Chapter 18: Rita's Gossip

Disclaimer: quaeris, quot mihi basationes | tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque… what? Who… notices the camera's on Oh. Oops… Sorry, I was revising Latin. Exams coming up, you know… Harry Potter belongs to JK, and the poetry belongs to Catullus. Great poetry :D

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A/N: Happy 17th, Loulou!!!

I drew her a picture for her birthday. It featured a certain male character 'bound and helpless' with Slytherin-green ribbon… sadly, I'm forbidden to show it to you. I might try and draw more Fallen-related pictures in the future, though, if I have time… (on a related note, as someone asked, the old title-page thingy was lost from my hard drive ages ago. It wasn't very good anyway – I'll make you another when I have time!)

And time leads me to my next point. Sadly, I have exams coming up in just over a week (the Muggle equivalent of OWLS!!!) and the need to write Fallen is rapidly losing ground to the need to stay up till three in the morning doing twelve past papers, eleven mad mnemonics, ten boring essays, nine French exercises, eight Literature poems, seven Latin translations, six quadratic equations, five chemical reactions, four biological processes, three Laws of Physics, two pages of Latin vocab, and annotations in my To Kill A Mockingbird book.

Because of this, you might find that this chapter is somewhat shorter (and poorer) than others. I'm sorry. I am, after all, only human.

Due to ridiculous amounts of revision and a school trip all weekend (Stratford, to watch Shakespeare plays), plus getting burnt out from writing too much, I'm going to take a week off from writing next week. I'll do everything in my power to get the next chapter up in two week's time, but after that we're heading into the thick of exams. In that time, I really can't promise regular updates; most of my time will be spent studying or absolutely dead from exhaustion. I will, however, try to warn you beforehand when I can't update, and will try to update at least fortnightly.

After that, though, we're into wonderful summer holidays, when I shall reward you for your patience with all the one-shots and short stories I've been meaning to write for ages.

On a side note, fanfiction.net seems to be removing my usual scene-divider. I've put in horizontal rules for this chapter; I'll change them to normal as soon as the problem gets sorted.

Anyway, here's this weeks shorter-than-usual chapter. Enjoy!

The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.

Frank Herbert (1920 - 1986)

Witches and wizards, in the many thousands of years of human history, had invented literally thousands of spells, curses, charms, hexes, potions, incantations and enchantments. They covered a vast range of human requirements, from medicine to fashion, Dark Arts to Astronomy; caring for dragons to duplicating letters.

Hermione knew this. As she forced her aching legs to walk up what must be their thirtieth staircase in the past hour, what she really wanted to know was why no one had invented a spell to see whether the Prefect's bathroom was free yet.

She'd walked all the way there, found the door locked and some embarrassingly bad singing echoing from within, and – not wanting to wait around in the corridor – had been forced to return to Gryffindor tower. Twenty minutes later, she'd set off again, determined that after she'd had her nice long soak in the bath she was going to go straight to the library and find some way of telling whether the bathroom was in use or not.

Turning into the corridor, she was immediately relieved to find that the singing had stopped. And the door handle, which glowed silver when the room was occupied, was its ordinary gold. Relieved that she wouldn't have to traipse back to the Gryffindor common room a second time, she hurried to the door and gave the password.

'Fizzy Pink Bubbles,' she told the door, and it obligingly swung open.

The room was still slightly damp with steam, and condensation misted the marble. Hermione always thought that stepping into a steamy bathroom must be a little like stepping into a tropical rainforest, if the rainforest had heaps of cloud-white towels and a huge bathtub in the middle. It was the air: the humidity and the warmth – if your imagination was strong enough, you could almost smell the rich scent of lush plants growing, hear the strange calls and cries of the bizarre and fascinating creatures that lived there…

She carefully closed the door, wanting to keep as much of the steam in as possible, and crossed to the bathtub. Hermione loved the sheer size of it, almost like a swimming pool, though she always felt vaguely guilty about using it – it must waste an incredible amount of water. But the sheer pleasure of relaxing in a warm, foam-filled pool of always brought her back.

Putting her bottle of shampoo down by the side, and grabbing one of the large bars of soap, she reached for her favourite tap – one that made a fountain where it hit the water, and produced lilac foam that smelt of lavender. But before she could turn it on, she heard a voice.

'Hermione? Is that you?'

She jumped so hard she almost slipped and fell into the tub. 'Who's there?' she demanded, looking round. Was someone spying on her? Who? It had been a female voice… quite familiar, too…

'Rita?'

There was a new mirror on the wall. She hadn't noticed it before, but now she gaped at it in astonishment. The mermaid, who'd been half-asleep when she came in, giggled and watched in amusement.

'It is you, then,' Rita said, sounding pleased. 'Will you be a darling and wipe all this condensation off, I can't see a thing…'

Hermione grabbed the nearest towel. 'But how did you get here?' she asked, as she began wiping the steam off the glass. 'I mean, you were at the Order…'

'Dumbledore brought me. Don't ask why, I haven't a clue how that delightful man's mind works, but I'm certain there's a method in his madness. Ah, that's better,' Rita said as Hermione wiped the last of the condensation away. 'I hate not being able to see.'

Hermione smiled at the mirror, watching her reflection smile back. 'Do you think it could have been for Draco?' she asked. 'I mean, he has told you things in the past… are you still fighting?'

'I'm not sure. He spoke to me last time he was in here… he's still mad, the poor boy, but I think he'll get over it. Eventually.' Rita paused. 'And it probably was something to do with Draco, Dumbledore was asking me loads of questions about how he was doing before he arranged to bring me here. Well, of course he'd be interested, it's not every day you meet someone who's never felt emotions before, the sweetheart.'

'Have you heard the latest gossip?' the mermaid asked in a voice that sounded like bubbles of water chiming together, startling Hermione for a moment – the mermaid didn't often speak.

'Oh, how could I forget! That Slytherin prefect, you know, the one with the really pointy nose, she was in here before and I managed to prise the most unbelievable piece of gossip out of her.' Rita gabbled. 'About Draco, too.'

Hermione couldn't help but be intrigued. 'What is it?'

'Well, you know how there was that darling little Muggleborn girl who got Sorted into Slytherin?' Rita asked excitedly, and Hermione nodded. 'Well, apparently last night some of the third-years were beating her up – in the middle of the common room, can you believe it, it's utterly shameful…'

'What?' They were actually attacking…?' Hermione asked, feeling the peculiar cold feeling that comes with suddenly going very pale. Just for being Muggleborn…

'I know, it's dreadful, the poor little girl. But they're Slytherins. And,' Rita gave a dramatic pause, 'Draco Malfoy stopped them.'

The news of the attack had been shocking but not unexpected; this she was completely unprepared for. 'He stopped them?' Hermione asked incredulously. 'But why? I mean, he's always hated Muggleborns… well, acted like he hated them.'

'Haven't a clue,' Rita said cheerfully. 'He didn't stop it right away, and he was snapping at everyone for the rest of the night. I can't wait till he comes in here, I have tons of questions to ask…'

'Compassion,' Hermione said, frowning, 'He was asking me about compassion before. He got annoyed because it's so illogical. And then he goes and helps that girl…'

'Oooh, you could be right,' Rita said. 'I can't wait to find out…'

Hermione nodded, frowning in thought. Could that really be why? Compassion? It didn't fit with her image of Draco; he'd been insulting to her for five years, and irritable and snappish to her over the summer. But it did make sense…

'I'd better run that bath now…' Hermione said distractedly, running a hand through her hair. 'Thanks for telling me, Rita.'

'Anytime.'

She remembered going to a Muggle swimming pool as a child, in the summer before Fred and George started at Hogwarts. A huge one, filled with shrieks of laughter, waterslides spiralling and twisting through the air, fountains and waterfalls and secret, hidden corners. She remembered her father, ecstatic, trying to work out how the Muggles made spouts of water squirt upward and getting hit in the face by one. They'd all laughed.

The most exciting part, even more exciting than the slides, had been the wave pool. Ginny had just graduated from her swimming lessons, and her mother grudgingly allowed her into the deep pool where hidden machinery made huge waves. Swimming expertly, she'd kept her head above the water as a huge wave lifted her up, dropped her into a valley, and lifted her again. It had been exciting because it was dangerous, because at any moment she could be engulfed by water.

There was no pool here, no chlorine smell in the air, but among the fiery reds and golds of the Gryffindor common room Ginny was reminded once again of those waves, the highs and lows and the inexorable power of the water. Except that this time, she was a spectator, watching someone else struggle their way to the peak only to dip down again, fighting to keep their head above water. Harry.

Of course, it wasn't real water; he was swimming in a pool of feelings, of his misery and grief and all the other things he was feeling. And sometimes he was at the bottom of a wave, and then he was silent and pale and withdrawn, his mind wandering in some other world and coming back to reality only when forced. It was then Ginny feared for him most, feared that the water would drag him under and drown him.

Other times, of course, he was on top of the wave, and then he smiled again, and laughed, and chatted until they could almost forget that in the morning he'd be miserable again. His eyes were alive then, greener than the leaves in summer. Or, Ginny thought with a flash of amusement, as green as a fresh pickled toad. What on earth had she been thinking in first year?

She watched him, talking animatedly to Ron and Hermione. They were discussing something that had happened in Transfiguration, and while she could have joined in the conversation, Ginny felt content to watch.

She watched Harry's eyes laughing, and Ron's hair glowing in the firelight, and Hermione smiling widely, happy that Harry was alright. She watched her brother laughing, and the inkstains on Hermione's hands, and the way that Harry's black-as-midnight hair always stuck out in all directions.

Was it odd that she was closer to the year above than her own year? It wasn't that she had no friends of her own age; she got on well with all of them, sat with them in class… But she had always been closest to Ron out of her brothers – as the youngest two, they'd had most in common. Hermione was intelligent and caring, and always seemed to have something interesting to say. And Harry… was Harry. He didn't need any more explanation than that: he was the Boy Who Lived; the one who'd saved her from Tom.

Even her boyfriend was from the year above. Ginny supposed it wasn't a bad thing, really – variety was a good thing, and she had friends in both years. It worked well.

'Ginny?' It was Hermione's voice. 'Were we leaving you out?'

She looked up. 'Oh, no, don't worry, I was just thinking.'

'You looked half asleep.' Ron told her. 'Tired?'

'A bit,' Ginny confessed, sitting up properly. 'What were you talking about?'

'The Transfiguration lesson,' said Harry, grinning. 'We were learning how to turn a piece of parchment into a plant, you see, and Ron managed to get the incantation completely wrong, and instead of tulips his parchment managed to turn into a Fanged Nasturtium…'

'The ones that attack people?' asked Ginny, grinning. 'Didn't one of those chew off someone's leg, a few years ago in… Wales?'

Ron nodded, looking sheepish. 'One of those.'

Ginny laughed, and Harry, his eyes glowing and alive, carried on telling her the story of their amusing battle with the Fanged Nasturtium.

'It is vital that you do not allow the dragon scale to remain in the potion for more than five seconds, else the substance will become far too powerful with damaging effects to the drinker. You will know whether you're competent enough to make the most basic of NEWT level potions if your mixture turns a pale orange after removal of the scale. If you are incompetent, and it turns a deeper shade of orange, then I would seriously doubt your ability to achieve more than an A in an examination.'

Snape was lecturing the class in his usual acidic tones, the procedure for that lesson's potion already written on the blackboard. Draco had copied it down and ceased to pay much attention to Snape's warnings; he knew from experience that they were usually a more thorough repetition of what was already on the board, mixed with sarcastic comments and derisory remarks.

Granger, of course, was frantically scribbling away on a piece of parchment, her hair seeming even bushier than usual. He scowled. Maybe it was only his imagination, bit it felt as though he hadn't been able to escape from her all day. And she was continually glancing up at him with a puzzled look as though she were trying to work something out, or a tiny, almost smug little smile that made him want to hex her soundly.

It annoyed him in a strange way, as if someone had numbed a patch of skin with ice and proceeded to slide a needle into that patch, started moving the sliver of metal around. There was nothing painful associated with it, merely an annoyance.

And, of course, it wasn't logical. Hermione could smile that irritating little smile all she wanted; it would achieve nothing, and there was certainly no way in which that could have any negative effects on him. Yet it made him want to strangle her.

'The potions will require about thirty minutes to complete,' Snape was saying. 'You may begin now.'

There was a general buzz of movement as people got up from the benches and began their preparations. They weren't in pairs; Snape had firmly decreed that they were not allowed to 'rely on the intelligence or knowledge of another in NEWT level Potions', giving Hermione a sharp look: she was known for trying to help her friends when they got things wrong.

Draco set up his cauldron and started slicing crisp, blue-green eucalyptus leaves into thin strips. They were an important part of this potion, though not as important as the dragon scale, and the powerful scent quickly filled the room. It was an unusual occurrence, to have a nice-smelling ingredient in Potions; almost sweet and impossible to place, but energising, as if pure energy had been condensed to liquid form and allowed to evaporate into the cold, stony dungeon.

Draco carried on as usual, preparing his potion with the attention to detail that always got him high marks. Oh, Snape played favourites, but Draco knew he'd do just as well if the professor were completely unbiased. He could never understand why people like Longbottom found Potions so difficult – all you did was follow the instructions. Simple.

Hermione was looking at him again, pausing as she crushed her beetle shells with a considering look on her face. He didn't like it, feeling like some interesting thing to be analysed and written down in books. It annoyed him again: the painless-needle way. Nothing would happen if she looked at him, Draco reminded himself. It had no relevance whatsoever.

He glared at her, and she turned back to her potion, but Draco caught her looking at him in the same way over the course of their lesson, as they prepared the ingredients, stirred the mixture, as – in accordance with Shakespeare – fires burnt and cauldrons bubbled.

His potion was a perfect shade of pale orange. So was Granger's, when he glanced her way, though Potter's was a shade too dark. Not enough to lower his mark by far, but enough to earn him a glare from Snape as he swept past. Draco smirked, a mixture of habit and smug superiority.

Draco almost wondered, idly, whether Harry had got over his godfather's death, and whether he was alright now, but he pushed those thoughts away with some alarm as soon as they occurred to him. It was just like Potter to whine over some pathetic dog-man's death, Draco told himself firmly.

He cleared away quickly, and made to leave as soon as he could, but he hadn't taken two steps into the corridor when a voice spoke.

'Draco?'

It was Hermione, standing defiantly in the doorway. She stepped over to him, letting the people behind her stream out. Perfect; now the Slytherins had seen a Mudblood talking to him. Just what he needed, though after last night he couldn't really sink any lower.

He wasn't pleased to see her. 'What do you want?' he snapped.

Harry came up behind them, puzzled. 'I'll only be a minute, Harry, you go on ahead,' Hermione told him before he could speak, then turned back to Draco as Harry, frowning, left. 'I wanted to know why you helped that Muggleborn girl last night.'

Instantly, for no understandable reason, he felt furious – that fiery emotion that became more familiar by the day. 'That is none of your business,' he hissed, then turned sharply and began to leave.

She called after him. 'Compassion. It was compassion, wasn't it?'

He walked away.

A/N: I don't particularly like this chapter, mainly because time constrained me so I didn't get to write all of it that I wanted to. There was meant to be another scene… ah well. Next chapter (a week after next, remember) should hopefully be better.

Now, I'm going to go and gibber over the fact that I only know about three of my Latin poems. Reviews calm my nerves, by reminding me that if I fail all my exams, I can always make a living writing ridiculous romance stories for Mils and Boon (they'll publish anything if someone shags in it). But I'd really rather not fail my exams. Reviews keep me calm, calmness leads to better revision, better revision leads to better passing-of-exams. So review. Please?