. 22nd July .

"What else?"

"The bathroom. There is a bathtub there placed in the center, below the windows." When Dr. Brooks remains silent I assume she wants me to continue. " The tub is deep and large, supported by only three rusted legs. The tiles on the floor -" she makes a note, "-are pale-colored; but not white like the bathtub was. And an old chair on the other corner stacked with clean towels" I blush as I say "and also a few dry lavenders on top of them."

"Harry, you have told me in details of the place you are living in at the moment. The living room, bedroom, even a guest room," she says politely "and the bathroom of course," she nods, her hair tied tightly in a bun, not a hair out of place. With half a smile that never becomes full, she asks: "But who's there?" In a swift movement the black note book on her lap is brought to a close just as I begin to say something. "It's time. Till next week, Harry."

On the way home I ponder the question 'who's there?' as I stopped at a Newsstand in the mist of a busy New York street. I reach for my wallet to pay for a pack of cigarettes and quickly realized the keys were missing from my pocket. " Fuck! "

Ten minutes later, I bang the door at my apartment and wait for Kreacher's bullfrog voice to come through from the other side. "Who's there?" he asks. I bit my tongue from swearing. "Me. Open the door." The door ajar only slightly showing half an eye of Kreacher. I push it open with annoyance "Do you have to do that every time I forget my keys? Who else could it be?". His reply "I don't know" comes slowly before I disappear into the kitchen. The meaning behind his 'i don't know' was not lost on me and I'm annoyed by it. Inhaling deeply I begin to make coffee while thank Merlin that Kreacher has finally approved it at times, I was to help myself in the kitchen. A few minutes later I sit there with fresh coffee and ignite cigarette in my hand. A ticking noise was made by the clock on the wall which I hadn't noticed it until now. "who's there?" she had asked. No one was. All at once I realize what she was getting at. I turn around and find Kreacher still standing in the door way looking nearly, almost understanding. Is he waiting for an order? or perhaps just silently disapproving my smoking in the/his kitchen? I'm not sure. Possibly both. But at this moment I'm grateful beyond reasons that he's in fact here. "Come sit, Kreacher."

. 28th July .

"How are you?" I thought 'good' might've been too easy an answer. "Fine?" I suggest instead. "It isn't a trick question," says Dr. Brooks. "Yes, fine." This time more confidently. We look at each other. "Anything else happened this week?" I shake my head "Seen anyone? Friends?" "Not particularly." Again it's quiet for what feels like minutes before she asks " Summaries what we said in the past 30 seconds" "... erm... I was fine, er... not too much happened..." "Right." She looks at me now "And the week before this, was it similarly?" I nod. "and the week before that?" Uncomfortably I say I' don't really remember'. "Can I assume it was fine." It isn't a question but I nod anyway. "Do you feel sad or unhappy?" "The difference being-?" "If you feel sad, its a feeling - you 'feel sad'. We then go about asking why. Though if you're unhappy then one way or another, to a certain degree your needs had been met, only it's not enough; Indirectly it showed there is a need but the focus is on the 'not enough'. " " I feel...I'm sorry..." I trail off. I feel both, but at the same time neither. "Harry, are you happy?" that feels like a trick question, or a question requires an meaningful answer. I shrug. "You don't feel happy?" I shrug. "You don't particularly feel good nor bad, do you?" "I... no" but I feel like an uncooperative patient.

"If you have to use one word to describe me, what comes to mind first?" the word 'scary' came to mind most immediately. "Do you know what word comes to mind about you?" "Vague?" I offer with some humor hoping to break the tension. Dr. Brooks leans back and says: "No, scared. You seemed terrified. But of what?" I remain silent. Dr. Brooks opens her note book and says "That week you said you don't remember you were decorating the bathroom, then last week we talked about it." she closes the book, "I'll be frank. Every time when I appeared to see pass what goes on behind your peaceful mask, you seem afraid. So instead we talked about your apartment decorating. I assume its something you are good at and is comfortable with sharing. All I know is that your name is Harry, about to turn 25. You actually need those glasses you're wearing, and you were born in July." She leans forward "But I have no idea why you moved here to New York. You don't seem to have a job but well capable of providing a comfortable living for yourself. I ask myself 'Is that not strange?'. You also don't associated with many others if at all, but you feel neither happy or sad; more importantly you actually feel fine just the way you are - the way things are. And that's the most curious because I believe you to be telling the truth. Do you see the picture I'm drawing of you here? One must wonder why the abnormality of this situation brings you a kind of comfort? And perhaps its nothing to be alarmed about. But, " she pauses for effect " you came to me for help in the first place. Not the other way around. You came. That hints there must be something, however little. And I think you know that too or you wouldn't have came. Honestly it's the only reason why we continue. But you should ask yourself now 'Do I want her help?' - key words here being 'her, help.' If the answer is 'yes', so start telling me the first thing I ought know about you. Otherwise Harry," she almost smiled then "you're fine.

"Potter." I closed my eyes as I said, "My last name- it's Potter."

. 31st Jul .

Today was a depressing day of which I turn 25. Dr Brooks send me a card as she is the only person who has the address. It read: " "Dear Potter, (From now on I will refer to you as 'Potter' as your association with the name is evidently heavy, with valid reasons) Happy Birthday. Dr. R. Brooks"

"Cheerful, isn't it?" I show Kreacher the card who couldn't read but looks at the pictured on the front. "Balloons." I explain, "Master-" "'Harry', we talked about this." "Master Harry doesn't like balloons," Kreacher shakes his head "No, or Kreacher would prepare. Kreacher always prepare" it amuses me "How do you know I don't like it?" Kreacher bows, and creepily he smiles. "Kreacher knows his master. And Master Harry is much alike Master Sirius," Kreacher restrains himself from badmouthing "hated celebrations, always alone" The little smile I have on my lips is gone "that's very good, Kreacher" I walk away to the Kitchen, attempt to make coffee. "No! Not on Master's Birthday!" cry the elf as he hurried to the sink. With efficient pace he fishes out the coffee-tin in the cabinet, boils water on the stove and reaches for the black cup I favored. "You are observant." He bows "Master doesn't magic water hot." He then reaches for something within his table-cloth of a clothing, it is a pack of cigarette, then peers at me. it was my usual brand too. I'm touched but when I start to say thank you the water begins to boil and Kreacher hurries to make my coffee. I look out to the windows besides the table and see silent traffic from far away. I feel both sad and unhappy, but at the same time neither. Just like that, with coffee and cigarette, and Kreacher, I turned 25.

. 5th Aug .

Friday. New York was catching a disease of the coming weekend and become increasingly edgy with anticipation. Or is it me? I walk my usual 20 blocks from my downtown apartment to Dr. Brooks' office. Today we are going to talk about me. But not me Harry-me, Potter-me. I can see how well that's about to turn out. I stop at the same Newsstand to I get my fresh supply of smokes, and notice this time I have forgotten not just my keys but my wallet. "Never mind," I say to the girl behind the over-crowding, hanging magazines. She smiles at me and passes me my usual anyway but put it in a paper bag. I frown "It's Okay, I've forgotten-" but the bag is already thrust to me, "Thanks then, ... I'll pay back next time..." I hurry away to keep my appointment. Just as I fear, a note with a number lay inside the bag.

"Afternoon, Potter" "Good Afternoon, Dr. Brooks" "Shall we?" reluctantly I say yes. "Why did you move to New York?" something tells me the time of small talk is over. " I needed to be alone." It may feel so that but that's never the true reason for anything. But fine, why did you needed to be alone?" I sigh, "...there are more about me that I am not sure how to explain," "Harry," she softens and it alarms me for reason unknown" I know who you are. I am aware of who I am speaking to now - Potter." "I...I thought you were a muggle." "Is that why you chose me? You don't want a wizard's help? I would think that's difficult for progress if you can't fully explain what you are." "That's not all I am" I feel like I can trust her but she gets on my nerve. "What makes you, Potter?" "Stop Calling Me That, I'm Harry!" I fear I may pay for that. "Harry then. You don't wish to be Potter any longer. Why? 'Harry'." "It's none of your business" shock with myself of what i just said. "You are my patient and it's my duty to heal you" " But I am not sick" "Why did you come here ?" Dr. Brooks sighs. "I am not a wizard Harry. Not exactly a muggle either." I frown "I cannot do magic although I am good with minds." Immediately I know what she meant, and am disgust with my behavior. "Have you heard of- " "Yes," "- a squib" she finishes. I look down avoiding her gaze. "I am not ashamed why are you?" "No, I am not ashamed of you." "I know, neither am I" "But you said, oh, you meant...me" She nods. "I'm not...not really but... I get that feeling sometime..." "Go on" "I want to do nothing but craw under a blanket and sleep for a hundred years." "Escapism, what from?" "Nothing...everything." "Coming from the hero of the world which denies me, you and I are the extreme end of the hierarchy, you know that?" A bean of afternoon sun fills the room. "I just want to stay away and 'be'... yes, It's cowardice" she close her eyes, feeling the sun on her face "I once felt like that, for years. But I changed, change is good, and learned to become something more." she opens her eyes and I noticed they were grey "But the want to change what is fundamentally you is... well, debatable. I was a squib, I am still a squib. Should I change, because it is not good to be a squib. I came to recognize the word in the worst sense because everyone else dose. 'It's not good to be a squib', 'You don't wish your child to be a squib'. But for those who are already one, what should they think of themselves? Most inherit the same thinking anyway. But it is? Are we bad? We mustn't be good though. But was I suppose to change that about myself. How? I am not magical and I can never be. Do I change to accept, and identify myself with this inability? I am telling you these, because there are many lessons here but which would be beneficial to you? Think about why do you feel the way you feel. Being on the other side of the hierarchy no less. It is you can't live up to your own shadow? Tiresome of the expectations?" "Yes" I said hurriedly "But reason enough to move away, Harry?" "No." Dr Brooks awaits now, but I study my shoes lace notching it is single knot on both side. "I am afraid they won't accept me, that they won't... when they find out that... I was," I brace myself " - in love with a death eater. And also what you said, um, shadows and expectations."

Dr. Brooks looks at me somewhat tenderly and its tenderness is murdering me. She doesn't take the bait with the shadows nor expectation business. Not even the fact it was (although former) death eater I was in love with. I am sure she knew now, she must. Oh dear it isn't tenderness its pity, I can't take one second more sitting in this expensive chair. Please say 'till next week, it's time, Harry'. Please, where is my blanket that I craw under and sleep for a hundred years. What I feel is petty and insignificant compare to what Dr. Brooks went through. If only I could hide behind the burden of being 'the boy who lived' once more and never again voice my stupid, miserable, silly, self-inflected 'problem'. "I think I will tell you what Dumbledore once told me. When I pleaded to be accepted into Hogwarts at the age of 11," I snap my head up to mention of Dumbledore's name "Yes, he wrote back telling me that he had a sister was somewhat close a squib after an accident. Did you know that?" I nod, feeling sorry for both of them. "In his letter, which I kept it till this day, he wrote that he will be happy to accept me, but being a school of magical learning, I would be spending 7 years trying to be something I was not meant for. He said 'It is not you who isn't equip but rather the school.'" she looks far away while I'm over came by the unfairness of it all. But sudden, she smiled for the first time since I met her. She stands up and walks to the desk behind her chair, opens a draw and takes out a familiar envelop. Green writing all over the letter. It was handwritten by Dumbledore. She reads out loud " Being, it's something natural as natural can be. You have done nothing wrong, you do not need to apologies and feel ashamed for something you were given by nature and have become so beautifully and naturally. Coming to Hogwarts may prove that you could but with immense difficulties to perform magic. If only your purpose for the rest of this life is to prove others and prove to yourself. But from your letter I sense intelligence and deep understanding, young as you are, but already you question not 'How' you can change yourself but whether or not to change the very core of your being. If I had such wisdom when my sister was alive I would have spare myself the lifelong sorrow and regret. You are not to change the fact that you are un-magical. Instead of changing what nature has planned, I beg you to learn to discover what it did plan. It is not you who isn't equip but rather the school, Rimona. Hogwarts will always be open to you if it is your wish to come. But it is my belief in order for you to reach your fullest potential, you shall continue learning in the muggle school. I don't suppose you will find it fair, nor should I expect you to accept what you now must feel like is your fate. But through the rest of your growing years when you feel maligned, mistreated and rejected by your own, question it. Question why would one type of being (wizard) can be better than another (muggle, or squid). Question why any group should be inferior to another. I hope you will find that not one is truly superior, but rather it is the belief of those who believe they are superior which makes you experience the shamefulness and unworthiness you now feel. I hope eventually you will learn to share not their beliefs, but that every living being itself is nature's miracle without the limitations of magic or genre." I feel my face wet as I breath. "There's more, but it's time." Dr Brooks says kindly.

I storm out to the street and did not stop until I reach the Newsstand. Determined with new found respect I learn from Dr. Brooks and the man who, even in his grave, helped me my entire life, "I am sorry. You are lovely. I am gay." It was exhilarating announcing even to a stranger, perhaps especially so to a stranger as the hidden shame I bare since 13 accelerated the adrenaline, and frankly I'm giddy. When all seems to calm down, I realize once again i have made a complete fool out of myself. "Sorry ..." "I am not. I was hoping you were" My eyes widen to the boyish voice this person possess. The shoulder length hair, delicate features on a palm-sized face and the skinny frames. "I am not a girl" and he shows straight pearly white teeth which makes me resent mine.