Losers Like Us

Fearless (2)

Relevant Intake Information:

Client: Winky

Age: not calculable in human terms, due to cultural differences in calculating time

Race: Magical, House Elf

Intake Date: April 1, 1996

Referred by: Headmaster, Hogwarts School

Principal Informant: Headmaster, Hogwarts School Language: English

Session 5: April 3, 1996

Long-Term Goals: Form therapeutic alliance w/[with] ind[ividual--i.e. patient]. Develop sense of ind's needs, desires from treatment.

Session Goals: Contain ind's response to loss of family. Help ind grieve loss of family. Help ind discuss needs, desires, possible life plans.

Sxs[Symptoms]: Sober 3 weeks; butterbeer dependence. Inappropriate language. Trust issues w/ th. Rage. Anger management issues. Grief over loss of family.

Interventions & Response: Th[erapist] encountered ind in th's back garden, offered ind breakfast. Ind ignored th. Th attempted w/ no success to engage ind in disc[ussion].

Plan: Maintain ind in current setting as possible. Continue working w/ ind to formulate therapeutic goals. Help ind to reduce depressive sxs[symptoms] as possible.

Sessions 6-54: April 4-May 2, 1996

Long-Term Goals: Form therapeutic alliance w/ ind. Develop sense of ind's needs, desires from treatment.

Session Goals: Contain ind's response to loss of family. Help ind grieve loss of family. Help ind discuss needs, desires, possible life plans.

Sxs[Symptoms]: Sober 3(-7) weeks; Hx[history] of butterbeer dependence. Inappropriate language. Trust issues w/ th. Rage. Anger management issues. Grief over loss of family.

Interventions & Response: Th encountered ind in th's back garden, offered ind breakfast. Ind ignored th. Th attempted w/ no success to engage ind in disc. Ind appears to be maintaining hygiene at acceptable levels, will not discuss w/ th.

Plan: Maintain ind in current setting as possible. Continue working w/ ind to formulate therapeutic goals. Help ind to reduce depressive sxs as possible.

Journal entry (excerpt), May 2, 1996

Owl from Gus Pye this morning, asking, among other things, how I'm doing with Winky. I'd like to think this is genuine concern. No doubt, a large part of it is. But I cannot help thinking that part of it is also to keep the betting pool alive at St. M's relating to my eventual collapse under the assaults of my personal property. Words fail me to describe the thrill of discovering which personal effects will come hurtling after me next. That's the reason I have not even tried to write here about this problem.

Okay, that's not the real reason. The REAL reason I am not chronicling which objects have come flying after me at any random hour of the day or night is this: I cannot tolerate the idea that Albus will find this journal after my death by egg beater or by some other ridiculous method. Then he will read my shameful history of flight from aggressive household goods. Then he will tell Minerva and other people whom I both respect and fear. (Well, okay, so Minerva's the only one I feel both emotions towards, but that would be bad enough.)

And can you imagine the funeral? [Do they even do funerals here?] Albus standing over my egg-splattered coffin, intoning his regrets that he brought me here to die at the blades of my own rose clippers, while Madame Sprout mutters that I did not make a proper centerpiece, even in death. Winky's hateful little laugh echoing through the background, as they all try to ignore my last and greatest failure as a shrink. Dear old Hagrid sobbing into my tablecloth, needing a hanky in a pinch and thanking God quietly that he is not being forced to blow his nose into the Instrument of My Death, as I did manage to survive that attack only last week...

Oh, kill me now. Which is precisely what the vegetables I purchased this morning are trying to do. I am locked in here, in my study, listening to the dull thumps of what has to be that parcel of Brussels sprouts, now individuating itself into its separate knobby components and flinging its bits against my (formerly) well-scrubbed study door. Great. The rotten little elf cannot even give me an easy clean-up when the attack ends. That door will probably be stained forever now.

While I am trapped here, let me tell you how therapy with Winky is going. Just rotten, thank you, unlike that perfectly-formed and ripened tomato that just splatted off the window behind me. Do you know how hard it is to get a GOOD tomato in this country at this time of year? Or at any other time, for that matter? They will insist on breeding those dorky little orangey ones. What I wouldn't give for a real Beefsteak tomato, fresh off a New Jersey truck farm's acreage...

Can Winky read my mind? Because now every single tomato I bought today has just hit the window in unison. Happily, the glass is made of stronger stuff than the veggies. So far. But, from what Gus tells me of old Crouch, the windows may well be spelled for unusually high levels of protection. The man made enemies. Too bad I can't corrupt his former house elf into becoming one of them.

Anyway, life has deteriorated into one running attack on me by small belongings. Daily, I rise, try to make breakfast, burn everything, then try to take some to Winky, out in the garden, generally huddled under her lilac tree. Now I happen to be a darned good cook, so I know the little wretch has done something to my kitchen that makes everything I cook turn out lousy. But I struggle on. I try to win her over. I try to be kind. I keep trying to figure out what I can do to make her feel better. No good. She won't talk to me.

Not that Winky does not communicate with me. Aside from frequent attempts to enlist small objects that belong to me to take my life, Winky stomps through the house, loudly declaiming over every flaw in my housekeeping, real or imagined. Well, she should try vacuuming when the floor-vac twists its small, narrow, wedge-shaped head around on its hose and goes for her throat.

Of course, there have been some small gains, or I'd call in Albus and throw in the (tea) towel right now. For one thing, Winky is now clean. I don't know when she made the decision, precisely, but I noticed that she went dirt-free right about the time my personal goods declared war on me. I attribute this to her having developed a new hobby: homicidal attempts on me, via inanimate third parties/objects.

Also, since she arrived here, Winky does not appear to have touched a drop of butterbeer. Who knew that homicidal urges could replace addiction? I hope I live to write that particular research article.

Now, I know this must not seem like much, but Winky also has not really managed to hurt me. Yet, at least. But let's be real: if she can enchant any object to attack me, surely, she can make one of them actually kill me. Why she does not is simply beyond me. So far, I am sporting only a bruised right thumb (pushed down too hard on the head of my hammer before it could fully rise from my toolbox), a strained left Achilles tendon (twisted as I stepped in a small hole in the garden while dodging the Wellies I left by the back door), and an earache on the right side of my head (I was just a little slow to close the window when that screwdriver came cart-wheeling in through it, and I got dinged by its handle). All told, that's not too bad a list, considering that a non-human being with enormous powers has declared a grudge match on me. I have even become quite muscular from wrestling the new garden hose, which seems to have developed a positive loathing for me.

But why not simply sic something on to me that will absolutely and unquestionably kill me? I do not include that hammer, as it clearly was only halfhearted in its attempt. And the screwdriver was easy to duck, while I suspect that the hose is starting to delight in our matches. Anyway, has this just become Winky's latest hobby? If she can take pleasure in a hobby, any hobby, perhaps I need to consider how seriously her level of depression has remitted?

There is one thing I cannot get, though: the rocks. Every time I go outside, they rise as one...and hover pointlessly mid-air. The windows and doors also have some weird disorder going, as they frequently slam onto themselves after I have passed through them. For some reason, though, they never manage to get the timing perfect enough to even come close to hurting me.

These near misses drive Winky absolutely crazy, which is some satisfaction, I must confess. After a month of pointless effort, the doors and windows seem to have mostly given up, Heaven only knows why, but the rocks are apparently a bit thick and still keep jumping into the air whenever I pass nearby. Go figure.

Anyway, I have given up on rewriting the same bloody progress note for the little monster, day after pointless day. There are some perks to private practice in the wizarding world: no inspectors passing through to review my charts.

Well, as long as I am hanging around here, I might as well do an update for Winky's chart...

Change of Diagnosis, May 2, 1996:

Former Diagnosis:

Axis 1: Major Depressive Disorder; Substance Dependence (alcohol); Enuresis; Encopresis.

Axis 2: Dx[diagnosis] deferred

Axis 3: None reported

Axis 4: Significant recent losses among primary support group. Removal from home. Loss of preferred "job". Rejection by and self-isolation from peers.

Axis 5: 40

Revised Diagnosis:

Axis 1: Major Depressive Disorder; Substance Dependence (alcohol--by hx)

Axis 2: Dx[diagnosis] deferred. R/O [Rule Out] Antisocial Personality Disorder.

Axis 3: None reported

Axis 4: Significant recent losses among primary support group. Removal from home. Loss of preferred "job". Rejection by and self-isolation from peers.

Axis 5: 61

Rationale: Ind presents w/ great improvements in hygiene. Encopresis, enuresis apparently resolved. No apparent current use of alcohol or illegal substances. Ind also seems to be developing hobbies, including hexing th, attacking th through th's personal belongings. R/O Antisocial Personality Disorder. [R/O= therapist is still willing to consider this as a possible diagnosis]

Session 55: May 3, 1996

Long-Term Goals: Form therapeutic alliance w/[with] ind[ividual--i.e. patient]. Develop sense ind's needs, desires from treatment.

Session Goals: Contain ind's response to loss of family. Help ind grieve loss of family. Help ind discuss needs, desires, possible life plans.

Sxs[Symptoms]: Sober 8 weeks; butterbeer dependence. Inappropriate language. Trust issues w/ th. Rage. Anger management issues. Grief over loss of family.

Interventions & Response: Th encountered ind in th's back garden, offered ind breakfast. Ind ignored th. Th attempted w/ no success to engage ind in disc. Rocks hovering mid-air around ind, th during attempted disc. Session interrupted by appearance of self-proclaimed "Headmistress" of local school. Rocks struck new person. Th terminated session.

Plan: Maintain ind in current setting as possible. Continue working w/ ind to formulate therapeutic goals. Help ind to reduce depressive sxs as possible.

Journal entry, May 7, 1996

Thank heavens, Poppy has returned my laptop to me. If there's one punishment more cruel than assault-by-delusional-narcissistic-would-be-Headmistress, it's having my computer removed from my hands.

Finally, my head has stopped ringing. I still don't know what that horrid woman did to me, and Poppy just shakes her head and grumbles bitterly under her breath when I try to ask. The words usually sound something like: "Just wait until Dumbledore comes back". If I persist in demanding more of an explanation, she makes me drink something noxious, which generally makes me pass out for a few more hours.

At least, I am home, in my own bed, and Winky seems to be occupied elsewhere. Poppy is here for long periods, or so it seems to me between those induced catnaps from her. Others keep dropping by.

Of these visitors, the most troubling has been Hagrid, who now looks positively hunted. He says that the less I know, the better, but this is, after all, Hagrid. So it is only a matter of time before he has told me everything I could possibly want to know, along with a mix of other unrelated details. But what REALLY bugs me is that Hagrid is actually afraid of this horrible Headmistress-jerk.

Where on earth is Albus Dumbledore?

Journal entry, May 8, 1996

Yep, Hagrid spilled the beans. I thought Poppy Pomfrey would have his lungs for lunch when she walked in on Everyone's Favorite Gamekeeper bringing me up to date. But even the formidable Poppy lost heart when she saw that those big, dark, eyebrow-obscured eyes were filling with tears, so there was no scolding. Besides, even Poppy began to express the strain, once she saw that I was now in the know.

I cannot imagine the pressure they all must be under up at the School. Dolores Umbridge is nothing short of a nightmare. Minister Fudge must have lost his mind. Poppy tells tales of students walking into her office with scarred and bleeding hands, describing detentions that are straight out of Dante's Inferno.

Nobody blames Harry, I am relieved to report. That miserable old bag cornered Harry, who was valiantly leading some sort of underground magic classes, and Albus did what had to be done to protect the children and resigned. Sadly, Minerva is forced to continue protecting the kids, as Umbridge's assistant headmistress, by Dumbledore's expressed wish. It must be just killing her.

Why didn't anyone warn me? Albus must have seen it coming, hence his disposing of Winky with me. Did he intend me to remove her from the School all along, or was it just good luck, despite my crazed agreement with the elf? Whatever. Clearly, though, Dumbledore had to get the addicted house elf off the scene before this great pudding of a demon from the ministry installed herself in his honors.

Speaking of which, they tell me that the Head's office has sealed itself against her and has remained sealed ever since Albus' departure some weeks ago. And that's exactly why nobody told me, I realize. They are all sealing things off, defending themselves, Hogwarts, and most of all, the students. "Constant vigilance," in the words of Alastair Moody, as quoted by Harry last time I saw him. Nobody had time to come down here and warn me. They settled for simply not inviting me to give lectures up there and hoped that I'd slip under Umbridge's radar.

And why didn't I? Because she has been reviewing the teaching performances of all the faculty, and she has made a pet of the sniveling Malfoy. And Draco has a long memory, so Umbridge was bound to come visit me, sooner or later, if only to exact some vengeance for her darling. It scares me profoundly to think what she must be doing to Harry, as Malfoy's hatred for me is as nothing, compared to his seemingly boundless rage at Harry Potter.

But being forced to lie here for a few days has given me a chance to think more clearly about things and to realize that I do bear some culpability in all this. Like nearly anyone with a shred of decency around here, I despise Draco Malfoy. I despise him for the sheer, unrelenting viciousness with which he has hounded Harry and his friends, as well as many of his peers. Moreover, I was furious with his display upon first entering my class several months ago. Nobody shows that sort of disrespect for me in front of my students and gets away with it.

But I am still an adult and a teacher, and he is still a (rotten, spoiled, nasty, prejudiced) child, even at 15 or so years of age. I easily could have taken him down a peg that day without leaning so hard on him. Certainly, I displayed an inappropriate glee to his peers when I humiliated him, and the humiliation itself went too far. The points taken from Slytherin could well have sufficed as punishment.

So I got what I asked for by leaning on the kid--the enmity of a little sociopath-in-the-making. I should know better by now.

I have to stop; headache coming back.

Journal entry, May 9, 1996

At last! Poppy has explained exactly (well, sort of exactly) what happened to me when Umbridge visited. I do remember being out in the garden, rocks hovering all around us as I tried to speak to Winky. Up lumbers this toad of a being, displaying a fluffy cardigan and giant hair bow in a shade of pink that most women over the age of 6 (and living outside of southern California) would not be caught wearing in their caskets. It gets a little fuzzy after that for me, I must confess, mainly from boredom. Among her many shortcomings, add the gift of utterly tedious speech to Dolores Umbridges' catalog.

She went on at length, it seems to me, about how even adjunct faculty such as me must be reviewed by her. She droned on about being the new headmistress, due to the explicit failure of her predecessor (I do remember that phrase quite clearly) to run the school in an appropriate manner. With disgusting satisfaction, she elaborated on Albus' hiring all sorts of half-breeds and improperly-credentialed instructors. I must be the latter. Anyway, somewhere in the part about how I had unsavory associations with known troublemakers for the school, such as "that Potter boy and his giant friend", I realized that Winky was watching the Toad with fascination. Great, I remember thinking, Winky's got a new ally.

In the part about my failures as a "proper witch", however, things got out of control. That's where my memory begins to fail me. I can see the great, bloated monster, scuffing her slippered, misshapen foot in my unevenly-clipped grass, turning over great tufts of it to expose the dirt beneath, while she droned on about my insufficiencies. I knew, even then, that such a defiling of her late master's turf would appall the silent Winky. For my part, I just let Umbridge ramble onward, refusing to take offense, for, as any therapist will tell you, that's the best way to offend on my own behalf. Besides, I was still trying to take in the fact that this human disaster had actually somehow forced Albus Dumbledore out of his post and his school.

Somehow, my silence and Winky's stunned gaze prompted the Great Toad to continue enlarging upon her theme of my unworthiness, kicking and ripping at the grass all the way. She even began mangling bits of hedge with her great unwieldy fingers. Not that Winky minded the insults to me, I think, but Umbridge was trashing Crouch land and moving closer and closer to the carved memorial to the Crouch family that I had now installed under the lilac tree. Now Winky was gazing upon the Monster with the same rapt fascination as a mongoose might use to consider a passing cobra for lunch.

Just about where the woman called me a "disgrace to the name of witch", Dolores Umbridge gave the small, engraved stone a mighty kick, half-uprooting it from its position. A mighty clacking noise resounded from everywhere as the hovering rocks finally located a target. In response, Umbridge screamed something unintelligible at me, and that was that. Next thing I knew, I was awakening to a blistering headache and a Patented-Pomfrey-Potion in my own snug bed. Winky was nowhere to be seen, and nobody still wants to tell me what she has been up to.

Journal entry, May 10, 1996

Now I know what Winky has been doing all this time that I have been recovering. Winky has been cooking all my meals. They have been delicious.

When she is not cooking, Winky cleans. The house, including my bedroom, is completely spotless. I am stunned.

I discovered this because I managed to limp into the kitchen unexpectedly this morning. There she was, washing dishes, apron tied around her neck and hips and folded many times to make it fit, as I am quite a good deal larger than she is. But even swathed in apron, Winky has bruises on her arms. And it all begins to make sense.

"You turned the rocks on her!" I squeak, startling her. "You attacked that Mad Cow! You defended me!"

"Winky defends Master's home! Winky defends Master's grass! Winky defends Master's stone. Winky does NOT defend Bad Muggle Mudwitch!" She is enraged, one bubble-covered hand pointing at me firmly as she squeals.

"She cursed me!" I am astounded, agape at the idea that I might have been covered in tentacles or bat-boogies or whatever when they found me. "You set the rocks on her! You took Umbridge down, protecting me!"

"Nooooo! Winky set rocks on enemies of Master!"

But they had hit Winky too. Not me. Just Umbridge and Winky. Whatever had hurt me, I remained unbruised. Drained, weak, short of memory, but unbruised. Enemies of Master. What had the house elf made of that?

I stood in wonder, taking it in, even though I know that Winky was still shrieking at me, raging, fuming, and sputtering without taking a single breath. Of course she was. She had to stop me from thinking about it too much, since I was bound to realize that Winky had always been setting the rocks on me. By name, apparently. So they had refused. But when she set the rocks on the enemies of Master, Winky herself had been attacked by them, along with the defiler of Crouch's home and grounds and memorial. My home and grounds.

Leaning against the kitchen's doorframe, I waited quietly, while the other pieces fell into their places. Only my own belongings, purchased since my arrival in the U.K., had ever attacked me. The property itself had refused, hence the hovering rocks. When I was attacked, the property had defended "master".

Me. Master. Me. A small gender issue in the language perhaps, but still...

"SHUT UP!" I did not even realize the words were mine until Winky was gazing up at me, jaw hanging, suddenly silent. "And YOU--" I glared around at all the clutter of my kitchen, "YOU are MINE and you belong to THIS home and you will NEVER attack me again!" In the back of my mind, I wondered how long it would take me to address every single item on the grounds before they decided to attack me once more, for old times sake, at the very least. In the front of my mind, I was locking eyes with my recalcitrant house elf. "And YOU--" I narrowed my human eyes down at her, and she narrowed those bulging elf eyes right back up at me, not even vaguely defeated. "YOU are MINE now and you will BEHAVE!"

Stomping weakly towards my bed, I wondered what other implications of owning magical property I was overlooking. Turning, I caught Winky with a soapy ladle upraised. In spite of myself, I started to laugh. "Mine" was one thing. "Cheerful and subservient" would be quite another.

"Put that down right now," I managed to croak. "Finish the dishes. And thanks--the place looks beautiful, and the food has been wonderful." All I get is a scowl, and somehow it is endearing. All along, the house has been my ally in Winky's therapy. Did she ever even mean to kill me or just to scare me or inflict mild damage or ...? Whatever. The cottage has put in its own two cents, so to speak. And it voted for me as its new master...well, mistress, but close enough. I hope it will adopt my belongings now, once I give them sufficiently clear directions to that effect.

"And another thing," I tell the upturned scowl. "Your name is NOT "Winky". You defended your mistress and her home against a powerful witch. Your name is "Fearless." New mistress, new name. I suggest you adapt, Fearless."

New name, new identity, new chance to put the past behind her. With this reframing of her world, therapy has begun again. I simply ignore the outraged squeals of protest from behind me.