Chapter 17: An Act Of Compassion

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Might steal it. Oooh, I could lock J.K.Rowling in my closet and use Polyjuice to imitate her! Except I don't have a closet. Oh, well, another brilliant plan down the drain.

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A/N: More word-related questions; I don't know what it's like in other areas of England, but where I am, we definitely say arse. Or ass.

Anyway. This was another 'very late finish' ones, because the muses battered my round the ears and forced me to write a one-shot. Which I actually really like. A Fetching Shade Of Pain, available through my profile. Go read!

I'd write more, but time is short, I'm exhausted and my bed is calling to me. Enjoy!

~*~

If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.

The Dali Lama

~*~

Draco attempted to draw his concentration back to his Arithmancy homework. Over the holidays, he'd found Arithmancy enjoyable – in the firm structure of numbers and formulae, he could find the familiar touch of cool, calm logic that had been thrown into turmoil by these nonsensical emotions.

But Professor Vector, rather apologetically, had explained that they had to cover a rather boring piece of number manipulation before they progressed to more exciting things. The problem with it was that it didn't require any kind of thought, just repetitive sums and calculations and nothing interesting, nothing requiring great logical feats. Before things had changed, Draco wouldn't even have noticed that there was a difference in the kinds of work. Now, though…

Boredom, he realised, was quite an easy emotion to place. It was like having a tiny five-year-old in your skull screaming, 'I want something to do!' Of course, he had something to do – Arithmancy homework. But the emotional part of him couldn't accept that. Which left him sitting in the common room and forcing himself to concentrate.

He scribbled down the answers to the next few sums, but then his mind began to wander disconcertingly. His mind had never wandered as a Fallen, never gone off track when he'd wanted to remain focused on one thing…

But now it did. He found himself thinking about anything and everything; the decoration on the large fireplace, the clusters of Slytherins talking quietly, the oddly chilly feeling in the air. His eyes settled on the group around the fire. Blaise, Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle… his group. He should have been among them, thinking of new ways to mock Potter and his entourage, keeping up his pretence of being human.

He found it odd that it had been easier to pretend to be human than it was to actually be human.

No, he had to concentrate on his homework. He couldn't let human things get in the way of his work… But before he could put quill to parchment, a voice caught his attention. It was low-pitched, and half the room away from him, but he still heard it as loudly and clearly as though someone had crept up to his ear and shouted it.

'Mudblood.'

His eyes swept upwards of their own accord, pinpointing the source of the voice, already half-knowing what he'd see there. Ellen, surrounded by a bunch of sneering third-years. He'd expected this.

She had her wand with her, but even as she faced the older students defiantly Draco knew she hadn't a chance. What could she do, transfigure a match into a needle? He gave the common room a quick scan – very few of the neutral group to which she'd attached herself were there, and the ones that were didn't seem about to do anything to help her. Not when she was so new to the group. One second-year attempted to step forward, to try and defend Ellen, but a pair of third-years quietly detached themselves from the group and held her back, wands out.

The common room had fallen quiet to watch, except for the knot of sixth and seventh years around the fireplace, the group that held the most highly regarded of Slytherin. They ignored it, which meant they approved. Let the attack commence.

'Just a warning to you. We don't want Mudbloods in Slytherin,' one of the third-years said, leisurely toying with his wand. The ringleader. Draco could sense the attention in the room, the ripples that this event would cause. People adding new information to what they already knew about the boy, figuring out what would change because of this attack. That was how Slytherins worked.

Ellen gripped her useless wand and stood firm, not showing fear. 'It doesn't matter what you want. The Sorting Hat put me here. I'm meant to be here and I'm staying…'

'You aren't meant to be here.' The third-year cut in sharply. 'You don't belong here. You aren't wanted.'

He must have given some signal, because at that moment one of the girls behind Ellen muttered a quick spell, sending the unfortunate Ellen staggering in sudden pain. She looked ridiculously small surrounded by people two years older than her, thin dishwater-blonde hair falling down to hide her face.

It wasn't his problem. Ellen was none of his concern, and he turned his mind back to the Arithmancy. He ought to get this finished…

Another spell, and a stifled cry. Draco's quill jerked on the parchment. He told himself the noise had merely startled him, though he knew full well that he was fully focused on the fight. It was impossible to attend to his work.

She was none of his concern!

It wasn't even a proper fight. It was nothing more than a gang of bullies attacking a defenceless victim. Another spell, another cry, and Draco's hand tightened on his quill. Why did he feel drawn to interfere…?

Arithmancy. Numbers and formulas and…

The numbers became meaningless on the page. Another spell, another cry, and Draco found he couldn't even focus on the world any more, his mind turned completely to his awareness of the fight, of Ellen, of what she could be feeling. An imperfect understanding, as his knowledge of emotions was imperfect, but he didn't need understanding to know what pain was, what suffering was.

He couldn't interfere. It was illogical. She was none of his concern. He even wrote it on a piece of scrap parchment, as if the act of doing so would make it true. She is none of my concern.

Another spell, another cry.

And he couldn't deny the compulsion to help her. However firmly he told himself that it was illogical, that the last thing he needed in his outcast position was to publicly help a Mudblood, he was compelled to help her. Not because he could imagine her pain, but because of something other…

He knew what it was, of course, and there was still no explanation for it. There was no logic in it, only the pressing urge not to stand back and watch someone suffer. No. He repeated the sound, over and over in his head. No. He wouldn't help her, wouldn't give in to the compulsion, wouldn't abandon logic for these strange and frightening and irrational emotions… none of the other Slytherins were inflicted with a desire to help her. He was truly an outcast, truly didn't belong…

Another spell, another cry, and he couldn't help himself any more. He stood, drawing his wand from his pocket.

'That's enough,' he said. Ellen, down on her knees on the floor in pain, looked at him with some surprise.

'You have no authority over me, Malfoy,' the leader snarled, using Draco's surname as a taunt. A reminder of what was gone.

'Am I or am I not still a Prefect?' Draco asked icily. The room was silent.

The leader glanced towards the knot of Draco's old companions, but they made no move to challenge Draco. One corner his mouth curved in a –everyone knew full well that he was the best at Dark Arts in the whole of Slytherin house, and when it could come down to a duel, no one would be so foolhardy as to challenge him. There were wards against Dark Arts, of course, but the lesser and more obscure spells slipped through that net. And he knew every one of them.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the third-year gave the briefest nod, motioned to his allies, and turned away. The vicious group gave Draco dirty looks as they trooped away, deprived of their fun. Conversation broke out again – all of it about him, Draco knew.

Ellen pushed herself to her feet, one hand pressed to her cheek where blood was leaking between her fingers, the other on her side, which appeared to be in pain. She regarded Draco with unusually pale blue eyes.

He didn't want anything more to do with her. His place had already dropped even further, if there existed a lower level for him to inhabit, and he didn't want to tarnish himself any more by speaking to her. He turned away.

But she spoke to him. 'I thought you weren't my ally.'

'I'm not,' he replied harshly. 'I'm a Prefect. It was my… job.'

'That didn't stop Parkinson from sitting back and ignoring what was going on,' Ellen pointed out wryly. 'Why were you different?'

He looked back at her over his shoulder, glaring, and didn't answer. 'Go find Madam Pomfrey,' he ordered her, before walking swiftly back to the safe logic of his Arithmancy work.

Not so swift that he didn't hear her softly call, 'Thank you.'

He hated compassion.

~*~

'Did you just say coochie-coo?'

Dean looked incredibly embarrassed. 'Well, er, I mean…'

'Don't deny it,' Ginny told him, grinning. 'I heard you. You said coochie-coo to my cat.'

Ron snorted, amused. 'Coochie-coo? We'll have to throw you out of the boys' dorm if you say that again!'

'Well I think it's sweet,' Ginny said in defence of her boyfriend, giving him an almost flirtatious smile, and Dean grinned. Ron's expression soured slightly – he was alright when Ginny and Dean were acting like friends, but clearly wasn't comfortable when they acted like anything else.

'I didn't mean to say it,' Dean explained. 'I've got this absolutely batty grandma, you see, mad on cats, and she always goes around going coochie-coo and stuff to her cats. I guess I kinda… picked it up.'

He scratched Kass absentmindedly behind the ears, and she mewed in pleasure. She seemed to be settling in well though her relationship with Crookshanks was occasionally volatile. Half the time they got on perfectly - the rest of the time they were hissing at each other.

Hermione felt the familiar nudge at her ankles, reached down with her left hand and gave Crookshanks' head a good rub. Her right hand, and the focus of her attention, was on what she was writing.

…Association. Everyone is welcome, whatever their year or house, to learn vital defensive skills and strategies. Meeting times…

The hubbub of the common room wasn't the best place to be writing this in, especially with her friends close by. But it was only a short advert, and she'd spend longer walking to and from the library than she'd spend actually writing the thing. She considered her next sentence, then put quill to parchment once more.

When she finished, five minutes later, she read over the advert again. She didn't think there was anything missing… 'Harry?' she asked, glancing up at the boy sitting beside her. 'Could you read… Harry?'

He wasn't paying attention, staring at a stitched gold decoration on the back of the sofa, quite clearly unaware of anything going on around him. Hermione frowned, feeling even more worried.

'Harry?' she tried again, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. That must have done it, because he started upright, his glasses sliding alarmingly down his nose.

'Are you alright?' was the first question she asked. He nodded, pushing his glasses back up to their proper place.

'I'm fine. Sorry, I was just thinking…'

Hermione had a feeling she knew what he'd been thinking about, but didn't quite want to ask. Mentioning it aloud would probably just make things worse.

'I was just wondering if you wanted to read through the advert before I copied it,' she asked.

'Oh. Sure, let me see,' Harry agreed without much enthusiasm, and Hermione wordlessly handed the paper over. Harry scanned the first few lines listlessly, and she could see his attention wandering. Biting her lip, she glanced over to where Ron was absently playing with Kass' ears, chattering to Ginny and Dean. She caught his eye, motioned towards Harry. 'Can you distract him?' she mouthed.

Ron frowned, giving a brief nod, and Ginny skilfully struck up a new conversation with Dean to prevent him questioning the exchange that had just gone on. Hermione gently reached out to the parchment, gave it a brief tug under Harry's hand, which startled him back to reality.

'Do you think it's okay?' she asked, knowing perfectly well that he hadn't read more than the first paragraph. Harry gave her a nod, letting her take the parchment back. She had to do something to help him, she knew as Ron leaned over to begin conversation. The only thing was, she didn't know how.

'What about that new Quidditch foul they're thinking of bringing in then, Harry? That one with the Beaters and Snitches…'

Quidditch. What a predictable topic. Hermione smiled, unpinning her Prefect badge and setting it atop the advertisement. She muttered a quick spell; 'Quattuor!' and the parchment shimmered, rippled like water, and vanished. A copy of it appeared on the notice board on the opposite side of the room, and exact duplicates would have pinned themselves to the notice boards in the other three house common rooms. It was a little bit of magic built into the Prefect badges, to make things easier.

She had to help Harry. She said she didn't know how to help him, but she'd helped Draco, hadn't she? Or at least tried to. She hadn't been very successful with explaining compassion…

The thing was, compassion didn't have any kind of easy explanation. Draco was quite right: it defied logic. She'd grown up with emotions and feelings, after all, and she was used to them not making rational sense. She'd never even noticed that they didn't before – compassion was compassion, caring was caring and love was love; they needed no more justification than that. But from what she understood, Fallens seemed to work on nothing but logic. Like machines. Not human at all.

It gave some perspective of what Draco must be going through. Not to think of it as merely someone experiencing emotions who'd never felt them before, but as someone whose whole mind had undergone a drastic change, the very fabric that made up the way they thought warped, altered completely.

It made her more determined to help him. There had to be some logic to compassion, somewhere. There was the little logic that stated that, if you risked yourself for someone else, others would think more highly of you, or you could get a reward, or you could feel good about yourself. But all of those were lies, things that people might say if desperately attempting to come up with an answer. They weren't explanations of compassion, just side effects of it.

You helped people because it was right to help them. Because life was the most precious, the most beautiful and most mysterious thing there was, and where there was pain or suffering or danger, you wanted to stop it, because it was detrimental to life. But that was just an explanation too, albeit a closer one to the truth. Compassion couldn't be explained. Like altruism, and love, and charity. People risked or sacrificed thing for another, without reason or logic, and in some way that defied explanation it was noble, and good, and perfect.

But how could you explain all that to someone who didn't understand emotions?

Her attention was distracted at that point by Crookshanks, who was sitting on Dean's knee while he earnestly discussed Quidditch with the others. He, mewling angrily, had pounced onto the nearby table and attacked the front page of the Daily Prophet; a photograph of a pretty young girl cowered in fear as the cat clawed at the image.

'Crookshanks! Stop that, someone might want to read that paper,' Hermione chided as Ginny dragged the cat back. Kass, from her vantage point on Ginny's lap, hissed at poor Crookshanks and scratched him firmly across the nose before stalking off to curl up on Harry's knee. Crookshanks gave a pitiful meow, and Hermione was forced to forget her thoughts in favour of caring for her cat.

~*~

Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew…

Draco was barely two pages into the book, and already his mind was wandering. He tried again.

…grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog…

He couldn't concentrate, and he snapped the book closed in disgust, the gold letters mockingly glinting To Kill A Mockingbird at him. Dropping it carelessly on the floor, he stretched out on his bed, pillowing his head in his arms and thinking.

It was evening; he had about half an hour before anyone would even think of coming to bed. Maybe an hour. His Arithmancy was finished, as was his other work, and he'd retreated to the dormitory after finding the sharp stares and quiet conversations too much. He'd helped a Mudblood. He was truly an outcast now.

Emotions were horrible, illogical, foolish things. Draco could still feel the Fallen part of him like a separate self, struggling to take control once more. He'd tried to give in to it to switch back to a Fallen, but his human mind had too strong a sense of self-preservation to do that. Was it his imagination, or did the Fallen part of him seem stronger? Perhaps it could get strong enough to reclaim possession; then he wouldn't have to fight with emotions anymore…

A loud tap from the window startled him, and his hand was on the hilt of his wand before he realised it was an owl. And this was odd; the way that just a sound could frighten him, could make his heart beat harder and his lungs breathe faster. Humanity was incredibly strange.

He crossed to the window, recognising his father's owl, a dark black figure on the windowsill. The wind blew with sudden vehemence when he unlatched the glass, a chilling gust blew his hair back, made the fabric of his black robes ripple. The owl flew inside with a few short flaps of its wings, and Draco quickly closed the window behind it.

He untied the parchment from the owl's leg, opened it and quickly scanned his father's familiar, perfectly formed script.

Draco,

It is logical to assume that you have become human. While this may have initially impaired your reasoning, humans have the capability for logic and rationality. Emotions are merely an impairment that must be ignored.

While this difficulty has had detrimental effects, you are not unintelligent, and will be able to recover in time with dedicated effort. It is illogical to do anything other.

-Lucius

The wording was oddly familiar; the simple, factual, measured voice that his father used when he wasn't acting the part of a human, the same tone that he had used himself. Emotionless.

An impairment? Draco's expression darkened, the parchment creasing where he held it. Lucius had been a Fallen all his life; had never felt the impossible rush of emotions that accompanied humanity. It wasn't a mere impediment; it made logic completely impossible.

Like with Ellen, and compassion. He'd known how foolish that was, how illogical an act, and yet he'd helped her because his feelings made him, because he couldn't not help.

His father had never felt that. A bitter fire seemed to be burning inside him, just below the breastbone; he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it onto the floor in disgust.  With a wave of his wand and an 'Incendio!' set the parchment on fire. It wouldn't do for one of the others to read it.

Why was he human and not his father? It was a ridiculous question, he realised as soon as he thought it – because he had received whatever stimulus it was that changed him from Fallen to human, and his father hadn't. That was all.

But still a little voice whined on, Why me? Why me? I want to be Fallen, not human, why didn't it happen to him?

Draco ignored it. It would do no good to wish it had been Lucius who now suffered these things instead of himself. Instead, he crossed again to the window, opened it and let the black owl fly out silently, without a reply. He couldn't have written one, couldn't have explained anything or made any excuses his father could understand.

Closing his window, he returned to his bed, picked up his book and tried to lose himself in the description of fictional Maycomb.

~*~

A/N: Right then. I'm exhausted, Draco doesn't like being human, Harry's still miserable and Dean's making accidental embarrassing slips when talking to cats. None of us are having good days. You can't do much for them, poor sods, but you can cheer me up with a review!