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This chapter, we finally get to see the mysterious therapist…

Chapter 2

My alarm goes off the next morning at 6:30, just like every single morning. And just like every single morning for the past two weeks, I ignore it for as long as I can handle before finally reaching over and shutting the annoying beeping off.

Should I go to work? I should go to work. I've missed so much. Do they even need me? They kept owling me, but maybe it was just protocol because I hadn't responded and they needed to make sure I wasn't dead. There had been in increase in suicide in the past seven years since the War ended, but I think that has gone down more recently.

In any case, if I was needed back at work, they'd tell me. They're probably fine without me. And I really just don't feel like going.

Something nags me in the back of my mind. I have something else to do today. Something important. What day is it? If I knew the date, I'd know what was scheduled for today. But I haven't kept track of the dates recently.

My purse is lying on my nightstand, though I don't remember putting it there. Ever. My phone is inside, but, of course, it's dead. I plug it in and wait until it starts up again.

March 25

No, nothing important that I can remember. And I don't know where my planner is…or the last time I wrote in it.

I want to go back to sleep. Sleep is always nice. It's like…death without a commitment. I can wake up anytime and go back to normal. I just…haven't gone back to normal yet. This is probably my new normal anyway.

Oh, but now my stomach is hurting. Maybe I should eat something before going back to sleep. Yeah, if I can just muster up enough energy to get to the kitchen.

It only takes about ten minutes of sitting on the edge of my bed until I just tell myself to get up and go. Sometimes, ordering myself around like I would a subordinate helps me disassociate enough to get going.

There's a pot on my stove with old pasta and a jar of tomato sauce sitting next to it.

Finally, the spark in my mind goes off. Harry was here yesterday. He made me dinner. I had forgotten what day that had been, maybe weeks ago, who knows? But that was yesterday and today I need to leave with him at 1:30 in the afternoon. It's almost seven in the morning and here I am spooning air-dried cold pasta into a bowl, dumping some tomato sauce on top, and shoving it into the microwave. It's already cooked, so that means it's less effort, right?

I sit down in a chair at my kitchen table while I wait, hands resting in my lap. My eyes watch the numbers tick down on the microwave, but nothing registers until the loud beeps. I can't taste the pasta, but the repeated movement of bringing my fork to my mouth is reassuring.

After dropping my dishes in the sink, I make my way to the living room. Harry said he cleaned up and it shows. All the curtains have been opened and fresh sunlight streams through to illuminate an orderly room, all books on their proper shelves—alphabetized by subject and author, of course. All the food and candy wrappers are gone, and even the few sweaters and blankets I'd dragged around are either cleaned and in my room, the hall closet, or draped over the back of the couch.

I pull one of those blankets by its corner, dragging it to the armchair. The armchair I always sit in when reading or watching television recently. It's a comfort to me, a part of my life that is constant. I curl up now in the blanket on my chair.

A thought flitters around that I should get dressed and ready to go for Harry and wherever he may be taking me, but it quickly dies as I succumb to the protection of sleep again.

I jolt awake to the sound of the front door opening. Harry must have taken a spare key. He sighs in frustration when he catches sight of me, still in my pajamas at…a glance at the clock tells me it's one in the afternoon. Alright, so he came at a good time and can't be as disappointed in me as he could have been.

"Come on, let's get you dressed," he says while he gestures for me to follow him to my room. I stare after him a moment, my body not wanting to move.

"Where are we going?" I finally call after him as I stand. I keep the blanket wrapped around me like an extra layer of security. "How should I dress?"

He shrugs while he searches through my closet. "Just something comfortable that um…makes you feel comfy?" he finishes weakly. And that is why I always rewrote his essays for him. He ends up gathering all my clothes for me and I take them to the bathroom to change.

I take my first look in the mirror since the day before. It shocks me. There's no hair! Nothing, just a buzz cut where my mountains of hair used to billow out. That's one time-consuming task to tick off my morning routine. I continue to feel the ghost of my hair as I change, thinking I need to pull it out of my shirt collar or hold it back to spit out my toothpaste. It's definitely an unnerving sensation.

Harry is waiting on my bed when I leave the bathroom, changed and freshened up as much as I felt was necessary. The clothes he picked out for me aren't very nice, so I know he's not taking me anywhere very proper. But what could be left after yesterday?

I can't help but feel disappointed that I can't read my best friend as easily as I used to. I should be able to figure out where we're going, but I just follow as he leads me out of my apartment and to the waiting car.

Out of any of us in our group, Harry was the first and only to learn to drive after Hogwarts. My parents had suggested I learn over the summers between school years, but…I don't want to think about them right now.

After hearing stories about Ron driving his father's flying car, I can confidently say that Harry is a capable driver. Few of the magical community use cars very often, since public transport and apparation is a thing, but I appreciate that he doesn't make me get in a cramped bus, or worse—let him apparate us, his one advanced skill he never achieved any proficiency in.

I stare out the passenger window as the scenery of outer London roles by. I don't try to pay attention to where the car travels. What's the point? I'm going no matter what, supposedly.

A speck of dirt on the window catches my eye and I stare at it, ignoring any conversation Harry tries to start, until we're lumbering into a poorly-paved parking lot. Few cars sit in this seemingly-abandoned lot, though there is plenty of hustle and bustle in and out of…

St. Mungo's. Harry took me to St. Mungo's.

If he is worried about me getting enough nutrition, a Muggle hospital and an IV would have been just fine. Not that I wouldn't trick the Muggles into letting me go as soon as Harry leaves me.

Harry opens his door, but notices I won't budge. "Come on, it's not what you think. I promise, this will help."

I'm still frozen. Stop trying to help; I can deal with my own problems myself. This isn't your business anymore.

He gets out and goes around to my door, pulling me out by my hands again. He then grabs my purse and hands it to me before locking up the car and leading the way to the window on the side of the building.

I told myself after the War that I wouldn't step foot in this hospital again. I would take care of whatever injuries I shouldn't even procure and none of my friends would get sick or hurt ever again either.

Inside, it smells just the same—moldy, like the tainted magic everywhere, and yet lemony from the cleaning potions. It burns my nose and I breathe through my mouth, though that just dries out my throat.

I start to go towards the reception desk, but Harry pulls me away towards the elevators past the receptionists. Once inside the creaking elevator, Harry holds onto my hand. It's only then that I realize my other hand is at my mouth. When I was younger, I chewed my nails as a nervous habit, but forced myself to quit. I guess it's still a part of my mind when I regress enough and feel unsafe enough.

We travel all the way to the fifth and highest floor of St. Mungo's, which I always thought was just where the tea room and gift shop are located. Then something alights in my mind, a memory of a Daily Prophet article about the new wing of St. Mungo's in an effort to help those affected by the Second Wizarding War.

Harry leads me straight where I realize we're going, a sharp left out of the elevator and down a long hallway to a new reception area. Above the front desk hangs a large sign—Malfoy-Greengrass Therapy Wing.

Ah, yes, that's why they were deigned an article. Two rich pure-blood families funded the wing as a way to announce the engagement between their youngest heirs. They were trying to make up for their involvement in the War, but it wasn't enough, in my opinion. No amount of money will make up for the atrocities they and their families afflicted on the world.

I refuse to step any further. "No," I hiss, pulling my hand back.

"Hermione," Harry whispers dangerously. "Therapy is completely fine. There's nothing wrong with it. Listen, I went to therapy for years and I still come back when things get bad again. It's perfectly normal and nobody will judge you for it, me especially."

I shake my head again. While I don't agree and think that talking about feelings can't just magically make them go away like using a memory charm. I'd rather use magic than play pretend with therapy. But that's beside the point. Harry had been right about the shower, and having the haircut made me feel lighter—though that might just be a completely physical change of having no hair for the first time since I was born.

My eyes travel to the sign above the desk again. Harry follows my line of sight and groans. "I'm not even going to argue on behalf of the Malfoys and Greengrasses. Just come on." He pulls me forcibly towards the reception desk.

The witch sitting behind the desk looks up with a friendly smile. "Afternoon, Mr. Potter. I'm afraid you're not on the schedule today, but I might be able to fit you in if you can come back—"

"Oh, no," Harry interrupts. He wasn't kidding about going here, then, just to convince me. Who knows how much somebody will lie to manipulate, after all? He'd used psychology on Ron before and probably wouldn't hesitate with me in such a…state. "I'm just taking my friend today. Hermione Granger, a two o'clock appointment."

The witch looks down at her multiple rolls of parchment until she apparently finds my name. She writes something down, then grabs a clipboard with a parchment form on it. She hands Harry a quill and smiles again. "Once you fill out the form, please bring it back and I'll let the Therapy Healer know you're ready, Ms. Granger."

I head straight to one of the seats in the waiting area. Of course, I would have to fill out a form before doing anything. And of course I have to sit staring at a sign with that dreaded name on it. Who tortured me for years. Who called me a Mudblood and made sure I was miserable. Who made me hate myself. And he should expect that I or any of his other targets would forgive him just because he threw money at a hospital wing? Life doesn't work that way.

"Hermione," Harry mutters after a moment. "I need you to answer some questions. They're, um…personal." I glance over as he hands the parchment over, my name and general information already filled out in his scrawled hand.

I need to fill out a questionnaire. Great. And to think I used to love taking tests. But this isn't regurgitating information. This is "personal."

Have you had depressing thoughts in the last six months?

Define depressing.

Have you thought about suicide in the last six months?

No, that's the coward's way to go. I'd rather be killed than kill myself. And thinking about deadly scenarios to bring about death not by my own hand doesn't count, right?

Have you self-harmed? (e.g. cutting, picking or clawing at skin, restricting food or water intake, etc.)

I taste blood. A quick glance at my thumb I forgot I had been chewing on shows I broke through the skin and tore up the nail a bit. I swear aloud and fish for my wand in my purse. A quick spell and I'm all healed up, though my nail still has a line through it where it had been torn.

No, I do not self-harm. That was unintentional. And the raised, red claw-marks down my arms and upper legs were me unconsciously needing to release pent up emotion a few days ago…and a few days before that…

The questions keep going on until I'm ready to snap the quill in pieces from my tight grip on it. Finally, I can throw it towards Harry, whose Seeker-quick reflexes manage to catch the clipboard. The feather quill, though, sails to the floor, where a large ink blot now covers a small circle on the clean tile. I stare at the drop of dirty black ink shining in the artificial hospital light (when did they get electricity?) while Harry drops the clipboard off at the front desk again.

He stays chatting with the witch, whose nervous fingers travel to her hair. She's flirting, and with a married man. How despicable.

A few minutes later, another witch comes from the back area. "Ms. Granger?" she calls, looking around for me. I look up and stare at her. Realizing that, even though she can't recognize me, I'm Hermione Granger, she forces a smile and says, "Your Therapy Healer is ready to see you. Please follow me."

I heave myself up, not ready for this. But I can't disappoint Harry again. He keeps doing all of this for me, and even if it is out of debt or guilt, he's still trying.

"I'll be right here when you come back. It's only an hour—you can do it." Harry gives me an encouraging hug and squeezes my arm before he lets go. He goes back to innocently talking with the receptionist and I realize he just wants to chat and is completely oblivious to the girl flitting with him. Of course, typical cluelessness.

The assistant leads me into the back hallway through a set of double doors. Everything is like the waiting room—clean and bright. Much cleaner and newer than the rest of St. Mungo's. There are paintings lining the hallway, showing different landscapes of Europe and some that must be North America. They're probably supposed to have a calming effect. They just annoy me.

I'm surprised I've yet to see a portrait of Malfoy and his wife glaring haughtily at those who dare think that they should ask for help with their mental health.

"Right through this door, ma'am," the assistant says as she stops suddenly.

The name by the door number doesn't register until I step inside the room, arms held around me and gripping my cardigan protectively. I don't like new experiences I haven't prepared for. And new experiences with such a surprise can outright destroy me.

Sitting in a large, black office chair in a mostly neutral-beige room sits one of my worst nightmares.

"Ah, Ms. Granger. I'm glad to see Potter was able to convince you to come," Malfoy greets in his usual drawl that I haven't heard in nearly seven years. "Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable."

He gestures to a worn leather couch with pillows piled high on one side, a hand-knit blanket hanging over the back.

No. I shake my head and start to back out of the room. The assistant is still waiting behind me and is able to push me into the room enough for Malfoy to flick his wand to shut the door. I'm trapped. I'm trapped with the enemy.

He's yet to make a comment about how this new look suits me, or that it was about time I came to talk about how fucked up I am in the head. But I know it's coming. I'm just waiting for the insults as I stand with my back pressed against the door. I'm waiting for the pain to be shoved straight back into my face.

"Alright," he says, bowing his head in humorous defeat. "If you wish to stand, that's fine. Whatever makes you most at ease."

Malfoy crosses his legs, his ankle resting on his opposite knee. "Why don't we start with why you think you're here."

I remain silent. Instead, I continue to stare straight into his icy eyes while letting my fingers travel into my purse in search of my wand.

"Obviously, your friends have been worried about you," he tries again.

My hand finds purchase and I drop my purse to the ground as I shove my wand in Malfoy's greasy face.

"Let. Me. Go," I hiss.

Malfoy closes his eyes as if trying to fight back anger. "Wands are not allowed out during therapy unless I specifically ask for you to show me something that requires magic. Please put your wand away and sit down, Ms. Granger."

"Oh, stop calling me that. We both know you'd rather spit out Mudblood than show me any respect, you disgusting worm." I refuse to lower my wand arm, but wait for a response before I hex him.

His eyes narrow, but he refuses to stand and rise to my bait. "I'll have you know that the majority of the studying I did on the subject of therapy and mental health was done at Muggle universities. It's a fairly new field in the Wizarding World in Britain and I am one of the pioneers of the study and also a fairly competent personal Therapy Healer if I do say so myself. I do not use the phrase Mudblood anymore."

"Your name is on that sign out front. You paid your way to this position so you can mock people like me."

"I paid my way to this position so it can exist, Granger. Without me and my fellow Therapy Healers, there would be a lot more insane and dead witches and wizards in this world. Without me, your precious Potter would be a sniveling mess who—Well, I'm not at liberty to share any of that with you, confidentiality and all." He smirks and finally stands.

So, Harry went to see Malfoy of all people to help him?

He takes a step forward and I back up a step, ramming into the doorknob.

"You and your friend react very similarly, I'll give you that, though at least you haven't thrown any curses yet. I appreciate it. Now I'm going to ask you again to please put your wand away."

"No," I growl, shaking my head and feeling too light when my hair doesn't whip my face.

"This is a safe environment, this wing, and especially this room." He takes another step forward, hands raised in surrender.

I waggle my wand at him and order, "Get back."

"Or what?" There's the slimy tone I remember from school. "You'll hex me in my own office, where I personally hired and befriended the majority of the staff and the entire medical wizarding community is downstairs? Think it through, Granger, I know you have more than enough brain capacity. You're the logical one of the Golden Trio, are you not? Don't let your emotions cloud over your judgment."

He needs to stop making sense. He needs to be exactly like he was at school, as a Death Eater, as a horrible prick who can't help but insult everybody he feels is inferior to his disgusting, rich, pureblood, traits.

Tears start to cloud over my eyes before I can help it. I won't let them fall, but everything around me becomes a blurry mess. No, this is not the time. I haven't cried in weeks and now lately I can't stop.

"Please," Malfoy basically pleads. It's both shocking and distasteful. "Put your wand down and sit."

I shake my head again, but I can't get the tears to go away. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be anywhere but alone in my flat in my armchair, wrapped in a blanket Mrs. Weasley made for me and hugging my old stuffed bunny that I can't seem to find lately.

Malfoy steps forward again and is able to slip my wand from my hand. I thought I had a tighter grip, but everything I think lately has been wrong, so who knows? He places the wand delicately back into my purse and puts the purse on the end table on the far side of the couch. He then guides me to sit on the couch and I collapse into the deep cushions. He won't stop staring straight into my eyes, his own very determined but not upset or disgusted.

My arms go to clutch at my cardigan again and Malfoy takes it as a sign to grab the pillow at the top of the pile and place it in my lap. He then sits back in his chair and gets comfortable again.

"Let's start again. I'm Therapy Healer Malfoy, a very different person from who you knew growing up at Hogwarts and I would like to keep it that way. To my knowledge, you are not the Hermione Granger I went to school with, either, and I would like to get to know you professionally as your therapist."

I can't help but scoff. He wants to start over, fine. But I will never forget who he is. He is a bully, a Death Eater, and a grade-A prick.

"It's hard to forget the Malfoy ferret who is one of the reasons I'm here in the first place," I spit at him.

"First of all, I didn't say forget. I said separate the two. Secondly, thank you for opening up. I see the bullying the schoolboy Draco did years ago still affects you. Why don't we talk about that?"

"No."

Malfoy pinches the bridge of his nose. "This is therapy, Ms. Granger. It requires you to discuss the things that are hard to talk about in normal conversation and approach those that you cannot reveal even to yourself. The purpose of therapy is to find the right paths that allow you to heal. According to your friends, you are currently in a state of depression that has caused you to miss work for two weeks and, as I can noticeably see, not eat properly and shave off your hair. You also barely put in any effort to escape my 'evil clutches' as soon as you saw me. You need me. And I am here to help. This is my job."

I shut my mouth and pinch my lips together in frustration. My fingers grip at the pillow I hold close to my chest. It's a disgusting emerald green, but it's soft and comforting, which makes it that much worse for me.

"I want to go home," I finally mutter. Malfoy just stares a moment.

"You can't for another forty-five minutes, so you might as well talk." He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Fine, let's stay away from uncomfortable topics for today. Just let me get to know you as a patient. What's your current job?"

He's actually trying and part of me wants to slap him. The freaking ferret.

After a pause, I look away and answer, "I work at the Ministry, Magical Law. I like working with oppressed magical creatures and making sure everybody has equal and fair rights. Something you wouldn't understand."

"Nothing in this office is about me, Granger. This session is about you. Please continue. What has been your latest project?"

I stay silent for a while again. "Fine," I breathe out. "I'm working with the werewolf packs to get them more opportunities for jobs and equal pay without being discriminated against. It's hard to find employers willing to give them jobs until I finish with the new bill. And then there's getting it through the Wizengamot, which is still full of old men who have no care for people not like them. And they rarely take any bills by women seriously, of course."

I haven't talked this much in a while. My throat feels raw, but it still feels…right. I miss talking. It's just so useless when home alone.

"Interesting," Malfoy compliments. "Please go on."

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