Enough For An Angel

I've always been stupid.

There's no denying it - I've never been the smartest kid at school. I act how I look - bumbling, clumsy - all muscle and no brains. I can't help it. It's just me.

Even when I was little, I was slow. I started walking months later than I was supposed to, and I spent the first three years of my life babbling nonsense that no one but I could understand. It was a well known fact - Gregory Goyle was stupid.

There were plenty of fights about it. My parents weren't happy, although I never really understood why. My dad's not exactly a genius in his own right, and my mum... well, let's say that the inbreeding has caught up on her side of the family. She's pretty, but not the brightest star in the sky. But my family is rich, and so they tried to make me smart.

The first real sign that I wasn't as smart as other kids my age came when I was six. Like all other rich, pureblooded families, I got a tutor. It was time for me to learn how to read, and write, and do basic maths.

It was a disaster from the start.

My lettering was never good enough. I had big, clumsy hands to match my big, clumsy build. I snapped more quills my first month than most people go through in a lifetime. My letters were block and misshapen.

And my e's, r's, and y's were always the wrong way. I couldn't help it. I was stupid. They just never came out right.

My tutor was, in his words, driven into the depths of madness and despair. I didn't understand what he was talking about - everything looked alright to me. He scowled and told me to write out my full name and my birthday. So I did.

Gregory Michael Goyle, born on March 15th, 1980.

Simple enough, right? Then my tutor showed me what I had really written.

Grgeory Micheal Gyole, brn no Marhc 15th, 1890.

I was in tears. It looked right to me! I didn't understand. My father got mad and threw a bottle of aged wine against the wall and stormed out, alternately screaming about having a swot for a son and having an idiot for a son. I held on the parchment for hours, sobbing. All the e's, r's, and y's were backwards.

When I had to learn cursive, life went to hell. Every day, I heard about how stupid I was. It hurt. I spent a lot of time by myself, in my room, desperately trying to teach myself how to write properly. But it never came to anything, and my dad ranted every night about how it wasn't worth the time or money.

When you're like me, the ideas flow in your head likeÂ… well, like magic. I had dreams, and story ideas, and so many things I wanted to put on paper.

But when I did, it all came out a mess. I could understand it, but no one else could. I felt very lonely because I couldn't tell people want I wanted.

It got worse when I started learning to read. Words would jumble themselves together so much that I would get a horrible headache just looking at a book. My own writing hurt my head, just scanning over it brought a sharp, stabbing pain behind my left eye. All the words meant nothing to me; nothing made sense. It was then that I knew that I was really, really dumb. Slow, stupid, idiotic – whatever word anyone used, I was dumb. I didn't have a chance at hell at doing well when I finally went to Hogwarts.

So I gave up.

When I first met Draco, I kind of attached myself to him. I knew that I had no chance of getting anywhere in life by myself, so I took his offer to be his ‘friend', as he put it, and started following him around. I could barely read, I couldn't write, so I figured this was my only shot at success.

I changed from Greg to Goyle. I was thickheaded, and rude, and all the things I guess that I was supposed to be. Somewhere in my mind. I knew it wasn't right, but what choice did I have? I'm Gregory Goyle, and I'm stupid.

I got through the first five years of school without too much trouble. No one expected me to be a genius, or even half-way intelligent; I was supposed to be a dimwit, and I filled that role pretty well. However, at the beginning of sixth year, all the years spent slowly but carefully crafting my life and my outward persona came crashing down on my head when Flitwick asked me to stay behind after class.

He told me that he had failed my essay not because it was bad, but because he simply couldn't read it. I grunted in response; what was I supposed to say? I'm Gregory Goyle, and I'm slow? I'm sure he already knew. But the little gnome shook his head slightly and told me that he had spoken to the other professors, and a decision had been made; I, Goyle, Malfoy's lackey and overall idiot, was going to have to learn to write in a readable way.

My life was over. I knew it.

He then made it even worse when he told me that he had already found a tutor for me. Her name was Luna Lovegood, a fifth year, and she would be helping me learn how to write better. I wanted to roll into a ball and howl. I knew that all the Slytherins would make fun of me; Draco would practically disown me, and then where would I be? I was Goyle, his friend and protector. I didn't know anything else.

I appealed to Professor Snape, but he merely shook his head and explained that he had no say over the matter, even as my Head of House. I thought that maybe he agreed; he always gave me A's on my essays, but I think it was more for effort than anything else. So, my doom sealed, I trudged up to a room in the North Tower to have my first lesson with Lovegood.

She was weirder than I expected. Her dry blonde hair was in a squashed looking bun, and she was gazing out onto the grounds of Hogwarts, her weird eyes scanning the grounds. I stood in the doorway for a minute before she turned around, and smiled at me.

"Hello, Gregory," she said dreamily, still smiling in a really annoying fashion. She sat down at the long, thin table, patting the space on the bench next to her. I slumped into it and stared off in my own dull fashion.

"Professor Flitwick told me you were having some problems with your writing," she said, still smiling. "Can you write out your name and birthday for me?" I grunted; what was with tutors and that. I pulled out my quill and started at writing, cursing loudly when it snapped as I finished my first name.

Lovegood merely smiled and reached down into her bag. She pulled out a quill larger than even the one Lockhart used. "Here," she murmured, offering it to me. "You've got strong hands, so you'll need a stronger quill."

She really was weird, but, she was right. I still have that quill. It fits perfectly in my large, clumsy hands.

I wrote out my name and birthday, and as usual, I got it wrong. "Well," she whispered, "we'll just keep working on that until we get it right. Try writing it out about..hmmmÂ… ten times."

I wanted to strangle her, but I don't think Snape would have appreciated all the House Points I would have lost. So I did it. She got up and started looking out the window again. Several rude words and tears in the parchment later, I was finished. She looked over my shoulder. "Try again," she said, and went back to watching out the window.

I got really mad, but I knew I couldn't say anything. After a while, I gave up, and started doodling on the sides of the parchment. I drew the desk, my hands, the moon, the doorwayÂ… anything but that blasted sentence.

"Oh, my," she said, "it's getting late. I'll see you tomorrow, Gregory. Give me the parchment." I handed it to her, and sullenly marched out the door.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asked mistily. I turned around to grunt in agreement, and caught her looking at my parchment. There was a soft sparkle in her eye, and she smiled even more widely, like I had given her the map to the Blabble Mouth Tunacat, or whatever she was looking for this week.

It went on for weeks. My headaches were becoming worse and worse, and I was probably more bully than human being as time went on. I managed to hide where I was going from Draco and Vincent; Professor Snape often covered for me, asking me to assist him on things before sending me on his way. I didn't know whether to thank him or kill him.

Then one day, I stumbled my way up to that hateful room in that hateful tower. Lovegood was waiting for me, surrounded by the piles of parchment that I had gone through, just writing my name. I briefly wondered how many trees gave their lives to help me in this futile quest; I was starting to think I had deforested the entire Black Forest of Germany. I said as much to Lovegood, and to my surprise, she laughed. She had a rather nice laugh, all high and sparkling.

"Sit," she said kindly, and I did. I took out the now battered, but still strong quill she had given me, and she handed me a fresh piece of parchment.

"Write ‘My name is Gregory Michael Goyle'," she commanded in her warm, soft voice. I had tried arguing with her once, but I had ended up passing out from lack of air after shouting, and had woken up at three in the morning, Luna crouched in the corner. She told me to write. There was simply no arguing with the girl; she was like a an avalanche. So I wrote.

My nme is Gregroy Mihceal Gyole.

"Write you name," she said again, so I did.

My nam is Gregroy Michael Goyel.

"Again," she whispered, and I did.

MY name I Gregry Michel Gyoel.

I was getting frustrated.

"Again," she intoned, and I did, ripping the parchment in the process

My neam is Gregori mchal Goyl.

I wanted to scream. "I can't do this," I shouted for the thousandth time since I had started getting tutored. "I can't do this, I'm stupid, okay?!"

"Now, Gregory," she said, her eyes sparkling like her laughter, "I want you to draw your name."

Without thinking, I did, drawing out all the letters in their mixed up, jumbled glory.

She looked over my shoulder, and smiled so brightly that it outshone the sun.

"You did it," she said, pointing at the parchment. I looked.

It said, in plain letters, "My name is Gregory Michael Goyle."

I stared.

For the first time in my entire life, I had written my name correctly. I smiled so widely I thought my face would burst. Lovegood – Luna – sat on the table and started speaking animatedly to me.

I had what Muggles called Dyslexia, she explained. It was a learning disability that prevented the person with it from being able to read, and sometimes write, without getting mixed up. I wasn't mentally retarded, like my father called me, or stupid, like a lot of other people did. She said that she thought it might be because people learn different ways, and I was probably an audio learner, meaning that I had to hear people say things in order to understand them. Since we only learned spells and not theory in class, that would explain why I could never understand what I was doing. I didn't learn as well from reading or from watching; I simply had to have it explained to my verbally once or twice. I wasn't stupid, she said happily, I only learned differently.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I think I did both. I can't remember. Luna set a stack of parchment in front of me, and I began to write with zeal. My name, my house, spells I had learned to class – I drew them all, and rejoiced that I could make other people understand now. I didn't have to write it out – I had to draw it out. All my ideas, all my thoughts, raced from the edge of my extra-large quill. I finished my essays, and Luna looked over them. There were still spelling errors – Luna said she didn't know if there was a way to overcome them – but she could read them perfectly. She understood them. I sat in that room for hours, just writing. Luna smiled and told me that she had gotten the idea from all the times I had doodled on parchment; my pictures were always very clear, and she had figured out that maybe drawing was the solution. I was overjoyed.

The next day in Potions class, Professor Snape called me to the front. I heard snickers from both the Gryffindor and Slytherin side of the room, and I shuffled forward, slightly nervous.

"Mr Goyle," said Snape smoothly, "would you be so kind as to draw out the correct order and instructions for the potions?"

I looked at him in shock, he merely looked at me, but one corner of his mouth tugged up ever so slightly. I went to the board, took a deep breath, and drew out everything that Snape had said during the lesson.

It was perfect.

"10 points to Slytherin," said Snape. I turned around, and the entire room was in shock. Everyone was staring at me like fish out of water, except Granger. She merely looked at me, respect written on her face. I went back to my seat and sat down.

I still have problems writing, and reading. It still takes me a while to get through my assignments. And I still go to that blessed room in that blessed tower, and Luna helps me with my work, reading the book out loud to me while I do my work. I thanked her, once; it was kind of weird, because Slytherins don't thank people, but she merely waved her hand in dismissal. "It was worth the time," she said softly, smiling in that pleasant way. "You were worth the time." Then she went back to reading to me from my Transfiguration book, and nothing more was said.

I'm not going to pretend I had a total change of heart or anything. I was confused about the whole Death Eater mess to begin with, and I still am. I don't know exactly where my loyalties lie. I'm still Draco's friend; no one but the Professors and Luna know that I meet with her to do my homework. I guess time will tell what happens; as Luna says, there's time enough for that after I finish my Charms essay. I try not to think about it; I don't want to disappoint my family, but I don't want to let Luna down either. It's all really confusing. But right now, I'm happy that I can write legibly, and read, somewhat. One step at a time, I suppose.

Sometimes, when I'm by myself, I remember the things my dad said to me. That I was stupid, that there was no point. I was obviously retarded, and wasn't worth the time or money to tutor.

My name is Gregory Michael Goyle.

Oh, but dad, if you could see me now. You were really wrong.

I am worthy enough.

Enough for an angel.