Jerry wasn't sat on the edge of his seat.
When he realised this, he rehearsed under his breath what he'd say if someone asked him why he was slouching so far back. Not to say he was insecure... but he couldn't have anyone thinking he was tired or perhaps "out of it", no siree.
And where was that goddamn doctor? He was the only person waiting in their highly-exclusive clinic, along with his chunky cast-metal case, so he doubted they had that many people to deal with right now. This was quite unacceptable.
"A man of mah importance can hardly be 'spected to sit straight all day," he tested out loud. Yes, that would do it. Remind the doubters of their place in the cosmos: Far below him, even when he was quite visibly worn out.
As a man who'd been dancing with the bulls and the bears since he took over the family brokerage at 19, it was perhaps expected of him to start to show the signs of his age. But since that... incident with young Billy, heck, he'd gained more spare tyre and wrinkles than his casual forays into cosmetic surgery could undo for more than a few weeks, and the expenses were starting to make him consider some more extreme courses of action. Most frustratingly of all, Jerry couldn't quite recall what happened to grate him down. It was almost like a lack of something was nibbling on the corners of his mind –
"Mr. Mark, we are ready to speak to you. Please proceed through the green door."
Jerry got up with indignation that he hoped was clear across his face. Asking him to come through by PA? What happened to good old face-to-face service? Potentially lucrative customers such as himself should surely be at least be given messages by receptionists, which oddly enough, the clinic didn't seem to employ. And this case was heavy, wasn't going to carry itself, for that matter.
"That there's the mark of somethin' exclusive at least, ah'd say. Not a compooter or a telephone in sight," he remarked out loud to himself.
The green door took Jerry into a plain white room. No surgeries or medicine would be practised within the consulting doctor's office, but presumably they wanted to re-assure people's faith in their (ridiculous) prices. Heck, $85M it'd cost him to fix up Billy... But when your only son is dying, you'll be amazed what you'll do to preserve your bloodline.
And judging by their enquiries into his present fiscal capabilities, he could expect something similar this time around...
It certainly was odd for such a sterile environment to contain a fireplace.
"Hello Mr. Mark, please take a seat."
Jerry hadn't been aware of the chair behind him up until that point.
"Haha. Strange how these things creep up on folks, huh?" He took the seat, although resenting both following an order, however politely it was given, and being made to look the way he felt; 'out of it'.
"So Mr. Mark. I hear you wish to request our services again."
"Yes sir, that is 'xactly what ah wrote on mah innyshul request," Jerry replied, with just a hint of irritation. Was he paying for this needless parroting, too?
"I am aware you received our estimate. I presume you have the means to pay for the most pessimistic figure, yes? If you don't, state that now and contact us again when you are able -"
"That hardly necess'ry, sir, ah've brought the money with me." Though he didn't remember contacting to say he had the estimate.
"Cash?"
"$11M, and not a dime less."
It was a strong sign that the consultant was used to dealing with large sums of money that he didn't show any reaction to the large numbers involved. If he was looking forward to his own share of the money, he certainly wasn't displaying it on his face.
"I understand. The security team will pick that up in a moment. In the meantime, could you elaborate on the problems you've been suffering?"
Jerry took a deep breath. He needed to be fixed, no two ways about it, but communicating this was never going to be his idea of fun, considering his pride.
"Sir, ah'm an important man." That got that out of the way. "Ah have a lot of people's hopes on mah shoulders, so ah need to be mah very best."
The doctor picked up the medical records that Jerry had submitted along with his request.
"Male, age 57, stockbroker, divorced, one child, named in the Forbes 400..." he read lazily from the cover sheet. "Considering the stresses that are associated with such a lifestyle, I must remark that it's incredible that you have lasted thus far without any mental breakdowns."
The blood in Jerry's veins quickened a little at that comment. What a backhanded way to compliment someone – he wasn't one of those basket cases. "Now see here..."
"Relax, Mr. Mark. I am your doctor, and we operate the highest level of confidentiality at the Wisil clinic. Anything you say within these walls is quite literally impossible to record or transmit. Just explain to me the services you'll be needing from our psychoanalysts."
"Now see here," he repeated, "You can't go foolin' me with them teck no low gee terms, ah know that the tiniest cameras are bare' an inch ahcross and don't even need no wire! Haw'd you know..."
"Have faith, Mr. Mark. It is not in our clinic's interests to have the details of our clientèle exposed to the paparazzi mosquitoes, and as such, we have invested in only the highest level of anti-surveillance equipment. As I understand, your son's stay here was a great success, and never went past the walls of the clinic. If events had conspired differently, I doubt you, or any client, would be willing to come back here..."
Jerry felt the doctor was deliberately using fancy foreign-sounding words to confuse him, but despite this, his nerves were calmed a little. It made sense, didn't it? He didn't want his clients thinking they'd put their money in the wrong place, and neither did the doc. Maybe some common ground would persuade them to take a contract with him sometime -
"... So once again, please explain the problems. Healing you without your comments is possible, but will take a lot longer and require a lot more paperwork." Was he imagining that smirk?
"You know what gone happent with mah Billy, right sir?"
"Yes. I have been briefed on that case, although the details were kept to a minimum level considered relevant to this, to protect the interests of those such as yourself and your son."
Jerry swallowed hard. "Well, since it happent, ah've been feeling the weight of mah age a whole lot more. It's bin 2 years sir, and ah had 9 cosmetic surj'es, they don't even take the goddamn edge off-"
"Hmm, cosmetic surgery?"
"That's what ah sed, sir, mah face's bin tighted and mah wrinkles been all but ironed awt, ah even had a lyposuction this one time-"
"Ohh, I see what you mean. Please continue."
How was it possible for a medical professional of such a high calibre to not be familiar with cosmetic surgery? But these guys did a fine job on my son, he told himself, when I really thought he was going to kick it.
"Like ah sed, ah had cosmetic surj'es and they didn't help nuttin'. That ain't even the worse of it."
"I presume you are referring to the memory issues you mentioned briefly in your request..." More needless parrotry. He might have memory issues, but they weren't yet so bad that he needed every doctor he hired to recite his own words to him like this.
"That's it, sir. Ah got total blanks in mah memory right next to memories ah 'member clear as day. Heck, I 'member holdin' Billy's hand by the hospital bed, and thinkin' he were gunna die. But ah don't 'member what the doc looked like, or what the hospital looked like, or nuttin'. Ah can m'member drivin' mah boy in the Mercedes with nani-millun-dollurs on the shotgun seat, but ah can't 'member for the life o' me where the clinic was or what turnings ah took..."
"That will be enough, Mr. Mark. This is a common problem amongst middle-aged men who have suffered traumas. Perhaps you are familiar with post traumatic stress disorder - our studies show that it is more common when approaching one's prime. We believe it is probably a combination of your natural ageing process, high job-related stress and a near-fatal incident with your nearest and dearest, along with the surprising revelations that came with it." Jerry's head drooped a little on his shoulders.
"But this is no need to worry. Our doctors are well-versed in fixing these kinds of problems. You'll probably be able to keep a good fifth or so of the money you brought with you."
Jerry nodded. Simultaneously, 3 black-clad security officers entered the room from the green door. The shortest one gave a sharp salute to Jerry.
"Sir, I am here for the deposit, sir!" Well, his enthusiasm surely counted for something, even if the cash in the case wasn't exactly a "deposit".
Jerry merely pointed to the case. He suddenly felt lethargic. All this, it was almost too much to bear. He'd had days when he thought the business was going to collapse, days when he realised people who he trusted turned their backs on him, despite all his wiles. But when your own good self becomes your worst enemy, what to do?
Once the case had been picked up and carried out, there were a few forms to sign. The cheek of them... to take the money before I even signed the contract! he grumbled in the back of his mind. I'd never put my clients through that. I guess this is what passes for polite, these days...
And once he was gone, the doctor reached into the custom-holster he wore across his chest.
From this he withdrew a 13 inch oaken twig which he pointed to his temple.
"Finite Incantatem."
The doctor's stern and emotionless poker face suddenly became curvier and jollier, as if he'd been pinning it in place up until this point. If it had been possible for anyone to observe the goings-on within the office, they'd perhaps swear that the doctor looked almost like a completely different person, now.
Then he summoned a little powder into his hands, and threw it straight into the fireplace.
"Peasewood. I know you're there." It seemed his voice was different, too – even his accent had changed.
"Of course I am, Lancey. Why wouldn't I be sitting at my desk, waiting for your contact, as per my job description for the week? You sound a bit down though, what's up? Did you accidentally heal the wrong ailment again?"
"Don't give me that. Your guys have messed up on this one. Don't suppose you remember the... well, redneck billionaire and his son?"
Even down the floo network, an audible clicking of Peasewood's tongue could be heard. "You medics underestimate how paranoid one gets, working as an obliviator. Everything I've ever remembered since I was 18 has been stored in a pensieve the family vault..."
"So you remember?"
"Lancey, didn't you hear me? Anything that's happened since I graduated... Yes, I remember the damnable redneck and his AIDS-suffering son. How have I failed you this time, then?"
Healer Lancelot opened a drawer in his desk, where a quick-quotes quill was balanced on a sheet of parchment, covered with scrawled notes and protected by a silencing charm to avoid disturbing the clients. "The father claims to have... he has gaps appearing in his memories, he says."
"That's no good," Peasewood groaned. "Give him a few decades and he'll remember it all."
"I see you're sharp today, Peasewood –"
"Hey, now who's wasting time here? I can probably fix this guy in 20 minutes at the most, gaps are pretty easy to fill. You'd be surprised how much people don't even observe on their first viewing, let alone when remembering it. Heck, he's a muggle, and an overweight one at that... We don't even know he'll live long enough to get it all back and make problems for our kind. I don't know why you let the family into the treatment rooms anyway... Is he still in the clinic?"
"No, I have scheduled him for Thursday. I trust you're free on that day? I'm afraid if not, this is kind of more important than getting a few numbskulls to forget they saw the bigfoot or whatever it is you government types have your nuts in right now."
A deep sigh came from the fireplace. "I told you. 25 minute job here."
"You said 20."
"This is hardly relevant. Do you want the wizarding world's secrets protected, or not?"
"Good question. I often asked it of myself. I've helped people here who will do anything to cure the silly ailments our kind eliminated hundreds of years ago. Millions of people are dying, billions more could be living more comfortably... But, maybe I'm getting a little too conspiring for your tastes, wouldn't want you to wipe my memory, now would I? After all, the comfort and privacy of wizardkind is more important than anything else..."
"The muggles aren't what I'm talking about, Lancey. Can you imagine the scandal if the wider wizarding world knew what we were doing here, and who exactly is paying for their children's education? Why do you think no one ever talks about taxes or bills or the lack of variety in jobs in this world?"
Lancelot considered his opinions for a few seconds, before answering with perhaps a slight falter in his voice, "It's all for the best."
Author's note: This is the first Harry Potter fanfiction I ever wrote. I wrote it almost two years ago, but I didn't quite have the guts to upload it. You can let me know what you think, or even better, tell me what I should read next. I like AU fics. Thanks for reading!