Spell Damage

(Gilderoy)

By Violin Ghost

I pushed the door labeled Spell Damage open with my back, cheerfully humming, arms laden with brown paper bags. I could have Levitated them in, I suppose, but I wanted their contents to be special, brought to the dear boy in my own arms.

As I walked along the white, austere corridor, I marveled—as I did every day—that I had such an extraordinary chance to work as a Healer in St. Mungo's and that—even more extraordinary—the administration had put me in charge of the ward I had wished to work with, after that fiasco with Healer Strout occurred. I shuddered, remembering the scream that had brought me running from the ward next door to the Janus Thickeyward, that poor man's white face, still and silent, green tendrils wrapped around his… But it was over and done with, and I was only thankful that, no matter how tragic, it had given me a chance to work with people I wanted to tend.

I stopped outside my ward, surprised to see four people seated on white chairs that had been conjured up—as there were usually very few visitors to Janus Thickey, administration had decided that no visitors' seats were to be placed outside.

"Good afternoon," I said uncertainly. "Healer Williams at your service, may I help you with anything?"

The one nearest me, a long-haired man with a scarred face, answered. "Thank you, but we're just visiting with a friend." I noticed that the one seated beside him, a beautiful blonde woman, held his hand tightly, looking solemn.

"I would like some help," pronounced the woman furthest away from me, in a dreamy sort of voice. "Could you direct me to the ward for the victims of violent Wrackspurt attacks? We can learn quite a lot from them, you know, if they aren't too traumatized by the event."

I had never heard of a Wrackspurt in all my years of training as a Healer, but said, "I would go to the First Floor, dear, creature-induced injuries and all the rest."

"Thank you," she said seriously, and she put the little girl seated on her lap back onto the floor. "I'll be back in just a few minutes, Victoire," she assured the girl, her rather large eyes even larger in sincerity.

The little blonde girl, who must have been five, frowned. "I want to go with you, Auntie Luna. I don't get to see you that often. And I want to see a Wrackspurt," she added, her sweet face lighting up with enthusiasm.

"Wrackspurts aren't real, honey," said the scarred man.

"Yes, they are," said Auntie Luna serenely, "but you can't see them, they're invisible."

The beautiful, blonde woman coughed. Auntie Luna stood up and floated away.

"Well, it was very nice meeting all of you," I said, to cover up the silence that followed, and because they all looked so somber—except for Victoire, who was looking as rebellious as my daughter ever had at the age of five. "It's so nice of you to visit, we hardly get any visitors here. I suppose you're here to see the Longbottoms?" They were the only ones who got frequent visitors. The scarred man's face might have become slightly sadder at my question, but I wasn't certain.

"Yes, we are here to see zem," answered the blonde woman evenly.

I was suddenly aware of the brown bags in my arms. I had forgotten! "Yes, well, that's very nice of you, but I must get inside, do excuse me." I fumbled my way in, aware of the family—how could the little girl be anyone's daughter but the blonde woman's?—watching me silently.

"You're late, Williams," said a cold voice. Finch, the sour-looking woman who took the morning shifts, was looking at my full arms disapprovingly, as if wondering why I hadn't Levitated them in. I put my chin up.

"I got caught up, making the cake and all, which is more than you can say you did, Delilah," I said smoothly. Her eyes narrowed.

"It isn't part of our job description—"

"I care about them, Delilah," I said simply. She scowled, gathered her things, and left without saying goodbye.

"Why were you fighting again, Eloise?"

I glanced around and smiled at Gilderoy, patting his head fondly. So like a little boy, I thought wistfully. "We weren't fighting, dear. We were having a discussion."

He seemed satisfied and began bouncing up and down on his bed, face flushed with excitement. "It's my birthday, it's my birthday!" he cried eagerly, grinning the smile that had charmed so many and won him five awards in a row. "I didn't remember, you know—" I felt a surge of pity as he said that, but he went on undeterred "—but then I got about a hundred letters from all sorts of witches, and they all said Happy Birthday, and Gladys Gudgeon sent me enchanted flowers!"

I looked towards his bedside table, worried, remembering what had happened to my predecessor, but I needn't have feared. I performed a few quick tests and it came up clean.

"That's… lovely, dear," I said, glancing once more at the lurid yellow flowers, which looked like nothing more than frilly cabbages. But in looking back at the flowers, I noticed that the curtains hadn't been closed off for the Longbottoms' visitors, as they usually were. They wouldn't have been able to hold them in, anyway, since there were a lot more visitors than the usual two. One, two, three, four, five… I counted six heads, one black, two red, one brown, and the now familiar ones of Neville Longbottom and his new wife, Hannah. Why were they here? Neville usually didn't like bringing guests…

"… why aren't you listening to me, Eloise?" I firmly placed my gaze back upon Gilderoy, who looked crestfallen.

"I am listening, Gilderoy dear," I said soothingly. "And I have a birthday surprise just for you, too. Would you like me to go get it?"

"Oh yes, yes!" He could hardly contain his enthusiasm. Smiling fondly, if sadly, I retreated to a desk in the corner, putting the brown bags on top of it, my back to Gilderoy so he wouldn't see what I was doing.

Gilderoy had always been a mystery to me. I knew who he was, of course—Gilderoy Lockhart, famed author as well as courageous hero, at least according to his books, which really were quite extraordinary. But… what had happened to him? How had he come to be on the receiving end of such a powerful Memory Charm? My private guess was a jealous rival author, but I didn't dwell too much on it. I thought instead about the poor Gilderoy I knew and loved, who really didn't know much about what was going on and never received guests.

He's a sweet boy, if a little full of himself sometimes, as boys are known to be, I mused, as I placed a candle in the middle of his chocolate cake, and he used to be famous as well. So why doesn't he get any visitors?

Gilderoy saddened me, too. He was so childlike and innocent, and yet—so lost, at the same time. All the occupants of the ward were lost, in their own way, but Gilderoy's situation was even sadder, because no one cared whether he was lost or not. Even Agnes, who had morphed into a sort of half-dog, still had an infrequent visitor in her son. But Gilderoy… Gilderoy had no one.

"Is the surprise all ready now, Eloise?" came an eager call from his bed.

"Nearly, dear," I said over my shoulder, quickly lighting the candle with a distracted wave of my wand. I picked the cake up carefully and waited for the Longbottoms' departing visitors to pass—they were leaving—before crossing over to Gilderoy's bed. His face lit up with innocent joy, and something in the hungry expression on his face as he stared at the cake—something like longing, but longing for what, I was quite sure he didn't know—caused a pang to go through me. I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

"Happy birthday, dear," I said, knowing he wouldn't notice my choked voice, oblivious and self-absorbed boy that he was. And he deserved to be self-absorbed today, of all days.

I wasn't disappointed. Instead of asking why my smile was so watery, instead of wondering why my voice trembled, instead of even blowing the single candle on his cake out, he called to the Longbottoms' visitors, who were just departing,

"It's my birthday today, it's my birthday today!"

But they didn't hear. Their heads were bowed, and they were all brooding over their visit, I knew. Even the little girl, who had come in with her parents and Auntie Luna to fetch the visitors, looked appropriately mournful. Being one of the few who knew the sad story of the Longbottoms, I understood, but… I wished they had heard and paid Gilderoy attention, all the same.

"It's my birthday, really, it is!" he continued to cry, even as the group continued heedlessly towards the door. I thought I heard a hint of desperation in Gilderoy's voice. My eyes, not for the first time today, filled with emotion. It was almost as if I was watching a preview of what Gilderoy's life would always be.

"It's… my birthday…" he said in a defeated murmur, head drooping, gold hair falling into those blue, blue eyes, realizing that they couldn't hear him, that perhaps no one would ever hear him.

But someone heard. Miraculously, the little girl heard, and her eyes snapped towards poor Gilderoy. She spotted the cake, smiled a sweet little-girl smile, and tugged at her mother's skirt. "Look, Maman! It's his birthday!"

At Victoire's exclamation, the group turned as one to consider Gilderoy, whose face lit up with such beautiful expectation that I was mildly surprised their hearts didn't break, as mine did.

And there was silence.

The little girl promptly shattered it with a childishly innocent suggestion. "Let's sing him happy birthday!"

Some restless muttering, a few incoherent answers, and a great deal of uncomfortable fidgeting occurred, not helped in the least by Gilderoy saying, brightly, "Well, go on, then!" Every single one of them looked ill at ease, especially the red-headed boy who looked, for some inexplicable reason, unduly guilty. Then a sweet, vague voice began.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…" Auntie Luna sang, a faraway look on her face. Only Victoire joined in, and their companions were left staring at them as they completed the song.

"You didn't sing," accused Victoire, "so we have to start again."

The black-haired one turned to look almost beseechingly at me, but I answered with a silent plea of my own: Please.

He nodded, as if coming to a decision, and said in a quiet voice, "Let's sing for the professor."

And they all did. They sang with as much gusto as could be mustered under the circumstances, and when they were done, the brown-haired witch magicked a handsome purple quill out of thin air and handed it to him, pink in the face, muttering embarrassedly about knowing that lilac was his favorite color, and hoping he would have many more birthdays to come.

And then it suddenly hit me with crashing conviction: Gilderoy wasn't alone. He would never be truly lost, if only one little girl—and a strange aunt or two—heard him.

Now my restrained tears spilled over, even as I heard him say cheerfully, "Would you all like my autograph? I can sign with this new feather, now."