Chapter 15: Fallen's Flight
Disclaimer: Sadly, I have not turned into JK Rowling in the course of a week, and still don't own Harry Potter. Then again, I wouldn't want to turn into JK Rowling. I like me. And she's probably forgotten all the science and stuff she learned in school so she'd fail all my exams. Difficult decision, really…
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A/N: Apologies to all the guys for the last A/N… don't worry, I promise this chapter's ok for males to read, its all implicit. Forgive me? I'll remember that for next time, and you have full licence to yell at me if I slip up again. Though you should be thankful this isn't being written by some of my betas, who would very quickly have to rate this NC-17 for the A/Ns alone (*cough*LOU*cough*).
As for Delaney: a couple of my friends persist in calling him De-lame-y. There's a few other possibilities too… and you KNOW what students are like with teacher's names. Mrs Mashed-Potato, Mrs Kill-more, Mrs Ostrich-cello… only a few of the ones I've had.
NEWTs are in the last year, but it's a two-year course. You make your choices just before your OWLs, then in sixth and seventh years you study for NEWTs. (JK based the exams on the Muggle examination system, which I'm very familiar with as I'm undertaking my OWLS in May!)
Well, I hope everyone had a happy Easter, and celebrated Passover, the Resurrection, or the Resurrection of the Cadbury's Crème Egg with great joy. (I know which one I celebrated… chocolate, yum!) I've not had too bad a week, except for Easter Sunday, when we went to do archery at my local club with some friends. I had a good time, plus there was a rather cute guy there, with whom I chatted about painting targets on the cats and using them for shooting practice.
The big downside came when we were taking the bows apart, when I managed to tear/sprain a muscle in my back… lets say it was good research for the Cruciatius, shall we? It was quite scary at one part, I actually fainted for a second, and my hearing/vision went completely weird… Hurt like hell. But I healed remarkably quickly, which was good, so I was back to writing quite soon.
Anyway, onto the chapter. Enjoy!
~*~
Beware of sentimental alliances where the consciousness of good deeds is the only compensation for noble sacrifices.
Otto von Bismarck (1815 - 1898), Bismarck and the German Empire by Erich Eyck
~*~
He had never realised it before, but flying was fun.
Or, at least, he assumed it was fun. He wasn't really sure, yet, but it felt like fun ought to feel. Which was stupid, really. Flying was just what you did at night, to exercise your wings and make sure the muscles stayed strong so when you needed to fly, you could.
And now Draco hovered above the school and realised that he was actually having fun.
He hadn't been able to fly at the Order – obviously, he'd been in the middle of Muggle-inhabited London – but there were no Muggles around Hogwarts, and under cover of darkness anyone who caught sight of him from the dim windows could easily explain him away as an overlarge owl, or a trick of the light. He was free to fly as much as he wished.
And his wings were aching for some exercise. And the night air was beautifully cool against his skin, and the moon was bright, and the air was silent but for the rush of air in his ears as he threw himself into a swoop, a winged Wronski Feint with no opposing Seeker to trick, no Snitch to capture, just the strange, fierce feeling of speeding downwards, nothing but wings and feathers keeping him from falling, and going so low the grass almost grazed his nose before pulling out of the dive, rushing upwards towards the stars under the momentum of the fall, until his speed ran out and he was forced to beat his wings and hover.
Flushed, he brushed a messy strand of hair from his eyes and tried to get his breath back, wondering when the blood had started pulsing so hard in his veins, or where the heady surge of feelings had come from as he'd dived to meet the earth. Emotion was still strange, still something he didn't understand and didn't want any part of.
That was why it had been so hard to read Hermione's books – when he read them, he felt the same way as the characters, and that was frightening. Fear was one he'd come to recognise. Fear of emotions, fear of being human, fear of going to Dumbledore, fear of his father's reaction, fear of the Slytherins throwing him out. Emotions were difficult, and confusing, and he'd far rather do without them.
But this dizzy feeling was different, addictive and powerful, making him want more. And why, he asked himself, shouldn't he have more? There was nothing stopping him, after all, no rule against it.
He felt his lips trying to move of their own accord, and rather alarmed, allowed them to. It took a few moments to figure out that this was a smile. A smile? Why?
Because he was going to do it again.
The smile, alarmingly, turned into a full grin as he beat his wings harder, flying upwards to hang over the grassy lawn. He fought it down, wondering why he'd want to grin, but eventually realised that he couldn't. He left it there, his lips oddly shaped as he prepared to swoop downwards…
Three swoops later, he was flushed with exhilaration, his normally immaculate hair blown to tatters by the wind. Tired and breathless from the high-speed rushes, he leisurely flew up to the top of the Astronomy tower, perching lightly on the roof, looking out over the silver-painted grounds of Hogwarts and letting himself get his breath back while he thought.
He'd liked the feeling he'd got as he swept through the air. Actually liked it. Which was odd; most of the other feelings he'd felt so far had been negative, while this was so… He searched for words he didn't know the meanings of. Exciting? Exhilarating? Invigorating? Were any of those the right word, or was he getting it completely wrong?
The books had helped with some emotions, but others were proving difficult. It hadn't taken him long after the first few books to feel confident in his definition of anger, for example. Fear, too, seemed pretty simple. But there were others he simply didn't understand yet, and doubted he ever would. Compassion, for example, was nonsensical – he could vaguely grasp the idea of someone caring for someone else when it brought them no benefit; after all, human emotions were completely illogical. But compassion to the point where you'd sacrifice something to benefit another person, without expectation of repayment? That was too illogical for him to accept. He had lived his life by logic, after all.
Another thing he couldn't define yet was love. Which was odd, since by all accounts in the books it was to be found everywhere – friendships, lovers, parents and children – but the books couldn't agree on a description. Even in the course of one book, the description would alter and twist until he couldn't be sure. Draco had managed to figure out that there were different kinds of love between different people, and the rest remained a hopeless, contradictory tangle.
His thoughts were quite rudely interrupted by a loud hoot near his ear, making him jump so much that he almost slid down the icy, steep tiles. A plain brown owl – one of the school ones – was sitting beside him impatiently, a scroll of parchment tied to its leg.
Draco untied the parchment with stiff fingers – it was growing cold - and dismissed the owl, which flew off haughtily in the direction of the school owlery. Wrapping his feathery wings round himself to stay warm, he unrolled the parchment and read it swiftly.
Are the books helpful? I've been re-reading some of them and I'm not entirely sure how much information someone with your problem could get from them. If you'd like, we could meet sometime this week and see if there's anything I could clarify? Owl me back – I should have time any night except Thursday.
-H
Draco noted with interest that she hadn't put either her own name or his on the letter. She was obviously sensible enough to realise that it would drag his name down even further were it to be discovered that a Muggleborn were writing to him. And – Draco scanned the text once again – she'd made only implicit references to his problem with emotions. The way she'd described it, she could easily have been talking about something else – offering help with schoolwork, for example.
Making a mental note to remember that about her – she was intelligent enough to be secretive when need be – he considered her offer. Normally, he'd have turned it down. He shouldn't be seen meeting with a Muggleborn at the best of times, and especially not when his reputation amongst the Slytherins had just taken such a blow.
But – and it hurt him strangely to admit it, even though it was truth – Rita had been right. He couldn't figure all this out on his own, it was too much at once, too complicated. He did need help with it. And Hermione was the only person offering help.
Frowning, Draco folded the smooth parchment in half, then into quarters, and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. Such strange clothing – Muggle clothing – but he couldn't wear robes for flying, and the denim was tough enough to stand up to the wear and tear, unlike most of the rest of his wardrobe. He brushed some dirt off the pale fabric, then unfurled his wings again with a gentle brush of feather on feather, took off from the harsh rooftop, and made for the way back inside. He needed to send a reply to Hermione.
~*~
Fifteen minutes later, he was making his way back to the Slytherin dungeons from the owlery. He'd decided to use one of the school owls, knowing that his own would be recognised, and the Slytherins would hate him even more for that. Writing to a Mudblood…
'Praeiudica', he muttered as he arrived at the entrance to the common room, stepping inside as the concealed door slid obligingly open. The room was just a little on the cold side – in winter, it would be freezing – in spite of the fire that burnt beneath the elaborate mantelpiece. The lamps, chained to the ceiling above, cast an odd light over the room, tingeing everything faintly green.
Last year, he would have been acknowledged as he walked into the room, and swaggered to a seat near the fire to sit with all the rest of the politically powerful Purebloods. Nowhere was the division into social classes more defined than in Slytherin house; nowhere was there so rigid an order.
The highest group was the children of old Pureblood families whose parents followed Voldemort: future Death Eaters, most of them, and strictly opposed to Muggleborns. Then the cluster of Slytherins who hung around the edge of that group, ones without quite so much influence or power, trying to get into the top set. Then a few further subgroups, with differing amounts of respect depending on their families' social standing, purity, money, opinions on Muggleborns, and half a dozen other factors. At the very bottom came the neutrals, those who didn't openly show loyalty to either Voldemort or Dumbledore, who maintained friendships inside the house and out and didn't care much for blood.
Was he one of them now, this neutral group who clung to the edges of the Slytherin society? He didn't know what he was. He knew what he had been, as a Fallen, but all that had changed as emotion began to make him think differently. What was he now…?
He took a seat near the neutral group, watching them surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, pretending to examine the carving of a snake on the armrest of his chair. They were an odd band of misfits, pushed together solely because no one else would accept them but each other. Yet most of them could have been higher in the Slytherin hierarchy, if they'd made a bit of effort – associated with the right people, offered the correct opinions, made it beneficial to the others to know them – that kind of thing. So why did they stay here, at the very bottom of the pile?
Draco could only see one or two that couldn't have fought their way up the ranks. A fifth-year who had openly proclaimed himself anti-Voldemort, a rather outspoken third-year who'd persistently insulted half the Slytherin elite… and the new girl. The Muggleborn. What was her name again? He'd heard it only briefly at the Sorting; the rest of his house, spitting their disgust, called her only 'that Mudblood', or 'that disgrace to the name of Slytherin', or even worse things.
She didn't look like a disgrace. She was obviously intelligent enough to go straight for the one group where she might find sympathy, find some allies in her house so she had someone to protect her from any harm the pureblood fanatics tried to cause her. It took many first years some time to settle in, find their rightful place in the hierarchy. She seemed like she'd been here forever, smiling and chatting easily to the other neutrals.
He hadn't been paying attention to the small group in the corner for a minute or two, so it came as a surprise when a voice from in front of him asked, 'You're Draco Malfoy, aren't you?'
It was more of a statement than a question, Draco reflected as he glanced up from the arm of the chair to see the Muggleborn girl leaning against the back of the chair a short way away, watching him through very pale blue eyes, a look of consideration on her face as though she were at Madame Malkins, examining dress robes. Draco found that he didn't like that look.
He inclined his head, a sharp nod, and bluntly asked, 'And who are you?'
'Ellen. Ellen Meyer,' she replied, sliding into a seat. Her voice was too confident for her position. She was a first year, and a Muggleborn at that, speaking to a sixth-year – an outcast sixth-year, but still higher in the Slytherin hierarchy than she. Was she arrogant, then, or merely acting, trying to give a show of confidence? The latter, he decided as he noticed the distant hint of fear or desperation in her eyes.
'Welcome to Slytherin house, Ellen Meyer,' he replied with a slow smile, the emphasis on her surname an unspoken reminder of her parentage and her place. She didn't bat an eyelid. He felt himself slipping back into the familiar patterns of Slytherin – filled with double meanings and unspoken truths. 'And how are you finding it here?'
'Challenging,' she replied simply. 'But then, I enjoy a challenge.'
Which, when he read between the lines, meant that it was nearly impossible being a Muggleborn in a house obsessed with blood purity. Her statement that she enjoyed it was nothing but bluster, trying to cover up weakness: not even a Weasley could have missed the fact that, far from being a mere challenge, Ellen's situation was dangerous at best. Quite ironically, she seemed to fit as a Slytherin. She could probably have made it quite high up the rankings had she been born pureblood, or even half-blood.
He became aware of other Slytherins watching them – of course, the outcast and the Mudblood talking would create some interest – and grew annoyed. He had already fallen far enough, after all… 'What do you want?' he asked, quite sharply.
She appeared surprised – Slytherins were not usually so blunt. 'Excuse me?'
'You wouldn't have come over here without a purpose,' he said simply, by way of explanation.
She frowned a little, swiftly knocking a wayward strand of dishwater-blonde hair out of her face, before pausing a moment with the air of a chess player choosing their next move. It was chess, but with words and subtexts in place of pawns and knights, and a greater meaning than checkmate at the end of it.
'I was simply… curious,' she replied. 'After all, we're both…'
'Outcasts?' he cut in, a surprising amount of bitterness in his voice. He hadn't recognised it until he'd heard it, but it was there.
She nodded, her mouth quirking at one corner. 'I wouldn't have put it exactly like that, but yes…'
'And you came to speak to me because you wanted another ally, correct?'
There wasn't any point in denying it, though Ellen looked slightly annoyed at having to lay all her cards on the table. 'Yes,' she admitted. 'I'm rather… vulnerable at the moment,' she said with a hint of distaste. 'And I don't have to be incredibly perceptive to realise that the entire house hates me. Thus, I need allies. You're a sixth year, you know plenty of magic…' She shrugged.
'So you want protection,' he summarised. 'And me? Do I get anything out of this?'
As he'd expected, she hesitated, biting her lip in a rather childlike manner and looking down at the floor.
'No,' he finished bluntly. 'What makes you think I'd ally myself with you, if I had nothing to gain? If you had nothing that I didn't have'
She looked up at him sharply, her eyes narrow, challenging. 'You haven't got any friends,' she pointed out.
Strangely, that almost hurt, just the tiniest pinprick of pain near his heart. 'Slytherins don't have friends,' he hissed, glaring at her.
Ellen scoffed. 'I may be a Mudblood, but I'm not completely stupid,' she told him. 'Everyone has friends, Slytherins just pretend they don't.'
It was true, in a way; they lacked the easy, open friendships the Gryffindors flaunted carelessly, but years of relying on, helping and trusting each other formed their own bonds. Draco scowled, feeling somehow uncomfortable, filling with a different kind of anger that was harsh and cold and muttered to itself in a dark corner of his heart.
'We don't have friends,' he spat again, getting to his feet. Ellen looked up at him, seeming alarmed, and he was struck by just how small the first-years were. 'And we don't have pointless alliances with… with Mudbloods.'
He turned his back on her and headed for the exit, wondering why that final word had left such a bitter aftertaste on his mouth, and why Ellen's talk about friendship had given him such cold, hard, painful feelings in his chest.
~*~
The Prefect's bathroom was mercifully empty – Draco assumed that the other Prefects must be doing homework or chatting to friends – so he had decided to try taking a long, hot soak in the huge bath. He'd never understood why people enjoyed baths, as a Fallen. They wasted time, and showers were more hygienic anyway. But as a human, he was beginning to understand that baths were more relaxing; it certainly provided a good place for thought.
The mermaid was fast asleep in her painting on the wall beside a newly-added mirror, and the soft lighting from the chandelier gave the whole room a sleepy, gentle feel, when combined with the smell from Draco's favourite taps – a mixture of cinnamon and incense, which covered the water with silvery foam. He leant back against the side of the bath, blowing a speck of foam off his nose, and thought.
Despite the soothing atmosphere of the bathroom, he still felt the residues of his conversation with Ellen. The annoying part of that was he didn't know what he was feeling, except it felt like carrying a cold pebble in his chest. Even with the books he'd read, he didn't have a clue about some things…
He had to think logically. What had caused the feeling? Ellen's comment about friends, and another, smaller cause had been the word Mudblood. He had a feeling about the cause of the latter, but he found himself reluctant to admit it. And he didn't have a clue about the friendship comment, which left him toying with the half-formed notion about Muggleborns.
Sighing, he pushed off from the side and swam the length of the bathtub, finding that the physical exertion helped push away emotions. The foam got in his hair, and his eyes, so he tried swimming underwater until the water got into his eyes and made them sore. Unaccountably restless, he kicked around in the water until it started to get cold, when he reluctantly got out, not looking forward to returning to the common room.
He was just towelling himself dry when a voice spoke, an all-too-familiar voice, shy and hesitant, 'Hiya, sweetheart.'
Draco froze in surprise, the fluffy white towel around his waist and his hair dripping water onto the marble floor below. 'I would have appreciated it, Rita,' he began in a clipped voice as he found his tongue, tying the towel around his waist, 'if you had told me you were here before my bath.'
'Draco, dear, you've got nothing to be ashamed of,' the mirror replied as Draco turned to glare at it angrily. The mirror sighed. 'I suppose you haven't forgiven me yet then?'
'No,' he answered bluntly, picking up another towel from a pile in the corner and beginning to dry his hair. He began to feel annoyed – just when he thought he'd finally left her behind, she turned up again. 'Why are you here, anyway?'
'Dumbledore moved me here,' she replied, almost smugly. 'He came in the other day just before you went back to school, looking for you. He asked me if I knew how you were doing, we chatted for a bit, he moved me here.'
'He's an idiot, then,' Draco replied smoothly.
'Oh, I don't know, it's nicer here than it was at the Order. More people to chat to. Plus Euterpe's good company…'
'Euterpe?'
'The mermaid in that painting,' Rita explained. 'We get on well, you know, got the same interests…'
Removing the towel from his hair, Draco glared at the mirror. 'I don't much care about your social life.'
Rita's voice sounded sad. 'Why won't you forgive me?'
Draco grabbed up the pile of his clothes and started dressing. 'Because you betrayed me to Hermione,' he pointed out bitterly.
'For your own good!'
Draco, pulling on his robe, didn't reply.
'Look, Draco, you have to admit I did do it for a good reason. You needed help, you still do need help, and I…' she paused. 'I'm just a mirror, I can't help you with that. I wanted you to have someone who could help you…look, can you honestly say that Hermione hasn't helped you at all?'
His fingers, smoothing down the front of his robes, paused for a moment. Hermione had helped him, it was true. But did that justify betrayal? He still felt the shock of Rita revealing all his secrets to an enemy, and it still hurt. But if good had come out of it…
Rita was still waiting for an answer to her question. 'She's helped,' Draco said offhandedly, as if it didn't matter.
'So why won't you forgive me?' Rita pleaded. 'It turned out for the best, didn't it?'
Draco paused for a long time before replying, facing away from Rita, his hair dampening the back of his robes. 'I used to think the ends justified the means,' he said at last. 'I'm not sure if they do anymore…'
There was a long silence, its sharpness softened by the dreamlike atmosphere of the room, the cinnamon scent still heavy in the air. Finally, Rita spoke up.
'Alright. You don't have to forgive me,' she said, and Draco thought she sounded rather sad. 'But please won't you just talk to me? I want to know if you're okay, how you're doing…'
He considered this. It couldn't really hurt, if he didn't trust her with anything important… 'Next time I come here, I'll talk to you,' he offered. 'But now I'm going back to my common room.'
'Okay,' said Rita softly. 'And thank you.'
He shrugged it off, though her thank you gave him a warm feeling, as though he'd swallowed the bathwater and was full of its cinnamon-scented warmth. It was a dangerous feeling, Draco realised, as it suggested things to him: she didn't mean to hurt you, she only wants to help, why not forgive her…
He walked to the door, not looking back, and wouldn't have spoken again. But Rita, sounding happier, gave him a 'Bye, sweetheart. See you soon.'
Draco paused at the door. What could it hurt?
'Bye, Rita.'
~*~
A/N: I know it was rather centred on Draco: there were a few bits that needed to happen here and it was easier to put all of Draco's parts into one chapter. We resume more balanced chapters next week!
I'd normally tell you what the Latin bits meant here, but there's only the Slytherin password and no prizes for guessing that (remember the Romans had no j: the j in modern forms of Latin words replaces the Latin i.)
And yes, I do realise that Ella introduced herself by her proper first name, it's not a mistake. Explanation of that comes up later, though some of you may be able to guess.
And all that remains to be said is my usual weekly injunction to review. You know what I want by now! See, if I don't get many reviews, I get upset. If I get upset, the little voices in my head start trying to turn me to the Dark Side. If I turn to the Dark Side, I destroy the universe. And the universe is rather pretty, I'd quite like not to destroy it… so review. Quickly! The little voices are telling me to prepare the laser-guided-missile-bomb-of-ultimate-doom, weapon-to-end-all-other-weapons, Destroyer-of-the-Universe, Exploder-of-Galaxies, Crusher-of-Planets… oops, too late.
BOOM!
… or you could just review. I'll be in the asylum, unless anyone's seen my sanity lying around somewhere… review!