title: therapy
by: megification
beta-ed by: steffie.
summary: Draco attends therapy, but only because his psychologist's receptionist is utterly gorgeous. Canon-compliant through Deathly Hallows, epilogue and all.
"Draco. Do come in."
A condition of being released from the ministry before all charges were dropped, Draco had been going to a psychologist as part of his parole.
Come Thursday of next week, he'll have been seeing her for three months, and he's still not any closer to figuring her out.
'Further evaluation' my arse, he grumbled; he'd have loved to say that the frustration was mutual, but unfortunately—vaguely unorthodox methods and faulty logic aside—she was much too unpredictably perceptive for Draco's liking.
Honestly, the only reason he continued seeing her (and risking all his secrets in the process) was because the receptionist there was undeniably attractive.
"Oh, hullo there, Mr Malfoy, I trust you've had a good morning so far?" he'd ask in that lovely smooth voice of his.
God, the honey-sweetness of it all made Draco want to pounce.
It was utterly unfair, the monopoly this man held over him.
"Draco." She was using that voice; he heard it far too often, "I do believe I asked you a question. what were you thinking about?"
He didn't answer.
"Someone in particular? A male, perhaps?"
Draco tensed, almost imperceptibly.
She scrutinized him, and after a moment, scribbled something onto her clipboard.
Damn, he thought, I was close.
Harry Potter had never given a rat's ass about Draco Malfoy.
I mean, sure, maybe he used to, but not anymore. Draco had ceased to become much of a threat, especially after the fate of the world was placed on Potter's shoulder's.
Draco insisted, however, on being obnoxiously in-Potter's-face, making every attempt to get Potter to fight back; to do something-he wanted a reaction—dammit, Potter—why won't you do anything—
But it was not to be, and Potter's indifference towards Draco did not change.
It pissed him off.
"Mr Malfoy," she said in that God-fucking-damned voice of hers, "Concentrate."
He shook himself mentally and forced his vision to sharpen-for the love of God, Draco, can't you stop THINKING-
She prodded gently at him, but he said nothing.
As usual.
She sighed and folded her hands in her lap. "We've been seeing each other for three months, Draco, and I've only gotten one sentence out of you. Ever."
Well, he thought, Of course not. Pansy and Blaise left the country, my parents are dead, and Saint fucking Potter won't spare me a glance—don't even get me started on the rest of the Golden bloody Trio—
Cutting his self-pitying reverie short when something resembling hopelessness flashed across her normally impassive face, Draco felt a strange stab of pride at having shattered her impressive façade, if only for a moment.
He watched quietly as she worked to school her features back into that careful mask of hers, and reflexively began to criticise her-there's nothing special about her at all; she can't pull herself together; she's no gorgeous receptionist, she's no Pansy, she's no Blaise, she's no Potter—
Draco stopped short.
Did I really just compare her to Potter?
This was the moment when Draco truly began to fear for his sanity, so he opened his mouth and spoke-for the first time in months.
"Very well then," he drawled, voice still as smooth as ever, "I'll cooperate."
She looked up immediately, and her pen moved across the page so quickly he suspected whiplash.