Losers Like Us

A Longer Interlude with Draco Malfoy...and a Few Significant Others

Excerpt from Personal Journal, September 2, 1996 (continued):

Okay, one nap later...

Cup Twenty...--oh, who cares. It's all starting to taste like hot sugar-water anyway, and I am tired of trundling off to the loo every ten seconds. If I drink any more, I'll probably barf again, and I have had more than enough of that, thanks. Where was I? Oh yes--nose to nose, so to speak, with Draco Malfoy--or rather, nose to wand.

Well, not precisely. Actually, I had heard him coming, since the little prat was shrieking obscenities from the moment he spotted me, as I ran off to find a butcher who would sell me a big bone at this ridiculous hour of the evening. But the butcher was the crucial object of my pursuit; I ignored Malfoy. Until the green light flashed.

Now, I admit, I did hear him shouting words at me as he approached. But what are the chances, really, that I am going to identify a spell when I am obsessed with keeping a real, live werewolf under my desk contented until daybreak? And, where spells are concerned, I am forced to admit here that I am not exactly, ah, the sharpest pencil in the box, as it were.

But that nauseating green light rang a bell. I turned to face Draco, and one of my more memorable conversations with Harry Potter flashed into my mind. Avada Kedavra? Oh, no, surely not that spell...surely not that.... Except that the sociopath-wanna-be of Harry's year at Hogwarts was pointing a wand at me and screaming. And his daddy had been arrested for this same sort of thing not 3 months ago, after losing a battle with Harry and his cronies in the Ministry's basement. And Daddy is a Death-eater. And with Daddy gone, there would be only one heir to uphold--okay, downhold--the family name.

Manohman, flashed inspirationally through my mind. I'm gonna die. And, as is supposed to happen at moments like this, my brain decided to take a tour of my entire life, although in reverse. But it stalled within milliseconds at the replay of my exiting the cottage. Did I leave the kettle on? Was the stove alight?

I cannot even score a clean review of my entire past life, as Death, in the totally absurd guise of Draco Malfoy, reaches out a pointy claw--or wand, in this case--to claim me.

Or doesn't, because I notice that I have now been standing here for just too long, surrounded by a steadily weakening green light, which smells, incidentally, like rotting eggs and putrid fish. And the poor, frustrated, homicidal kid is still bellowing the spell out at me, for lack of a better option, I imagine.

Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Wow, now he's even stamping on his wand and simply screaming obscenities at it between invocations.

"Malfoy," I begin wearily. I really must get that beef bone for the wolfen Remus, and my tired brain just does not have room to take in that this wretch is really making any serious attempt to kill me. "Malfoy, just stop--"

He raises a face the color of spoiling peaches to me, startling me into silence, and screams, "You did this! You bloody did this, you filthy muggle! The damned thing hasn't worked properly all summer! Now you FIX my wand or--"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I growl, and I revert to type. That is, I raise my hand, point my first 2 fingers stupidly at his raging, contorted features, and I solemnly intone, "Stupefy." It's not like I ever remember to carry my wand anyway.

Now I know Stupefy really well because we Healers and Healer-Wanna-Be's get to use it all the time down at St. Mungo's, where the incoming don't always arrive coherent and cooperative for our magical assistance. Like everyone else, we use a wand to cast this particular spell.

But we don't do as much wand work as the average magic-user because magical healing does not work that way. Once we begin to examine the patient, we often lay our hands gently on their body, wherever we think they are hurting or stricken, and we send the magic, like positive energy, through the breadth of our hands, to disperse throughout their body to where it is most needed. Sure, I might point a wand at a clear and open wound on someone's head and give a good Episkey, just to close that spot up, but for the damage under the skin, bruising, that kind of thing, we spread the magic out, starting from where our hands are making contact. Wands are for a precise directing, rather like a laser in the Muggle surgical world. Hands are to spread the magic, allowing it to work with the body and settle where it is most vital for the patient.

Anyway, the spell falls flat, big surprise there, and I realize that someone is screaming even more loudly than Malfoy, somewhere off to my left. Suddenly, I see us as we would appear to a stranger's eyes, with me bathed in the green light that can mean only one thing to an experienced wizard or witch, and Malfoy, immobile, yelling words with his wand aimed right for me. Dislike him as I may, I cannot see that sending Malfoy to Azkaban at a time like this would be a good idea, with his sicko daddy already there to further tutor him and Albus Dumbledore convinced that I should see the little wretch for therapy. And I am no longer certain whether Draco is trying to kill me or just expose me to the most terrifying demonstration imaginable of a useless wand.

I swear at the boy's dedicated effort to wail out a few more Avada's, extend my stupid fingers a little further in sheer desperation to stop the kid, and I roar, "STUPEFY!" once more. Maybe I can drown Draco's incantation out before any approaching wizard overhears him?

To my utter amazement, Draco stupefies, mouth open, rage painted vividly on his face, along with frustrated magical impotence. As he was leaning sharply forward, mid-bellow, he totters for a brief second, and then crashes onto the ground and onto his face. Drat. Now I will have to try some of that healer stuff I've studied on him. I really prefer sticking to the mental health healings. And now I'll have to report to the senior staff at St. M's that my hand seems able to cast wand spells right through my shaking fingers.

I am still rather vaguely staring at those same fingers when a voice says right in front of me, "'Ere, you could've caught 'im, y'know!" I raise my eyes to find a rather attractive young woman standing in front of me, legs braced, one hand pushed against a slim hip, and a very aggrieved look on her heart-shaped face. Her wand is still pointed straight at the immobilized Malfoy at our feet.

The truth of my narrow escape begins to dawn on me as I mumble, "He was--- I tried---" She grabs my trembling right hand, forcibly lowers it to my side and growls, "I know what 'e was trying. And what the bloomin' 'ell do you call that little maneuver with your fingers anyway?"

"Who...?"

"'Tonks' to the likes of you. Auror, assigned to the school for the year, at least."

"Gemma---"

"Oh, I know 'oo you are. An' you and I 'ave some serious business to settle, ducks." She waves her wand and Malfoy's prone form rises slowly into the air, still horizontal. Another wave, and his nose stops gushing blood all over the ground beneath him. He begins to float back towards my cottage.

I stammer, "I need...I need..." "You need a cuppa tea, is wot you need, you bloomin' man-thief. And a right good smack with somethin' sharp, if I 'ad my way. You just come 'ome now, so we can sort this out." Dazedly, I follow her, wondering how one tells a self-assured Auror with a perfect little hourglass figure that one has a werewolf under one's desk and one needs a big bone to keep him happy until morning, while one still is not sure that the house isn't on fire and the deranged house elf isn't on the rampage.

At the cottage's gate (refreshingly free of any odor of smoke, I might add), Fearless wastes no time. "Where BONE?" she shrills at me around our new guest's waist. Tonks rounds on me ferociously and snaps, "What's she on about, then?" "BONE!" hollers my faithful house elf, interposing her small form between Tonks and any access to the house. "No tea for Mistress! Kettle turned OFF! Filthy werewolf shed all over rugs if not kept busy. Mistress go fetch BONE!"

Even in the gloom, with the light from the cottage's open door behind her, I can see Tonks' mouth drop open. "You've got--? HERE?!" she splutters, then her hand flies up. So help me, I cringe; after all, she did threaten to smack me a few seconds ago. But instead the girl bellows, "Accio big, disgusting, raw beef bone!" I have forgotten this spell too, so the dripping and hideous object slams unsuspecting me right in the noggin as it speeds faithfully towards Tonks' outstretched hand. Fortunately, if someone had bothered to ask me, I would have voted for unconsciousness as a fine way to get out of this horrible evening anyway.

I awaken on my own sofa, with an ice pack under the back of my pounding skull. To my surprise, it is Dumbledore, not Poppy Pomfrey, who is standing over me. "A profitable nap, I hope, Doctor?" he smiles down at me in his gentle way. "Lupin" I mutter, trying to still the aching. "Asleep, with a tummy filled with raw beef. And safely removed to my study."

He helps me sit up carefully, and Albus continues, "You are next going to ask me about Mr. Malfoy, are you not?" Probably, but I am happy to allow the headmaster to lead this dance. I make the agonizing mistake of nodding. Out of my range of vision, Dumbledore's hand reaches rapidly for something, but I do not quite need the bucket he offers to me. Gasping, I say, "And Draco?"

"He was ragingly angry, of course, over something he claims that you did to his wand...? Ah. So you did damage it. How, may I ask?"

"I told it to stop working. I told it that it had no power, ever again." Even whispering is painful.

Dumbledore's two shaggy white eyebrows zoom up his wrinkled forehead. He sits down abruptly in the chair now standing next to my couch. "That's all? And that worked?"

"Well, no, sir, I also grabbed the end of the stick when I said that..."

"And that worked?" The question is clearly rhetorical. He repeats the words, this time as a statement, musingly: "and that worked..." Behind the headmaster, I see Tonks standing, open-mouthed. Dumbledore slowly continues "Dr. Walker, the kind of power it would take... the level of skill... If I did not know you better..."

"Then you might mistake me for a competent witch," I finish for him, as I lean back against the sofa's cushions and close my eyes, ice pack clutched against my head. His soft chuckle sounds from above me. "But we both know, Professor, that I do not have a clue what I did to that wand or how to make it happen again." From across the room, Tonks joins the fray: "And that was a pretty 'orrible stupefy she was doin' when I found 'er. 'Eadmaster. Just pathetic."

"Be that as it may, Nymphadora, you would do well to remember that Dr. Walker here can...how would you Americans say it, Gemma?....pack a wallop when she is motivated sufficiently."

"As for Draco Malfoy, while you were napping, Doctor, I had a word with him. He states that he was simply demonstrating to you that his wand was not functioning properly. I have impressed upon him that his choice of spells for the purpose was not appropriate." Faintly, Dumbledore's lips curl beneath the beard and mustache. I decide not to ask how impressed Draco had been or how he had been impressed. "I have restored his wand--with some difficulty, I might add--and sent him to his bed. He will no longer pursue a course of revenge upon you. He has agreed to this."

In spite of all his previous demonstrations of enormous power, Dumbledore once again impresses me with his skills. "How on earth did you get him to promise that?" I stammer, then I see Tonks, still behind the headmaster. She is waving her shaking right hand, 2 fingers pointing directly at me and mouthing something. She is grinning from ear to ear.

Looking up into his face, I see that Dumbledore's kind old eyes are twinkling merrily as he purses his lips tightly. Plainly, he is trying not to laugh. What possible threat...and then I am laughing aloud myself, as softly as I can, so that my aching head will not pound any harder than it already is.

"He thinks I can cast spells with just a finger or two?"

"Ah, Doctor," intones my employer in a grave tone, "if you can drain a wand that successfully by just grabbing it and giving orders, who knows what else you might be capable of doing? I certainly don't. Mr. Malfoy would be better advised to avoid helping you develop your skills--whatever they may be, exactly."

But Albus Dumbledore knows exactly what my skills are, just as I do. I am a Muggle-raised and trained psychologist. Beyond those skills, I am just getting by here in this Magical world.

When I say this to him, the Headmaster smiles. "You are still a Healer, Gemma. With all that your profession entails."

"Like that protection you said that I had as a Healer?" He looks puzzled, so I explain. "When I first made my deal with Winky--my house elf Fearless. You warned her not to harm me. You said that those who give their lives in service to others are somehow protected in some special way."

"Hmm. Did I? That would be true, of course." And he plainly thinks that is enough.

"Headmaster," I firmly state, because I know how Dumbledore can slip out of such questions, "if every other Healer knows about this, why shouldn't I?" With complete gravity, he replies, "What if this knowledge makes you careless, Gemma? What if you trust to it too much?"

"You cannot keep me safe that way, Albus, as tonight has proved. Ignorance did not keep Malfoy from killing me, nor did it keep the wolf, if you'll pardon the expression, from my door."

"No," he muses, sitting back in his chair. "no, really it was Tonks who did that, in her own way." I allow him a thinking silence, and after a moment, Dumbledore looks at me down his long nose and murmurs, "And Remus Lupin tried to protect you from Winky, and from Malfoy, previously. And Minerva and Poppy protected you from Malfoy and his associates before that. And Hagrid adores you and would walk through flaming brands to help you. Even your house elf became aggressive with Dolores Umbridge...And, of course, there's Harry." Because I helped Harry out when he was just a nine-year-old, trapped with his awful relatives. Over the hand placed against his chin, Albus Dumbledore smiles at me, and I have my answer.

"That's it?" I say, deeply let down. "The magic is because I make friends?"

Those bushy white eyebrows ascend once more towards the heavens. "Is that all you did, Doctor? Made friends with them?"

"Er, well, when you put it that way, Professor. But Lupin's a bit confused on that score, and, well, I don't think Tonks, there, is exactly here to help me."

"She has helped you, nonetheless. You might consider why she would, seeing as she is plainly confused about another issue. You might help her with that issue, Gemma. I think you will find that you have something...someone...significant in common."

"We have..." I begin dully, somehow losing the thread of this revelation, when Tonks cries from behind my boss, "I'm in love with Lupin, you stupid Yankee wanker! And you're trying to steal him! Even if you've helped him!" All of a sudden, her sweet little face is blotched all over, and I can see her mighty effort to hold back tears.

In spite of myself, I burst out laughing, and I pay in a screaming thud in my skull. But I say, "Oh wonderful! Oh, that's what he's doing! I'm just the crash-test dummy!" To her stunned and confused look, I chortle through blinding pain behind my eyes, "He loves YOU! He never loved me! He just was trying it on!"

"He DOES love you! He told me so! Remus is no liar!"

"Oh, you blazing little fool!" I am clutching my throbbing forehead, and Albus has a hand on my shoulder, but I cannot stop now. She is in too much pain, and it is all too wonderful anyway. "Of course, he THINKS he loves me! But they never do! It's just that they get all confused in therapy! Now I know how to straighten him out!"

And then I throw up gloriously, all over my lap. Concussions can be that way.