficulty) to complete the entire school year. As he half-heartedly reread it now, he was displeased by the number of times he had rambled off on some tangent, whose point was eventually forgotten and missed, only to yank the reader back to a discontinuous but more relevant topic. He let his head drop to the desk with a satisfying WHACK, then he intentionally repeated the move several more times: whack, whack, whack. . .

"Hey there, Malfoy."

Malfoy jerked his head up to glare reflexively at Harry, who had twisted around in the chair directly in front of him. "Potter," he monotoned, before flicking his eyes to take in Granger's presence – Hermione gave a big, shit-eating grin and wiggled her fingers gallingly at him. "What do you want?," he demanded rudely, already showing more restraint than had come to be expected of him.

Harry continued on in a friendly and oblivious manner. "Absolutely nothing. Just a little 'hi there and hello' from me to you."

"Don't be sordid," Malfoy responded grumpily, concedingly, as if banter was what Harry wanted and isolation what he would have preferred.

"That's the spirit," Harry encouraged obnoxiously, his grin widening. Alas, it was more than Malfoy was willing to participate in, and the blond looked away. . . then down at his desk, from which his homework was unexpectedly absent.

Hermione voice pierced his observation, "You know, Malfoy, there're some good ideas here. I could really help you with the presentation-"

Malfoy jerked up from his seat and fiercely ripped his scroll from Granger's hands, tearing it in the process; then he sat down heavily as dizziness and a sudden headache hit him. Ignoring the two Gryffindors that were observing him with some mild concern, he balled up his scroll and threw it on the floor, then lowered his hurting head to the table, where he cradled it between his arms.

Harry frowned; he had hoped persistence would make Malfoy come around, but nothing ever unfolded predictably when it came to the blond. Hermione reached down to the crumbled and torn scroll. She whispered two simple spells and, vois-la, it was as good as new. She leaned over and flattened it on Malfoy's desk, then she spoke soothingly, "Here. You should hand it in. It will make Professor Snape happy to see life in his favorite student."

Malfoy raised his head slowly and looked at the scroll.

"These two Gryffindorks giving you trouble, Malfoy?"

Three heads turned to see Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and Millicent Bulstrode (neither Crabbe nor Goyle had passed their potions OWL) standing before them and sporting hostile expressions. Malfoy's view of his housemates was not as black and white as it had been on that day at Platform 9 ¾ when he had so viciously told them to fuck off. Reason had it that they were children, not death eaters; they were conflicted, not evil; and that they needed leadership and choices, not distain and fear. Malfoy turned his eyes from his fellow Slytherins to the Gryffindor two. They wanted to help; and, unlike his housemates, who (however misguided) looked to him for guidance, they were more of peers. Malfoy was repeatedly being pleasantly surprised to find that the rusty cogs in his brain were actually capable of reasonable thought, particularly in the absence of the rage and its aggravating distraction. He actually found himself seriously considering seeking help from the Potter and Granger.

"No trouble at all," Malfoy stated, sounding very much like his old imperious self. "Pansy, if you'd care to be my partner. . ."

Pansy looked like a kitten who had just caught a canary that far outsized itself; she eagerly sat down beside the Slytherin idol and promptly proceeded to ignore the Gryffindors. Seconds later, Snape billowed in looking particularly vindictive.

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Hermione's DA session came and went. Ron had had to grudgingly admit that the book assigned to him, "Tactics on the Battlefield", had in fact been a riveting read; indeed, most of the students had been agreeably surprised by and interested in the topics Hermione had picked for them. Harry himself had reluctantly found himself intrigued by the infinitely relevant "The Psychology of Wizards Under Extreme Stress". It was validating to read that his recently stunted emotional arsenal and the distance he felt from his friends, and from people in general, were the normal protective reactions to the death of someone close (which he had been doing an eerily good job of not thinking about), and of living under threat. Unfortunately, without more detailed knowledge of what had happened, all Harry could extrapolate from the book about Malfoy was that something life and mind altering had, in fact, taken place. Still, he did feel better equipped to attempt understanding.