So this is the second fanfic I've written. It just randomly came to me and I have no idea where I'm going with it but it should be a few chapters long.
Disclaimer: Sorry, not Rowling.
It was black. It was soft. It was sleek and shiny. It was his doorway to hell and it was his relief. It listened. It never judged. It was warm. It was familiar. It was his recliner. It was his recliner in the corner of the small room, which only had one other chair in it. And in that chair always sat one person, the only person he could trust with every single thought, feeling and opinion. He didn't know her full name. He only referred to her as Jane. Not Miss or Mrs. Just Jane. She said it encouraged familiarity in her workplace, just like she called him Harry and not Mr Potter.
In her room, he was not the boy-who-lived or The Chosen One. He was Harry, the client. And she was Jane, his listener. And Harry preferred it this way. No pre-judgements, no awestruck stares, no 'can i have your autograph Mr Potter?' Just Jane looking over her parchment at him, leaning back into her chair and asking him that question she had always asked him, 'Something on your mind, Harry?'
It had been 10 years since he had first required the service of Jane. Six months after the war, Harry was told quite firmly by his red-haired girlfriend Ginny, that he simply wasn't coping. He was getting up in the morning only to fall back into bed and stare at the ceiling like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. He had stared blearily at her and had asked,' what do you think i should do?'Putting memories in a pensive wasn't enough he realized. That just got rid of them, letting them leave the surface of his brain for a little while. But they didn't solve them, they didn't help him express his anger and grief and confusion over them. He needed some kind of release.
When Hermione had first suggested a therapist he had point blank refused. 'A therapist Hermione? Are you serious? I've always felt sorry for those poor sods really. Having to spend all day listening to other peoples problems when they've probably got some themselves. Who listens to the therapist Hermione?' Hermione had smacked him up-side the head for that one.
'Stop being so insufferably selfless Harry.' She had reprimanded him. 'Besides I've heard of this therapist who does her work from home, in Godrics Hollow. Apparently she's brilliant. Unorthodox but brilliant.'
And so Hermione had dragged him to Godrics Hollow, where so much had gone so wrong so early for Harry, and pushed him inside a rather small door into a dark corridor.
'Hello?' called out Hermione uncertainly.
'Are you sure this is safe?' Harry hissed at her.
'Positive.' Hermione glared at him.
A cool, calm voice floated down the corridor towards them. 'Well, what do we have here?' the voice belonged to a tall woman dressed in a simple black dress with square glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. Harry noticed that she had quills sticking out of the messy bun wobbling precariously on the top of her head and that she had folded parchment in the pocket of her blazer. She was dressed as a muggle but with wizard accessories, Harry thought amused.
Before Harry could speak she pierced him with a look, worthy of McGonagal. 'I do not care for pleasantries Mr Potter. So you shall call me Jane and I shall call you Harry, as if we were old friends. Do come into my room. Miss Granger you will not be needed.' And she turned swiftly and disappeared through a doorway. Hermione placed her hand on Harry's shoulder reassuringly and left, leaving Harry to nervously follow the dragon-like woman. He entered the small dingy room. There was the black recliner. And there she was sat in the chair, quill in hand, peering over her parchment. 'Something on your mind, Harry?'