2.

Professor McGonagall was as good as her word. She brought Madam Pomfrey, a curly blonde-haired older woman with streaks of grey in the honey color, with her the very next day, the two of them arriving suddenly in my bedroom that afternoon with a little pop.

I'll give Madam Pomfrey this, she didn't waste any time doting over me. Matter of fact and professional, she just sat down across from me in my new bedroom and got straight down to business, Professor McGonagall at our side.

The following chapters are a tale of some interweaving subjects we worked on.

She spent the first session asking me to recount what I had told Professor McGonagall, getting a general overview of my childhood and my mental state.

"Do you know much about yourself, Harry?" she asked, probing. "About the things you like and dislike? In music, for example?"

I blinked, sitting back and thinking about it. "I was never allowed things to like or dislike, ma'am," I said, realizing it as I said it.

"And you don't know much about your parents."

"No, ma'am."

"Harry, I'm your counselor. Madam Pomfrey is perfectly fine."

I blushed. "Yes, m - Madam Pomfrey."

She gave me a small smile. "Your manners are exemplary, Harry, but you don't have to worry about offending me," she said. "I'm fairly tough. This room is very bare. Are you happy with it?"

I shrugged. "It's a bedroom," I said. "I've never had a bedroom before."

She nodded thoughtfully, taking this in. "How do you feel about yourself, Harry?" she asked next.

"I… don't really like myself," I admitted. I had to struggle to hold back the 'ma'am.' "I don't hate myself, but I don't find myself particularly… I don't know… talented, or special, or attractive." I blushed again. The admittance made me uneasy.

Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall shared a look. "I disagree, Harry," was all Madam Pomfrey said. "I hope to show you that you're wrong about yourself."

And then the next session, we just dived right into the hard stuff. The so-called abuse.

"You say you haven't been abused," said Madam Pomfrey.

"... I haven't."

"But you would at least classify what you have been through as mistreatment," Madam Pomfrey confirmed. "That's what you called it with Professor McGonagall."

I paused, remembering that moment. I'd shouted it in a fit of anger.

"Well, yeah, the way they treated me was bad," I admitted at last. "I know that."

"So you would agree that it was wrong?"

"... Yes."

"That's a good start," said Madam Pomfrey. "You're right, Harry. The way they treated you is bad, it is mistreatment, and it is wrong. You have every right to feel that way. Your feelings are perfectly valid, and your instincts are correct.

"But why wouldn't you classify it as abuse? Explain that to me. I'm genuinely listening. You know more about what's happened than I do."

I took a deep breath. "Because I'm not some victim," I said, determined. "I mean… it's not like they hit me or anything."

"Let's deconstruct that," said Madam Pomfrey, sitting back, and I felt dread form in the pit of my stomach. "First - wouldn't you agree, Harry, that some abuse does not involve people hitting other people?"

"Yes, ma'am, but that's not what I went through."

"What you went through is not neglect or verbal and emotional abuse."

"That's correct."

"What does verbal and emotional abuse consist of, then, if I might ask?" She wasn't being sarcastic. In fact, I couldn't tell what she was being at all. She just sat there and looked at me. Professor McGonagall, too, was uncharacteristically still and silent.

"Emotional abuse involves making people feel bad about themselves," I said. "Name calling, telling people they're worthless, telling them -"

I paused. All those things had happened to me.

Madam Pomfrey allowed herself a small, sympathetic smile. "You have also said, Harry, that your uncle sometimes grabs you in a violent way. Doesn't that qualify as physical abuse?"

I sat there, completely still. Suddenly silent.

"What about the way your cousin beats you up? You can't tell me that doesn't qualify as sibling abuse."

"Sibling abuse is a thing?"

"It most certainly is," said Madam Pomfrey, nodding.

"... Oh," I said. Then she was right. If Dudley wasn't abusive, who was? And Professor McGonagall had already told me - abuse victims said they hadn't been abused all the time, and even believed it. "So… what I'm telling you, and thinking… it's a natural thing for an abuse victim to think?"

"Most people have trouble classifying experiences that have happened to them as abusive, yes," said Madam Pomfrey, nodding. "It can take them a long time to come to terms with the idea."

"But - but I'm not a victim!" I protested. "I mean, I don't act like one -!"

"Most people don't."

"What?" I stopped and stared at her.

"If all abuse victims were easy to spot, Harry, we would have far less problems in society. Most abuse victims don't act like downtrodden little mice, or walk around acting injured all the time."

"I think, Harry," said Professor McGonagall, "that it would be useful at this point to classify what we mean by 'victim.' A victim in this case is not someone who walks around acting injured all the time. Rather, it is someone that something terrible has happened to, even if they try to bear up remarkably well under it."

"I just… I keep thinking about the way the Dursleys would get angry or mock me if I called myself an abuse victim," I admitted. "And I get embarrassed."

"They are still controlling that area of your thoughts, even when not physically present," said Madam Pomfrey, nodding. "That is common. But Harry, you are allowed to see negative treatment of you by your family as abusive. That is a feeling you are perfectly allowed to have."

Something I hadn't been aware I was holding inside me relaxed.

"Professor McGonagall is right, you are bearing up remarkably well under abuse, Harry," said Madam Pomfrey, with me sitting before her full of mixed emotions. "But - and this is the most cliched line in therapeutic history - how did your relatives make you feel? About life, yourself, the world?"

I was desperately uncomfortable, so I decided to answer her questions mechanically in the order she had asked them. "Horrible about life. Bitter and miserable about the world." I paused, thinking of myself - the way I saw myself. "Like I said, I don't hate myself - but I don't like myself either."

"Do you think that could be due to your abuse?" Madam Pomfrey asked thoughtfully. Still, she revealed nothing.

"Well - I tried not to let what the Dursleys said affect me," I protested.

"Of course, and that is a very brave thing to have done -"

"I don't feel brave."

"And yet you are," said Professor McGonagall matter of factly, and I blushed, strangely pleased.

"But do you think it is possible they could have had some effect anyway?"

I paused, and considered this idea. I realized she could be right. And a strange fury toward my relatives filled me. "Damn them!" I suddenly spat, swearing, yelling. "Damn them!"

"That may in fact be a healthier reaction compared to before," said Professor McGonagall dryly.

"Yes. We can work on you feeling angry and upset, Harry," said Madam Pomfrey. "But no matter how much you don't want to, you must allow yourself to reflect. You must allow the memories and emotions to come forward first."

So three times a week, we went through countless individual memories I had of… the abuse… and Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall began putting up silencing charms and giving me useless items so I could yell and throw things at walls. Therapy sessions could bother me and make me emotional like nothing else could, but there was this weird, almost therapeutic, primal scream quality to them.

All of a sudden, I became a quieter, almost more upset, angrier person. It was like I'd been repressing things for years and all of a sudden they all came to the forefront. I wished I could shout at my relatives, confront them, but they treated me as coldly as I treated them. We pretended not to notice we were living in the same house together.

Another thing Madam Pomfrey talked over with me was my desire for love. She didn't start out like that, though. If she had, she'd have sounded cheesy and I'd have dismissed her or blown her off. So instead, she started more subtle.

"What do you want most, Harry?" she asked out of the blue - guessing, I think, what the answer would be.

I blushed. "I want family or friends - people who care about me," I muttered.

"Would you do anything to have that?"

"... Yes," I admitted, pained.

"Would you change yourself or not say things to suit them? Is that why you're always so polite to the two of us?" Professor McGonagall asked suddenly. "Because you're afraid of offending us or losing us?"

My eyes had widened. "Well… I wouldn't do anything bad!" I protested.

"That's very good," said Madam Pomfrey, nodding. "But otherwise?"

"... Yeah. I'd do almost anything," I admitted. "That's… that's not necessarily a good thing, is it? That I'd do anything for the first person who was nice to me?"

"Love, family, and friendship are important, Harry. But you certainly shouldn't make yourself easy to prey on or manipulate. Of course, going around thinking everyone's out to get you is not good either. But instant loyalty, changing yourself, a fear of rejection - those are not good things. We will help you in these sessions to come to grips with choosing your loyalty, and being yourself even in the face of possible rejection."

So we talked - and here was where I got very emotional, surprising myself, actually - about a desire for love, family, and friends. One thing that came out was my pain over the death of my parents.

"I just wish I at least remembered them, or had gotten to know them," I told Madam Pomfrey. "All I remember is my mother dying. I have no one."

"You will find people, Harry," Madam Pomfrey promised me. "Especially at Hogwarts. You will not be alone forever. Our job is to help you learn how to choose the right people."

"You also have us," said Professor McGonagall. "You are no longer really alone. And if it would help, you can talk about what you remember of your mother's death."

I managed a smile.

So between coming to grips with the idea and specifics of abuse, addressing my (desperation?) for affection, and helping me come to terms with my parents' deaths and my own confused memories of them… We had a lot of ground to cover right from the beginning.

We spent quite a bit of time with this, and those were very raw, emotional times for me. I felt like someone had scratched at my insides and left marks. Slowly, we continued with this, but we also moved on with part of our sessions to other things…

"I want you to get to know yourself better, Harry," said Madam Pomfrey, determined. "And Professor McGonagall and I are going to help you."

From the first, I was skeptical. By that point, I really should have had more faith.