First Session, Patient #34
The floors are carpeted with a maroon Oriental rug. The dark mahogany of the single chair before the similar wooden desk has its feet buried in the weave of the carpet.
Behind the desk, a dark haired woman of about 35 years is filling out paperwork, her writing neat and flowing, brisk and steady. At the firm, single knock on the door, she looks up over her reading glasses, her amber eyes locking on the door.
"Come in," she calls, and returns her eyes to the paperwork. Her voice is steady and calm, the deeper tones unhurried despite the ticking of the clock. The steady whisking of the ballpoint pen across the paper continues without pause.
Her eyes skim quickly across the page as her hand moves, seemingly upon its own accord, down the page, filling in neat boxes with uniform cursive. Those strangely-bright eyes, noticeably lighter than the deep tones of her curly brown hair, ostensibly miss the entrance of the newcomer. But they quickly flick up between glances across the page, to take in the slouch of the boy; the nervous fiddling of the left hand with a ring upon the right hand; the suspicious gray eyes that survey the room from beneath blonde bangs.
The room is silent, but for the steady ticking of the mahogany clock on the mahogany desk beside the two mahogany chairs, facing each other, one on either side of the desk, and the steady whisking of the pen across the paperwork. The boy – young man, really – throws himself slopping into the chair across from the desk. His purposely-wanton movements knock the chair askew.
The writing stops.
Silence, only the steady ticking the clock.
Fearfully, he finally meets her gaze as she stares evenly at him over the rimless reading glasses. Something in those amber eyes embarrasses him. Chagrined, he shifts the chair back to its former position and seats himself more respectably. His eyebrows pull into a surly expression of resentment, but he remains still for a moment.
Again she continues writing, flips a page – the sound is startlingly loud – and the blue pen continues its progress across the next page.
Now that the amber glance is gone, the young man fidgets. He places his elbow on the armrest, shifts his weight, taps his foot, crosses his legs. His eyes never rest on any object, but jump around the room. After a few moments, a few more meaningless movements, the eyes glance quizzically up at his restlessness, and he opens his mouth to speak. The yellowish eyes seem to narrow slightly; the air meant for words, for exclamation, for communication, is now worthless and used instead for a frustrated sigh, a poorly-disguised submission.
He is still as the writing continues. A page is flipped, and, after a time, another. The minute hand on the clock continues its inexorable progress around the face of the clock.
Now he is staring at her angrily, his silver eyes resentful beneath the sheer curtain of his golden hair. Sulking. As though daring her to turn those eyes upon him again. But they remain on the black and white page on the mahogany desk.
Tick goes the clock, whisking the pen across the paper.
Finally, the minute hand reaches the hour. The pen is placed carefully, deliberately, on the page. Reading glasses are removed and hang around her neck on the golden chain.
"Our session is over."
The calm, husky voice is gentle breaking the silence and is at home with the ticking. The boy stands to leave, now shifting his jaw in suppressed anger.
"Return next week, Mr. Malfoy."
He nods reticently, avoiding that strangely golden glance.
The door closes behind him, but the sound is muffled by the heavy maroon Oriental rug.