Chapter 11: Her Help

Disclaimer: Premise: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. Premise: I am not JK Rowling. If these two premises are true, then I can proceed by valid inference to the conclusion: I do not own Harry Potter. And this is what happens when you unleash a few Monday Lunchtime's worth of Logic/Philosophy on someone.

Thanks for 274 reviews goes to: samhaincat, anni0932, Go10, jules37, SoshilaDove, nutmegmercury, Haystack8190, mesmer, KrystyWroth, Pheonix, alka, Mandemi, simrun,  Simpson-Girl, Saotoshi, Lyra Silvertongue2, skygaxing, willowfairy, DracMiony, Mizu Ki, koishii-glory, Hustler, PhAnToM-ChiK, Flexi Lexi, SycoCallie,  Plaidly Lush, MsLessa, IceCristal, Chiinoyami-chan, PinkTribeChick.

A/N: Thanks for all the birthday wishes! And all the lovely gifts of reviews. I shall treasure them forever.

In other news, I spent the book voucher I got in the Latin Speaking Competition. Guess what on? Yes, that well-known book, Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis – or the Latin translation of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone Which is brilliant. And loved a lot.

This chapter was a troublesome one, not because of the writing, but because of the fact that, halfway through the writing, I spilt my Dr. Pepper on my keyboard and afterwards… it didn't exactly not work, but what it produced was a string of gibberish. Which meant I had to get a new keyboard. Plus the fact that my Gamma carelessly scheduled her 'Lets watch Finding Nemo at my house!' night on the Friday evening, meaning that this is being uploaded from her house. Thanks to Gamma.

(Oh, and as to the Prefect question – I'm fairly sure that there are two prefects per house per year. One girl and one boy per house from the fifth year, and one girl and one boy from the sixth year. Ginny being a year below the others, it does work out.)

I'm still trying to rename all the previous chapters, having decided I hate the names, so… suggestions, anyone? I'm attempting to write two other stories in addition to Fallen at the moment, so finding the time for renaming all the back chapters is tricky.

Ah well, enough of me. Here's the chapter, enjoy.

~*~

When dealing with people, let us remember we are not dealing with creatures of logic. We are dealing with creatures of emotion, creatures bustling with prejudices and motivated by pride and vanity.

Dale Carnegie

~*~

Malfoy hadn't been at dinner. In fact, none of them had seen him since breakfast.

Hermione was torn between a strange and niggling worry and annoyance at herself for feeling concerned. Malfoy, after all, was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. On top of that, he was…

Not a prejudiced, cruel and rude Slytherin, because those were all the things he'd been acting. He still behaved that way, but she suspected that was probably because he didn't know how else to act, after he'd suddenly gained the whole range of human emotions. And there lay a reason to worry about him: there was no telling what he really felt or whether he was coping alright. He might have completely given up – killed himself, even…

It was that worry which had prompted Hermione to offer to tell him of the next day's journey to Diagon Alley, which they'd decided on at dinner. However much she told herself she was being stupid – he wasn't the kind of person to do such a thing – she found herself pushing open the door to his room very cautiously.

Draco was lounging quite carelessly on the bed, a textbook open in front of him, scribbling on a piece of parchment. Rather oddly, from Hermione's point of view, he was wearing a pair of faded jeans, with his top half bare. She'd always seen him in robes before – except for the time when she'd first seen his wings, and there was the answer as to why he was wearing the jeans – he must have been in his Fallen form.

Another thought struck her rather sharply. 'You haven't been flying outside, have you?' she asked. 'Someone could have seen you!'

She realised almost instantly that it probably wasn't a good idea to rebuke him in such a way – he was still angry at her for knowing what he was and trying to help – but to her surprise, he merely paused in his writing and threw an irritated look over his shoulder at her.

'I'm not quite that stupid, Granger. I was just stretching them,' he said, and as if to demonstrate, he transformed instantly into his winged form. He had to keep both wings folded: if he'd extended one of them, it would have crashed through the wall. The other would just have brushed the opposite side of the room.

Hermione saw the problem with this instantly. 'How on earth could you stretch them in here?'

'With great difficulty. It involves standing on one side of the room and stretching each wing in turn. I can't wait until I get to Hogwarts and I can fly properly again,' he added bitterly, turning back to his scribblings.

Something was odd, Hermione realised. He was actually talking to her properly. Civilly, even. She decided not to comment on it.

'I came to tell you, we're going to Diagon Alley tomorrow,' she said. He nodded, and shifted his wings a little, but didn't stop his writing. Curiosity began to get the better of her. 'What are you doing?' she queried.

'Arithmancy,' came the reply. Most of Draco was covered by his wings; it was like talking to a heap of feathers with feet at one end and a shock of silver-blonde hair at the other.

Hermione brightened up. 'Oh, are you taking Arithmancy next year too?' she asked, crossing over to peer at his sums.

'No, I hate the subject, I'm just doing this for fun,' he replied sarcastically. 'Why else would I be doing Arithmancy?'

'Good point. Why are you doing it, anyway? These aren't the homework questions, and you certainly don't need extra practice, you were really good last year…'

He brushed aside some silvery hair and looked up, amused. 'Oh, so the queen of the OWL results thinks I'm good at Arithmancy? I'm flattered, Granger, really I am.'

She didn't know whether he was mocking her or being sarcastically flattering, and doubted whether he was quite certain either. After a moment's deliberation, she decided to take it as a straightforward statement.

'Well, you did come second in most of the practice exams Professor Vector set for us,' she pointed out. 'Which doesn't explain why you're doing extra work.'

He shrugged elegantly, which was rather an odd motion when the wings were taken into account. 'I was bored. I thought I might as well spend the time productively.'

She nodded, leaning slightly over his shoulder to see what he'd written. The rows of sums cascaded down the parchment neatly, in exact, regimented rows, to reach their final conclusions at the bottom. Arithmancy was strange; all sums and geometry and algebra that led, neatly, to a magical solution. Sometimes, working through a list of exercises, Hermione could feel the magic behind the numbers, pulsating and twisting, controlled by nothing but sums. It made her feel almost dizzy.

Hermione forced her thoughts away from the sums and back to the boy writing them. Something had changed, something important had changed. Every time she'd spoken to him since Rita had told her what he was – she glanced towards the silent mirror – he'd been harsh to her, insulting and rude and defensive, shoving her away. And now they were having what was almost a conversation. Why? What had prompted it? What was he thinking?

She cast a calculating eye over him, trying to figure things out by his stance. Lying on the bed, trying to look casual – but he was tense. The wings were another part of it, they were protective, like a snail huddling inside its shell. The arm that wasn't writing was tucked tightly against his chest. Again, defensive.

So Draco was still keeping things to himself, but perhaps he was realising that he needed help? His behaviour showed both things – asking for and refusing any help, without saying a word about it. And then, of course, there was the very likely possibility that she was reading the signs all wrong. Hermione's head started to hurt. It was far too confusing – almost anything was possible, here. She simply didn't know enough about him.

But things seemed to be going okay. He wasn't shouting at her to get out of his room, after all, which had to mean something. Perhaps a middle course would be best? She wouldn't offer to help directly – no 'So, tell me what you're feeling' sessions – but she did have an idea that wouldn't be too bad.

'Actually…' Her voice sounded strangely loud after the silence that had fallen, and she broke off again. Draco angled his head to look at her, his quill paused above the parchment, one eyebrow raised questioningly. Hermione flushed slightly, feeling – for no ascertainable reason – slightly stupid.

'Well, I had an idea. About… you know, the emotions and everything. Well, you see, there's a lot of really good books which describe feelings, and I thought if you read some, it might help you figure out what all the emotions are.' She ground to a halt, cursing herself. She couldn't really have expressed it worse if she'd tried, could she? But he was looking at her unnervingly, his face carefully kept blank and his eyes impassive as iron. Defensive.

'Books as in fiction books? I'm assuming most people don't need guides to basic emotions,' he queried at last.

'Yes, fiction…' Hermione replied, feeling thankful and slightly amazed that he hadn't either gotten angry with her or laughed. 'I mean,  I don't know how useful it'll be… but it could help.' Nervously, she began to rub the knuckle of her thumb.

He paused again, and appeared to be thinking, his head tilted slightly. Hermione wondered again what had prompted him to even consider accepting any kind of help. 'It could be useful,' he conceded eventually. 'I don't have any books, though. You said we're going to Diagon Alley tomorrow, to buy our school things?' She nodded, and he continued. 'Good. I can buy some. I trust you'll advise me as to which to buy?'

She nodded in amazement, and mentally began flicking through books, trying to figure out which ones to suggest. 'I'll try and pick emotional ones. And ones that have good stories too… And I'll have to avoid picking books you've already read. Maybe if I make a list, and you can pick some…?'

'Don't worry about which I've read,' he told her, 'I've only ever read a few of the classics anyway.'

Hermione blinked. 'Only a few books?' she asked incredulously. 'In your whole life?'

He regarded her with amusement, a corner of his mouth curving into a smirk. 'Yes, Granger. People without emotions don't really have much interest in stories, you know. Considering that newspapers contain about the same amount of interest and are actually true.'

Hermione stared at him in shocked amazement. 'But… but books are…' she began, but gave up.

He almost laughed. It was a very little chortle, and as soon as he began he cut himself off, seeming startled. Of course, Hermione thought, he wasn't used to laughing properly.

He appeared to be studying the pattern on the wallpaper, his face turned away from her. 'I've read the classics, for conversational purposes, but nothing else.' He informed her evenly, emotionlessly, and for a moment she wanted to reach out to him, tell him it was okay to laugh, he didn't need to be afraid of that emotion. But she couldn't, could she? He'd push her away.

'You do realise you're going to be reading a lot of books very soon?' she asked, trying to break the awkward moment. 'There's so many… I'll find some good ones.'

He glanced back at her, grey eyes emotionless as a cold pane of glass. 'Do so,' he said.

~*~

'What took you so long?' Ron asked the second Hermione walked into her room. 'You were away ages. He didn't insult you or anything, did he?'

It could only have been five minutes, but that was still far too long to spend simply telling someone about the next day's trip to Diagon Alley. Especially someone who was supposed to be your enemy. Hermione desperately tried to think of an excuse.

'Er, well… he was doing Arithmancy, you see, and it was rather interesting…' she offered, realising even as she said it that it was quite possibly the worst lie she'd ever come up with. She felt her cheeks flush as Ginny raised a sceptical eye from the book she was reading.

'Arithmancy?' she asked incredulously. 'You willingly spent time in the same room as Malfoy because of sums? If I didn't know you were a bookworm, I'd think you'd gone mad.'

Ron and Harry snorted. 'Well, now you've returned from watching the Ferret do sums, care to help us think of anything to do?' asked Ron. 'We're bored.'

'Almost makes you wish you were cleaning again, doesn't it?' Hermione asked with a grin, taking a seat next to Ginny on the bed. Her smile was mostly relief – thank goodness for her bookworm reputation, it had saved her from a lot of awkward explanations.

'No!' Ron replied. 'Can't think of anything I'd hate more.' Harry nodded an agreement.

Ginny disagreed, closing her book and looking up at them. 'At least we were doing something. We've absolutely nothing to do now… I'm beginning to wish I'd left some of my homework till the last minute.'

'But then you wouldn't have time to do it properly.' Hermione pointed out. 'With proper research. And the teachers do get a lot stricter as it comes up to the OWL exams… have you two done your homework?' she asked, turning to Ron and Harry. 'All of it?'

'Yes,' Harry said. 'I did it all at the Dursleys'.'

'And you saw me do mine.' Ron reminded her. 'In fact, you forced me to do all mine as soon as you got here.'

'Well, it's best to have it all out of the way,' Hermione said. 'There'll be plenty more soon, when we get back to Hogwarts. Can you believe how fast the time's gone?'

Ginny looked morose. 'And I've been enjoying these holidays. I'm going to get so much work I won't have time to breathe. And Prefect duties! Why couldn't someone else have gotten the badge?'

'Because Dumbledore wants to see how proud Mum has to get before she explodes.' Ron suggested. Harry laughed, but Ginny looked annoyed.

'That's the worst part,' she said miserably, playing with the corner of her book. 'She just gets so excited about it all, its as if we'd discovered a counter-charm for the Unforgivables! I mean, its not that big a deal, there aren't that many girls in my year to choose from…'

Hermione's eyes flickered to Harry, who'd been very quiet throughout the conversation. He was staring moodily at a patch of carpet. Ginny's Prefect position probably wasn't the best thing to discuss, she reflected, casting around for a change of subject.

'Has anyone read any good books lately?' she asked. 'If we're going to Diagon Alley tomorrow, I want to get something good to read… Harry, have you read anything lately?'

He looked slightly startled; he hadn't being paying attention. 'Read? Er, no… there weren't many books at the Dursleys. I read a few things…'

'Well, this book's good.' Ginny said, holding it up so they could see the cover. Noughts and Crosses, it read simply, with the author's name and a quote from a Flourish and Blotts reviewer.

Hermione eyed it with interest. 'What's it about?' she asked.

'It's a Muggle book. Set in a world kinda like our own, but really racist. Except that it's the blacks who are considered superior, and white people are second-class, they're called Noughts.  And the blacks are called Crosses, that's where the title comes from. And then there's these two teenagers – one a Nought, one a Cross – who've been friends since they were little, but now they're older they're being forced apart. It's really good.'

Hermione paused to consider this. It seemed quite an ironic choice, in light of the Daily Prophet's attitude, and she briefly wondered if that was why Ginny had chosen it. 'Is it emotive?' she asked. It would be a good one to recommend to Malfoy…

'What?'

'Does it have lots of emotional things in. And descriptions of feelings?' she clarified.

Ginny frowned. 'Yeah, I guess so… it does make you feel things a lot.'

Hermione glanced at the cover again and made a mental note of the author's name. 'Thanks,' she said.

~*~

Draco carefully worked his way through another Arithmancy sum. His wings were still out, carefully folded against his back, and a warm, peaceful feeling soaked into his skin from the feathers. Something he'd been glad of, while he was talking to Granger.

There was a wrongness about asking for help. Another of these strange emotions that didn't make sense. Help was logically right, yet he didn't want it because it felt so… He wished for the right words to describe it. Like having a thin needle pushed slowly into your stomach. It had been similar to what he'd felt at having to clean up that foul mould in the bathroom, except completely different at the same time.

But the wings had helped him ignore that. He tucked them closer around himself, trying to relish that nice, simple, calm feeling. The writings of earlier people on his race, stored safely in the Malfoy Manor's library, had called it contentment.

It got a bit annoying after a time, like too many sweets making a tooth ache. Plus his room had no lock, and anyone could wander in without invitation. Reluctantly, he switched back to human form, closed his Arithmancy books and placed them on his bedside table, before leaning on his pillows with a sigh. Oh, to be normal again…

But there wasn't any point wishing for things. He just had to get on with it. And perhaps Hermione could help. He didn't know how good this plan of hers would be, but it was worth a try. Anything was worth a try.

A low hoot distracted him, and he glanced up to see Raphael, perching on the top of his wardrobe, patiently awaiting his letter. He felt a twinge of guilt. His mother would be waiting for him to write back…

Pushing himself upright, he reached for the quill and inkpot he'd just been using to do Arithmancy, and found a blank piece of parchment. He leant back on his pillows, and began to write in the formal, slightly old-fashioned style of writing he'd learnt to use.

Mother,

          You were quite correct in assuming that I didn't want help with my problem. I don't understand why, but it feels extremely uncomfortable to even consider the prospect of discussing it, and actually speaking about it is difficult. (It is easier, I think, to write things such as these in a letter, though why I am uncertain.)

Professor Dumbledore has not been at the Headquarters recently, being busy with other matters, but it may please you to know that I have found someone with whom it may be possible to discuss such difficulties as mine. Do you recall the name of Hermione Granger? She's been my enemy since the beginning of Hogwarts, of course. But she walked in on me when I was in my Fallen form, and ever since she's been pestering me with offers of help.

It's difficult to know what to do. My mind knows that the best thing to do is to ask for help, but these emotions won't let me, they keep me from doing what I want to. One thing I have discovered is that they're completely irrational. As it is, I couldn't even ask for help – all I could do was act civilly and accept what she offered.

It's all still very strange and abnormal. None of it makes any sense.

Draco.

He rolled the letter up, and Raphael glided softly down from the wardrobe, holding out her leg for the letter. Draco tied the parchment securely to the bird's leg, and carried her to the window. With a soft, low hoot – almost sympathetic – Raphael took off, flying swiftly away.

Draco hadn't even turned around before Rita spoke.

'So, are you still mad at me?' the mirror asked tentatively.

Draco tensed, his jaw setting hard and severe. 'Yes,' he said shortly.

Rita sighed, an odd sound, like fine paper being drawn over glass. 'Why?' she asked. 'You have to understand now. I only did it to help you, sweetheart. And if I hadn't, things probably wouldn't have turned out so well.'

He didn't turn away from the window, staring out after Raphael. 'You think they've turned out well? The only person I can turn to for help is a filthy Mud-' He couldn't finish the word, oddly. There was another wrong emotion attached to it 'Muggleborn, who's been my enemy for years, and you think that's turned out well?'

'It could have turned out a lot worse.' Rita pointed out gently.

'It could have,' he conceded. 'But that doesn't change the fact that you betrayed me. To an enemy, no less.'

'Draco, I only did what was best for you…' Rita pleaded. 'I never meant…'

She trailed of, into an awkward silence. Draco threw one glare at her; it was cold, and harsh, and dark. Then he turned abruptly, stalked back to his bed, and pulled out some more Arithmancy.

At one point, he thought he heard a glassy sob, but put it down to his imagination. Mirrors didn't cry.

~*~

A/N:  Noughts and Crosses, the book Ginny was reading, does actually exist. The author's name is Malorie Blackman, and if any of you think it sounds interesting, it has my recommendation!

Poor Rita. Anyway, that's all for this week! Next week comes Diagon Alley, and then what you've all been pestering me for – the Return to Hogwarts. If you leave me plenty of reviews, I'll even write a Sorting Hat song. Because you know you want one! So review!