(1941-07-02) Incompetence Abounds
Details for Incompetence Abounds
Summary: Samira is brought to St. Mungo's after receiving three stunning spells and almost getting bitten by a wolf (werewolf?). Morrow scoffs at the constables' incompetence while Amir berates the healers for theirs.
Date: Saturday, July 2, 1941
Location: Private Room, St. Mungo's
Plot: Zoanthropy Epidemic
Related: Not a Werewolf…Surely Not (and immediately follows Recovery and Discoveries)

Standing out in the hall of the Creature Induced Injuries ward of St. Mungo's, marking the commotion within, is a constable with a tight bun of mousey-brown hair. A second constable emerges to join his comrade and wait until the healers will let them back in to ask their questions. An orderly with a calming draught strides at a brisk pace down the hall and past the two constables guarding the door.

In the small, private room, just down the hall from where the recently transformed witches and wizards are being held for observation, Samira sits on the bed with a blanket around her narrow shoulders and her head bowed. A nurse in her pink robes kneels before her, speaking gently with a hand on the girl's shoulder. As the orderly passes over the calming draught, the healer places the cup in Samira's hands and guides her to take at least a small sip.

A healer stoops, examining the nasty scrape on Samira's cheek. Or trying to, since Samira shies away every time he tries to pull back her dark curls. Her knees are also scraped and bloodied. Her little pale green dress is stained with the soot and dirt of London's streets. Her arms bear little scrapes as well - having taken quite a tumble.

Following shortly after the draught-bearing orderly, barefoot and attired in a rather old-fashioned, chemise style nightgown that leaves her arms bare where they're wrapped across her abdomen, a pretty brunette eyes the waiting constables dubiously as she approaches. Morrow has been in the main ward, along with all the others who are recovering from their recent err.. 'illness'. But hearing the mention of a familiar name has drawn her out into the hallways, which are thankfully quiet at this hour. She's not exactly in a hand-picked outfit, after all… though she does still manage to look oddly glamorous, in her own way. It's helped by the twitching feline ears poking through her silky swathe of dark hair, admittedly.

Slowing her pace to a casual one as she nears the open doorway of the smaller room down the corridor, just in case the officers move to bar her way, the young lady cranes her neck to see past them, a single brow arching in enquiry. Yes, those are some familiar curls she can see, as the orderly she was pursuing strides in and hands over the asked-for draught. That's reason enough for the Ravenclaw to halt, mannerly enough not to simply try and push her way into the room but frowning vaguely in concern at seeing the smaller girl in the hospital at all. "Samira?" She speaks up boldly, her voice cutting through the gentle to'ing and fro'ing around Prince, with any luck. "Are you alright? What's happened?" One of the constables takes a half-step forward, reaching as if to gently guide the girl away by her elbow. Good luck to him… a rumbling growl emanates from the slender brunette, unbidden and resulting in a blink of surprise from all concerned.

Samira's head slowly lifts at the sound of her name. Though her cheeks are tearstained, none remain in her eyes. The nurse glances over her shoulder towards Morrow, but then returns her focus to Samira, coaxing the girl to take another sip of the calming draught. But the little one turns her cheek to the chocolate, staring over at the cat-eared girl. "Morrow?" she murmurs, sounding faint and lost.

With his patient a bit distracted, the healer finally manages to pull back her hair to reveal the scrape across Samira's cheek. "Episky." Within moments it has vanished. Straightening, he turns to Morrow and regards her for a moment with a look of careful consideration. "Do you know this girl well?" he asks.

Seeing as she's acknowledged, by patient and healer both, Morrow gently shrugs off the constables flanking the doorway and steps through; pulling off 'dignified' even in her nightie with the subtle upward tilt of her jaw. "Yes." is the succinct answer she gives to the healer, settling her cool gaze upon him and offering a slight smile of reassurance. Nobody knows Samira well. Silly man. But she wants to stay and she knows what he wants to hear, in order for that to happen.

With a glance toward the bewildered looking girl, Morrow continues, in a softer tone still, "..is she alright?" She takes a tentative step in Samira's direction, likely wanting to offer some comfort but.. well, not entirely sure if that's wise. Taking in the sad state of that silk dress, her lips slant a little in displeasure. Poor thing.

"Perhaps you can help us," says the healer, bidding the nurse step back with a wave of his hand. "See if you can get her to finish that calming draught." The pink-robed nurse rises and takes a step or two back, but remains close on hand just in case. Samira's dark stare remains transfixed on Morrow's features, drifting slowly to the fluffy ears before returning to those bright blue eyes.

Morrow as a nurse. Well, there's the fantasy of no doubt numerous teenage boys come to life. Though she quirks a brow at the suggestion, after a moment the older girl obligingly holds out a hand to accept the cup from the retreating woman. "..alright.." She eyes the potion uncertainly as she treads forward, then simply eases herself down to a seat beside the miserable looking Slytherin.

"..Samira?" Seeking the other girl's gaze isn't too difficult, seeing as it's lingering on her anyway, so Morrow summons another of those slow-burning smiles, regarding her dainty features. The healer's done a good job, all credit to him. Thank goodness that nasty scrape is gone. "You're perfectly safe now.. I promise. Here.." She offers out the calming draught, at first aiming to place it in the girl's hands but.. well, given the state of her, she instead moves the cup toward her lips. "..this'll help. Or so they tell me." Keeping her tone calm and conversational, trying to lend some semblance of normality to proceedings, she waits, watchfully, to see if there's any better response.

Samira parts her lips to take a tiny sip from the cup held to her lips. But turning her face away, she averts her gaze and begins to tilt. At her side, the healer reaches out and steadies her by the shoulder. "Three stunning spells missed the beast and hit her instead," says the healer in a low tone to Morrow. "Try to give her more. She needs it for the shock. Let me tend to her scrapes until she's recovered a bit."

"Three?!" Morrow whispers back, in an incredulous hiss, before casting a frown toward the doorway and the constables she knows are beyond it. "..aren't there some sort of requirements for aiming ability, in the MLE?" It's rhetoric, spurred on by annoyance. Well honestly! Three stunning spells on one tiny little Samira? Bloody handless, shiftless plebeians!

Adjusting the cup in her hand, she again offers it at the other girl's lips; after a moment shifting to loop an arm around her narrow shoulders, so the healer can attend his work without fear of his charge toppling sideways of the bed. The next question occurs to her only belatedly, eliciting a sharp glance toward the man.

"Beast? What beast?"

Samira leans into Morrow's sturdiness at her side. The arm around her seems to soothe her. Or perhaps it is the calming draught taking effect. Gaze lowered, she accepts each offered sip.

The healer kneels and sees to the girl's scraped knees. Her stockings are torn and stained much like her dress. "Episky." As the scrapes vanish, the healer returns his attention to Morrow. "Another transformed witch or wizard, most likely. But we're hoping she will tell us more."

Slowly, Samira tilts her head and settles it on Morrow's shoulders. Her eyes drift shut.

The healer frowns with concern. "Rennervate." The glamer glow from his wand flows into her temple and at once, Samira lifts her head with a soft gasp. She blinks, disoriented, breathing quickly.

"Do try to stay awake." Morrow speaks down at the smaller girl, a smile heard in her tone most likely, rather than actually seen. Well, it's not Samira's fault. She's the victim here. The mention of transformation, though, while not exactly surprising given the rash of cases filling up the main ward, draws her attention. Quirking a brow, she glances down as that knee is tended to, holding the calming draught to the smaller girl's lips, the motions becoming habitual already. "..do you think she has it? Whatever 'it' is.." A soft, frustrated sigh escapes Morrow and she shifts her weight, keeping that arm securely around the curly-haired creature beside her and rubbing briskly at Sami's upper arm with her fingers in an unthinking effort to keep her awake. "Do you have any idea yet what's actually going on? It's contagious, isn't it." If she's concerned about her proximity to the possible next case, it doesn't show. Being a tiger wasn't so bad. Well, until people starting firing spells at her and knocking her out.

"It would seem so." But the healer offers no further details regarding Samira's possible condition. Meanwhile, the little one takes yet another sip of the calming draught as the cup is held to her lips. Thus far, her hands have rested limp and open in her lap. But now one closes and the other reaches for the fabric of Morrow's nightdress. The draught, or perhaps the brisk friction along her arm, seems to be reviving her a bit more, easing away her shock. The little one sits gazing up at Morrow.

Feeling the fabric shift as Samira takes a hold of it, Morrow glances down at the little upturned face and offers an encouraging smile. "Hello. Feeling better?" Smiling the Ravenclaw coaxes the younger girl to take another sip, keeping up with her duties. "I'd make a bloody good nurse, wouldn't I?" she muses aloud. Because everyone knows the only qualifications you need for that are cuddles and draught-giving. Yep.

A ghost of a smile quirks on Samira's lips and lingers as she parts them to accept the draught, taking another sip. "Mm." A soft sound of agreement.

The healer conjures a small stool and settles down in front of the girl and her friend. "When you're ready, Miss Prince, the constables outside are anxious to hear your account of what happened. But not until you feel ready. Tell me first. Is there anywhere else it hurts?"

At first, Samira's gaze remains fixed upon Morrow's features, ignoring the healer. But pressing at Morrow's side, she gradually directs her attention to the healer. "Yes. All over." She pauses and a little tremor runs through her fragile form. Her hand tightens on Morrow's skirt. "I'm not bitten. Am I? Please. Please, I'm not bitten. Tell me. Qal li last." She lapses into Arabic as fear rises in her chest, threatening to fill her throat with panic.

"Yes, I think that can wait a little longer.." says Morrow, in an aside to the healer. Agreeing with him or bossing him? It's so hard to tell, given the way her voice works at times. Besides, she offers him such a disarming smile that surely he won't take offence?

When Samira complains of hurting 'all over', though, her teasing expression fades; consternation shadowing her features in its place. Reflexively, she reaffirms her hold around the smaller girl when she shivers, but doesn't otherwise try to stem the sudden onset of panic. Well, she doesn't like to be restrained when she's wound up about something, so why would she inflict that upon Samira? "I don't think it matters if-…" Trailing off, the brunette tilts her head, curious in spite of herself at the foreign tongue. "What does that mean? Cal la.. what you said."

It's probably a distraction, intended to calm. But.. well, it's Morrow. She may well just be interested. She's not much for the softly-softly approach, one would imagine. "Don't worry.. there's no blood anywhere that I can see. Just bumps and bruises. And that dress will need a good clean.." Gentling her tone as best she can, she seeks the other's gaze again, lifting the draught in the hopes of coaxing her to drink. "..were you attacked, Samira?" It stands to reason that she was, of course. But subtle prompting is the way forward here, not bullish demand.

Samira lifts a trembling hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes shine with fear as she gazes up at Morrow. But the other girl's assurance that there is no blood seems to help. She lowers her hand. And she listens as the healer says, "No, it doesn't appear so. You should be alright." A haunted hint of horror lingers in her eyes, but as Morrow urges her to take another sip of the calming draught, she obliges, parting her lips. She closes her eyes, brows furrowing a bit at the taste, which she finds sickly sweet.

After but a tiny sip, she draws back. Softly, she says, "Yes. I went to heal his wound. But then…" She shakes her head, and takes a calming breath. Her tight fists tremble slightly, but she manages to maintain most of her composure. Peeking back up at Morrow, she continues, "He went to get something from the kitchen. Something for us to eat. There was a crash. And… and when I found him… he was…" Her throat tightens, making her words end in a soft squeak. She takes another slow, steadying breath. "A wolf. Wolf." Her dark gaze darts to the healer. "No bite? You promise? I wasn't bitten?"

The healer steps forward and grips the girl's shoulder, steadying her. "Promise. The constables said it never bit you. And I've found no sign of such injury. You're alright. We promise." Tears of relief well up in Samira's eyes. Trembling, she nods with a bow of her head. The hand clinging to Morrow's skirt lets go, but only so that she can slide her arm around behind the other girl's waist, to cling to her, shivering.

"There, see? Told you. You're fine."

Morrow is quite pretty, it's often been said. She's also, generally speaking, quite bright. But, whether due to the stress and fatigue of the past few days, or just distraction, she doesn't seem to be immediately joining the dots here. And pretty won't help. Well, Samira's a healer's aide, the notion of her treating someone isn't wildly unusual. And she no doubt has lots of friends, some that Morrow hasn't even met. No cause for alarm. No, she's focused, for the moment, upon trying to reassure the other girl. And.. there's actually no boon in it for her. Does she actually, genuinely care about Prince? Merlin's Beard!

Though not often one for displays of affection, this is a fairly special situation. The brunette accepts the scant weight of Samira leaning into her and wraps that arm more fully around her in an unthinking hold and gesture of comfort. "You poor thing. I'm glad you're alright. Of course, I'd be more glad if certain blithering imbeciles hadn't accidentally stunned you. Three times." The deadpan is loud enough to be heard by those outside, though it doesn't rouse them to any argument. "I'm sure your friend will be fine, too… it wears off after a day or so. Again, whatever it is.."

Perhaps Morrow's attempt at provoking the constables in the hall failed because they were already occupied with somebody else. Somebody more impressive than Morrow? Surely, impossible! But ambassadorial credentials are pretty damned impressive. As the door opens, the caramel-skinned Amir is still speaking over his shoulder in what is clearly a foreign accent, "…hope that you are not the blithering imbeciles in question." As he turns, the stern frown fades away into a look of worry as he rushes to Samira, reaching for her hand. "Samira, ya okhti, are you hurt? I came the moment word reached me." He casts a suspicious glance to the other girl with her arm around his sister, eyes flickering to the feline ears atop her head. "Who is…this?"

Samira lifts her tear-filled gaze to Morrow, drinking in the reassurance she offers. She bites her lower lip upon hearing that she was struck by three stunning spells. The realization hadn't quite sunk in before. It's no wonder she feels like she's been pummeled. And so disoriented. Something like that could have been lethal. She glances off in the direction of the constables standing out in the hall, only to see her Amir step into the room.

Still rather dazed and disoriented, she doesn't quite recognize him. Not quite. Behind Morrow's back, her hand tightens on the fabric of her nightdress as she freezes against the other girl's side. But then his identity clicks. Her brother. She releases a soft breath of relief, but she doesn't quite relax. Gazing up at him, she says soft and faint, "Morrow. A friend, ya akhi. Brother."

For her part, Morrow turns her dark-lashed gaze toward the doorway as the stranger sweeps in through it; initially wary until it becomes perfectly apparent that he knows the patient. But her arm remains where it is, regardless. And she meets his eyes, when they settle upon her, unflinchingly. Only her ears give away any hint of uncertainty, twitching as if thinking to flatten back, then holding off.

The complexion, the accent, the manner… the unfairly exotic good looks.. it's a fairly safe bet he's a relation, really. With that in mind, she offers at least the hint of a smile, the warmth not exactly touching her expression beyond the fractional curve of her lips. Suspicion is better than being overlooked entirely, so the brunette takes it in stride… though she does feel the tightening of Samira's grip and her jaw tilts, a fraction, in the most subtle defiance.

Hearing the man addressed as brother, the brunette quirks a brow in faint surprise, before nodding and echoing her friend's explanation, such as it was. "Morrow Selwyn." And she leaves it at that. Even she knows better than to openly disrespect an adult. Especially one that has her Slytherin companion almost cowering, if only for a moment.

"Selwyn", the exotic man echoes, nodding slowly as if in approval. But Amir doesn't linger for long on Morrow. Not when his sister is in such a state. "There are rumours flying around the Ministry about a wolf. Was she bitten?" The question is snapped at the healer, who patiently confirms that Samira is free of tooth or claw marks. Amir turns his attention back to his sister. He strokes a hand over her curly hair, then pulls her head in to kiss her brow. "Thank the stars that you are unhurt. Do not worry. I will personally see that the Ministry hunts down that creature and kills it."

Samira lowers her gaze to her hand in his. Though the gentle stroke through her dark curls doesn't ease the tension that Morrow must surely sense, her eyes drift half-closed. She accepts the kiss to her brow. But then she looks back up at him, her eyes suddenly wide with alarm. "La. No, please. It's one of the transformed people. I know him, brother." She bites her lower lip, almost clinging to Morrow. "A friend. We met on the street. He was hurt and- and I just… stepped in for just a moment to heal his hand. I was leaving when- when he changed."

Actually, it's quite a relief to be released from the brooding gaze. Morrow turns her attention back to the girl beside her, squeezing her arm gently in reassurance. It doesn't matter to her, apparently, that the brother is here. If Samira's staying close, Morrow's going to let her do so. Though.. she doesn't totally 'get' it. The man seems only concerned.. solicitous, even. It's rather sweet. She observes the exchange, the difference in the way he addresses 'inferiors' compared to the way he treats his kin. You can learn a lot merely from the nuances, sometimes.

"If I may.. given the spate of these, ah, 'transformations', as they're being referred to, it's quite possible that this wolf is a transformed witch or wizard. A child, even." Is that abrupt flick of her right ear deliberately calling attention? "I, apparently, was going to be quite content to devour ordinary citizens, in the form of a tiger." The matter-of-fact way she says this is almost comical.

Only suddenly, Samira's making the same argument, far less evenly. Blinking in surprise at the usually composed and quiet dancer, Morrow looks down and aside at her as she clings tighter still. "Who was.." Dawning realisation drains the already pale colour from Selwyn's features, her eyes growing wide. "..his hand..?" The expression is a queasy mixture of wanting to know.. and really, really not wanting to, her voice dropping low, to a murmur. "..who was it?"

Amir's frown returns when Samira says she knows the wolf, and deepens as Morrow explains about the transformations. "You are one of the shapeshifters?" Amir reaches to seize Samira by the arms to pull her away from Morrow, putting his body protectively between them. "We will discuss 'him' later, Samira. But you," he focuses his dark eyes on Morrow. "Stay back. Healer," he snaps again the poor man. "Why is this girl not confined?"

Samira peeks up at Morrow. Perhaps the look in her eyes alone will confirm the poor girl's fears. She parts her lips, but then Amir seizes the tiny girl by the arm. She gives a startled cry of pain, more of a squeak, as Amir drags her from Morrow's side.

The healer steps forward, reaching out to stop him but starts back as the intimidating foriegner snaps at him. "She was. But, there have been no incidents of contagion once the patient has returned to their human, uh, mostly-human state. There was no need. And Miss Prince needed a friend. Please, sir, she needs her rest. I know you are concerned, but I must insist."

"Oh don't be bloody ridiculous." Worry, it seems, has loosened Morrow's usually very careful lips, and she rises to her bare feet as the man puts himself between she and Samira. "I'm not a shapeshifter, I'm just one of the people who this.. this.. thing happened to. And now I'm better." Lacking the patience to explain it all to someone who clearly leaps and bounds to conclusions, the brunette strives to see past his shoulder to her friend. "Samira.." Beneath the superficial ire, there's a genuine note of panic that's quite unlike her. If one knows her well enough to tell, of course. She makes no move toward Prince - either of them - instinctively aware that she probably oughtn't provoke the man. Flattening her feline ears and gritting her teeth, she finally seems to grasp the answer from the other girl's expression, holding Sami's gaze now instead of her brother's. "..they have to be told." Muttering, to herself it would seem, the young lady is momentarily frozen in place, before she begins to back away toward the door, casting a parting glare at Amir.

Amir's hard glare tells the Healer all he needs to know about Amir's concern for his insistence. Morrows gets much the same as he questions her. "Oh? And just what is this 'thing'? Can you tell me?" He looks to the Healer. "Can you? Can you explain why she still has the ears of a cat even after her transformation? By Thoth, can you really be this clumsy? People are transforming into animals against their will. Now one of them is a wolf. Does this not remind you of something?"

The healer's hands wave as he desperately tries to calm what could spark a full-blown werewolf panic, if it hasn't happened already. "Sir, sir please. The moon is only in its first quarter. And she turned into a /feline/ not a wolf. It seems these transformations are unique to each individual. The adoption of the wolf form is purely coincidental."

Half-hidden behind Amir, little Samira peeks out from behind him, watching Morrow. She bites her lower lip, watching as the other girl withdraws. But she offers a slight nod. They need to be told. And she's glad it doesn't have to be her. The exhaustion in her chest and the pain… everywhere weighs heavier by the moment. She wants to lay down. To just curl up and hide. Her usual calm reserve and composure has been utterly stripped away, allowing the healers, her brother, and Morrow alike to glimpse a rare vulnerability. Bowing her head, she closes her eyes. She tries to lean to the side, seeking the soft surface of the bed.

"Why don't you help them to decide what it is." Morrow retorts, with a frustrated expression. Too many questions, not enough action! "While I go and make sure no Ministry hotheads try to kill my boyf-.. friend." Pointedly tilting her jaw and averting her gaze past Amir, the haughty brunette addresses his little sister once more. "..I'll be back to visit you later, Samira. The healer is quite correct.." Those blue eyes flit to the man standing between them, as level as her flat intonation. "..you need to rest."

With that, she turns on her heel and practically stalks from the room. Quite impressive to manage that bravado, really. You know, given that she's in a nightie. And has kitty ears.

Her oddly authoritative voice can be heard outside, in due course, as she passes on the new information to the MLE officers out in the hall. It's highly unusual to see her so rattled, and it comes across even now in the clipped tones. "..not a werewolf, do you understand? Get word to the office.. his father.." Presumably, as the words drift away, she has kept walking. And whether Ministry officials will pay her fears any mind remains to be seen. If they're anything like Amir, the odds perhaps aren't fantastic.

"Incompetent fools," Amir snarls. "You assume that because this condition is not precisely like lycanthropy that the similarities mean nothing." He turns to Samira with a heavy frown. "And you wish to learn the healing arts from these imbeciles? Let us pray that the other healers are not so short-sighted as this one."
The healer frowns and puffs up his chest in indignation. "Sir! We are quite aware of the similarities, but there is no need to incite such panic. Now please, I must ask you to leave. Your sister needs rest. Please, let us speak in my office." He holds out his hand towards the door, trying to usher the Ambassador out.

Beneath brows furrowed in exhausted discomfort, Samira opens one eye to peek over at Amir. But then she simply closes it again, offering no further response. Her breath comes steady, but in shallow, quick breaths.

Amir's eyes send daggers at the healer for daring to assume authority over him. "Shut up, you inadequate worm." For Samira, his gaze softens, and he gently touches her cheek. "Ya okhti, who is this man's superior? I would speak with somebody that has enough sense to worry more about solving problems than frightening people."

Samira's cheek is warm to the touch. She stirs, tilting her cheek slightly, but shows no further response. Instead, the healer supplies, "I believe Healer-In Charge Virgil Goshawk will be taking over these series of cases. Miss Prince was brought to this ward, however, as a precaution due to the nature of her encounter. We are not oblivious to the similarities sir."

Amir curls his lip at the healer, his dark eyes burning like smoldering coals. "If you speak another word to me, I will see that you are made the healer in charge of scrubbing the scum from gutters. Now get out of my sight. I am speaking to my sister."

The healer could have the orderlies remove him. Or he could try. But given that he's an Ambassador, there could be severe consequences. So with an exasperated huff, the healer simply turns and heads for the door, signaling for the nurse and orderlies to follow. He has other patients to tend to. An orderly and the two constables remain outside. Despite the poor aim of their colleagues, the constables have the sense to wait until the Ambassador has finished. As silence falls in the private room, Samira doesn't stir.

Amir's glare follows the healer until he has vanished from sight. Only then does he turn back to Samira and pull her into his arms for a protective embrace. "I will speak to this Healer Goshawk, and if I am not satisfied, I will send for healers from Egypt. I will do anything to do keep you safe. Do you understand?"

Samira isn't quite dead weight as he lifts her. The disturbance makes her give a sleepy murr of protest. But finding herself in the warmth and security of her brother's embrace, the little one settles and calms. At first, it doesn't seem that she will respond. But then at last, she manages a faint nod.

Amir remains with Samira until her exhaustion overwhelms her. They he gently picks her up and lays her back into the bed, pulling the blanket up to cover her. He leans over to press a tender kiss to her forehead, then turns and strides out of the room in search of Healer Virgil Goshawk.

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