Professional Help
The psychiatrist sat back in his chair, dazed. A figure had just appeared before him, a tall, very slender figure with a face that wouldn't focus properly when he tried to get a better look at it.
"Do you have an appointment?" the psychiatrist asked, confused.
The voice, when it came, could have destroyed mountains with a few inflections on certain syllables. "I do now," it stated firmly.
"Oh, good, good," the psychiatrist said, checking his appointment book. Strange. He was sure that that name had not been there a moment before. "Well, have a seat," he said, gesturing to the low couch.
The voice became unsure. "You mean, lie on that?" it asked. The voice had a trace of disgust in it. "But I don't know where it's been."
"Aha," remarked the psychiatrist, making a mark on his notepad indicating that apparently that remark had a special significance. "I'm sorry, I don't appear to have your name." For when he tried to look at his appointment book, the words unfocused until they were a blur.
"My name is…Tom."
"Right, Tom." The psychiatrist relaxed, professional habit taking over. "What seems to be the trouble?"
The room was silent for a long time. Finally, the voice said, "I am an evil warlord dictator and I just don't feel happy with myself as a person."
"Mmhm. And why do you think you're an evil warlord dictator, Tom?"
"Because I am, you see," the voice retorted a trifle sarcastically. The shape to go with the voice had overcome its disgust and lay gingerly on the leather couch, trying not to touch it with its bare hands.
"And how long have you thought that?"
"I have been an evil warlord dictator ever since my first year at Hogwarts. I was placed in Slytherin, of course, and I was able to seduce my friends into joining me on my glorious and righteous quest."
"Aaaaand what quest was that, Tom?" the psychiatrist asked, making another note at the word 'seduced'.
"Why, to rid the world of Muggles, of course," the voice said, as if that was obvious. "I'm only tolerating you at the moment because I need a little…reassurance in my life."
The psychiatrist leaned back in his chair, speculating. "What were your parents like?" he asked at last.
The voice became edgy. "I am here to discuss my inner child, not my parents."
The psychiatrist made another mark, which aroused even more suspicion in the voice. "What are you writing?" it asked.
"I'm just making some notes, Tom," the psychiatrist said soothingly. "To help you." The figure relaxed a little.
"My parents?" it questioned. "My mother died giving birth to me. I was raised in an orphanage until the age of eleven, when I was accepted at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry." Another mark. "I found my father at the age of thirteen, and I killed both he and his parents. Oh, it wasn't out of revenge," it hurried to add. "I just wanted to let him know where we stood. As a family."
The psychiatrist paused in his note taking. "You never knew your mother?" he asked. The figure shook its head, or at least shook the bit where its head should have been. "Tom, I think you're suffering from a condition known as an Oedipus complex. It's really quite straightforward. You see, with your father abandoning you at such an early age, and your mother dying immediately after, you naturally connected these two events and became jealous of your father."
The voice sounded confused. "What do you mean?"
"Well, with your father being the only person you know to have known your mother, possessed your mother, you have become consumed with envy at that bond between them."
There was a degree of horror evident in the voice as it spoke. "I certainly hope you are not suggesting what I think you are suggesting."
The psychiatrist began to feel nervous. "Look, it's a perfectly normal condition. Many others…"
"You think I am…in love…with my…" the voice fell silent. Then: "You're disgusting."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You need a hobby. More fresh air. A cold shower or two."
"It is a recognised medical condition, I'll have you know." The psychiatrist changed the subject hurriedly. "Are you gay?"
"If I was gay, then I wouldn't have needed to come to you in the first place, would I?"
The psychiatrist thought about this for a few minutes. Then, in a slow tone that sounded like he was addressing a brain-cell challenged blonde barmaid, he said, "Not happy, gay. Other men, gay."
"Oh." There was another silence. It was broken with: "You could take up basket-weaving, you know. Get you out of the office and into life. Help you stop thinking about all this…sexual…nonsense."
The psychiatrist sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I have another appointment in a few minutes, you know," he said, rather pointedly.
"No, you haven't," the voice said, and the psychiatrist looked at his appointment sheet and found this to be true.
The psychiatrist gave up. "So…what have you done for the community lately? Any good deeds?"
"Community? Good deeds? I don't understand."
"Have you…painted any old ladies' houses recently?"
"I did blow one up the day before. Does that count?"
"I'm afraid not."
"I didn't think so."
"Have you bought anything off of girl scouts?"
There was a laden pause. "Excuse me?"
"Cookies or banners or badges or anything," the psychiatrist said hurriedly.
The voice seemed thoughtful. "I do remember taking an arm off, but I don't think I paid for it."
"Mr…Tom! That's a terrible thing to joke about!"
The room grew cold. The voice grew colder. "Mr Doctor Muggle," it said, "I never joke."
"Right," the psychiatrist said nervously.
"Anyway, they get on your nerves, acting all innocent and polite, ringing on your futuristic subterranean complex's doorbell and disturbing your work. I don't know how they get past the radioactive tarantulas, I really don't."
The psychiatrist felt a little sick. "I think that's all for today, Tom," he said resolutely. "That's quite enough for today."
The voice sounded worried. "I am cured?"
"Oh, most definitely," the psychiatrist agreed, feeling a prickle of unease travel up his spine.
"Good. Thank you for your time, Mr Doctor Muggle. What was I forgetting? Ah yes, your fee."
"I really don't think…"
"Oh, but you must receive your payment, Mr Doctor Muggle." The figure pulled out a long thin thing, presumably from a pocket. Green lights twinkled at the end of it.
There were a few whispered words, and a flash of green light, and a vacuum of air, then nothing.
"Good deeds," the voice muttered. "What does he take me for, bloody meals on wheels?"
And it vanished.
fin