So Lucky

PART FOUR: YOU DEVIL YOU

There are many cute euphemisms for puking into a toilet bowl. While doing same, I catalog them: Kissing Old Ralph. Driving the White Bus. Praying to the Porcelain Goddess.

There is something horribly comforting about heaving up what feels like the entire contents of one's gastrointestinal tract. It distracts the mind. It seems to take forever.

Good.

Some students at Hogwarts used to cut themselves. Or hurt themselves in other ways. Not just Slytherins, either. Now I understand why...

Hogwarts.

Slytherin.

The Four Houses. Slytherin. Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff.

And I...

I was...

A Gryffindor.

I don't know what that means.

I can't puke any more. There hasn't been anything to puke for the last five minutes. Even the bile is gone. I spit out a mouthful of foul saliva and press my sweating face to the side of the bowl. It's nice and cool. I pray to God or gods or whatever powers that be for a happy memory, just one happy memory, from that old life.

I had a happy childhood. That is a fact, and I cling to it. A silly memory makes me giggle: for ages (so it seemed at the time) I was torn between love of Mister Spock and Gomer Pyle. Mum and Dad--

NO!

No, not now! Later, I will remember them later, I promise, but dear God, not now!

Please, God, something happy, or silly, or beautiful--

Beautiful.

Something beautiful.

Fleur Delacour (damn her for being so beautiful!), face pale with strain as she chanted the strange words that would contrive Neville's escape.

A sad memory, but beautiful. And somehow gratifying. Fleur was much cleverer than I imagined. Indeed, who on Earth could imagine Neville Longbottom as a centaur? No one would think to search the Forbidden Forest for a stranger in the herd-- who would dare, even if they knew?

"Forbidden Forest," I whisper. My voice sounds raw. No doubt it's the gastric acids on the vocal chords. I need to gargle and wash out my mouth. "Forbidden Forest." Saying the words conjures up mystery and wonder and even fear, but no specific information.

I need information. After I wash out my mouth. I accomplish this task without the aid of Winky, which under ordinary circumstances (however you define that) would have thrilled me to death, but not now.

Now I stand, gripping the sink's sides and studying myself in the mirror. Who am I, exactly? This much I know: the ideal politician's wife. Pretty, but not too pretty (don't want to threaten women voters). Brilliant, but careful to hide it (don't want to threaten men voters). As far as the public knows, I am conscious and have a heartbeat, and that's all the public needs to know.

They don't need to know that I know all about Muggles.

Why would Draco Malfoy seek power in the mundane world?

A most unpleasant question. It raises ugly implications. "God, this sucks." My slightly green face glares defiantly from the mirror. I look a fright. I'm a stranger to myself. "God, You suck." That's right, blaspheme God. Maybe He or She will smite me. Curse my brain. Turn me back into a zombified Stepford Wife. I'd like that.

Mother?

"What." My voice is cold. I try again: "Yes, dear?" Still cold.

The spare is tentative, as if afraid I might be angry with him. Gosh, why would he think that? Mother, I'm glad you're feeling better.

"This isn't better. This sucks." Now that I can think again, I must learn to do so before speaking.

No, it's better. You've been fighting the... the evil that was wrought on your mind. That's why you've been so sick and weak. It's almost over now.

"No, it--" It's far from over. How do I tell him? He's a brilliant baby, but he's just a baby. He doesn't know what evil is. "Maybe you're right."

Mother... I'm afraid this is partly my fault.

This doesn't surprise me. I must have read about such cases. Nonetheless, I attempt to comfort him: "Don't be silly. You're just a baby." Just a talkative fetus. How typical is that?

I'm a gifted child... don't mean to brag, I can't help it. Just like I couldn't help affecting you, as a catalyst affects a potion. I didn't know becoming yourself again would be painful. Please forgive me!

"That's all right. You're a catalyst. That's your gift. It's a good gift." The gift for revealing what is hidden. For bringing out others' gifts. Perhaps one day he'll teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. I do hope that job isn't truly jinxed. (No, of course it isn't. That's just superstition.)

Thank you, Mother. The spare is greatly reassured. He's not using his lungs yet, else he'd let out a pent-up sigh of relief. Winky has seen your improvement. She's been with you since before Florence was born. She knew you as a schoolgirl, did you know that?

"No, I didn't." Was I ever an innocent schoolgirl? Was I ever innocent?

She's been watching and waiting for a sign of hope, and now she's doing all she can to help. You can trust her.

"I'm glad." Is there anyone else in this godforsaken house I can trust? Never mind. It's a moot point. For now, I will trust only Winky. "Let's see what your siblings are up to." And let's obtain some nourishment. Once my stomach settles a bit, I'll be ravenous. It's the middle of the night, but Winky, bless her, is used to catering to my cravings.

I get myself dried off and robed and my hair in some semblance of order. All by myself. I cautiously take some water: slow sips at room temperature. Don't want to get dehydrated. I must take care of myself. I do feel stronger now. The spare is right. I'm better. I have my brain back, and I intend to keep it. Don't think I'll let Draco know about this new development. Not yet.

I hope I don't have to kill him. After all, he is--

("I've broken her to the saddle, boy. She's yours to ride now.")

Only the slightest shudder accompanies the memory of that silken, hateful drawl. I retaliate with a Louis Armstrong song:

"I'll be glad when you're dead, you devil you!

I'll be glad when you're dead, you devil you!"

Don't remember how the rest of it goes. I resolve to order a CD set of the complete Louis Armstrong. I cheerfully hum the tune to myself. Later, I will mourn. Later, when I've regained my full strength, I will remember all those lost to me, but now my heart is filled with glee: Lucius is the past, dead and gone and good riddance! Lucius can't hurt me any more.

Lucius is the past, and my children are the future.

I swear I will do whatever it takes to give them a bright future.

Whatever it takes.