Author's note: My beta thinks I'm stretching credulity with the portrayal of Fudge here... Well, maybe I am, but I just wanted the therapist to be a Muggle...
Reviews: Loved the AM/FM analogy. Thanks. Glad it's coming over like that. The way I see it HP and SS are both trying, in their own way, but find it really difficult to get on the same wavelength. And why is it always Harry that gets the sympathy? And, yes, Dumbledore is mainly light relief in this one.
LOST PERSPECTIVE III : REPERCUSSIONS
By Bellegeste
CHAPTER 6 : THERAPY
The W.H.I.I.M.P. Programme (Wizard Health Initiative: Interactive Muggle Participation) was one of Cornelius Fudge's pet projects. His wife was on the executive steering committee which had drafted the initial proposal. In the interests of Fudge family harmony, not to mention that of the wider wizard community, the scheme had been guaranteed Ministerial backing.
It had not been without its detractors. There were many die-hard conservatives in the wizard world, Purebloods mostly, who believed that consorting with Muggles under any circumstances was a grave mistake, the road to ruin. But Fudge was enjoying re-branding himself as a political progressive in the field of Muggle relations. He intended to ensure his place in the history books through a policy of radical social reform.
The timing was, admittedly, problematical. The recent wave of Muggle unrest following the attacks by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had put the entire scheme in jeopardy. Fudge had some serious sliming to do, in order to get the programme back on track. There was mileage in it, he was certain.
The pilot project, in which Hogwarts was taking part, involved a job swap: a Muggle doctor would spend time in the school, and Madam Pomfrey had a reciprocal arrangement with a Muggle Hospital that had links with St. Mungo's.
The idea to use Harry as a test case, as part of his disciplinary proceedings, struck Fudge as inspirational, a brainwave with which he could stun two trolls with one spell. Firstly, it addressed the problem of how to punish the blasted Potter boy - something had to be done, that was certain, and the Ministry looked to Fudge for leadership, but he was blowed if he knew what to do with the boy either. This surely would be seen as a liberal, caring, constructive solution - a real vote puller. Secondly, Fudge knew that Dumbledore would consider the proposal an invasive intrusion which undermined his authority, and it felt dashed good to ride slip-shod over his objections. And objections there had been, mainly from that ghastly, formidable Professor Snape, who had argued so vehemently against the project that Fudge had been obliged to play his trump card: the threat of Azkaban.
With Muggle/Wizard diplomatic relations diving towards an all time low in the wake of the outbreak of magical vandalism, and Fudge's popularity sinking daily in the polls, any initiative that would foster goodwill and raise his personal profile was to be strongly endorsed.
X X X
Session 1
Harry watched the clock as the big hand mugged another minute and lurched drunkenly towards the 3. The small hand was loitering with intent round about the 7. Only another fifteen minutes to go.
Every passing second reinforced his determination that he would not be the one to break the ice and speak first. He was prepared to sit in silence for the entire, sodding fifty minutes if necessary. He hadn't asked to be here; he would co-operate in so far as he would turn up at the designated time, but there was no way he was going to say anything.
It wasn't that he was worried about any stigma attached to being 'in therapy' - though he prayed that Malfoy never got wind of it - in fact, the idea was quite cool. All celebrities had shrinks. And even Snape had acknowledged, right in his first term at Hogwarts, that Harry was a celebrity.
It just seemed so pointless, especially at a time when, even if he wasn't allowed to play himself, he might have been watching the rest of the Gryffindor team practising Quidditch.
What was he supposed to talk about anyway? What did they want him to say? Did they honestly expect him to spill his life story to an anonymous Muggle medic who had never even met a wizard before?
He had thought Snape, at least, would have opposed the idea - surely he didn't believe in all this psychological garbage - but, inexplicably, he appeared to condone it. How on earth could he support a scheme in which a complete stranger was allowed to mess with Harry's mind? That should have been total anathema to Snape - but no, he couldn't care less! The more Harry thought about it, however, the more he had to admit that he might be being unfair to Snape here. This decision would not have been taken lightly; Snape did not make arbitrary arrangements - he had told him so; he was nothing if not calculating.
Harry realised he was part of a bigger picture. Snape had hinted as much, though he refused to go into details. Why was that? What was it that Harry was not deemed mature enough to know? When would Snape begin to treat him like the adult wizard he now, officially, was?
The big hand lunged at the 4. Harry was growing ever more conscious of his body language. He made a deliberate attempt to appear relaxed and nonchalant. It was important to look confident and positive, open, receptive - not stressed, tense and defensive. He didn't want the guy picking up on any signals and misreading the 'tells'. I shouldn't cross my legs, or fold my arms, or bite my nails, or tap my foot, or scratch my nose, or rub my eye, or drum my fingers, or blink or fidget - what am I allowed to do? Is it OK to breathe? Yes, but not too fast or too deeply... At what point did a normal, average, instinctive, physical movement such as a yawn or a stretch or the flicker of an eyelid, cease being natural and cross the threshold into 'suspicious'? But sitting perfectly still was also unnatural and therefore equally suspicious...
Harry felt the muscles in his arms tensing as he gripped the arms of his chair, and he willed them to loosen. Slowly, and very casually, so as not to appear premeditated, he slid his arm down to rest on his thigh. The palms of his hands were damp. He pressed them into the fabric of his trousers, covertly wiping away the sweat. He might have to shake hands at the end of the session. Perspiration was pooling in his armpits. He would never have imagined that saying nothing would be so stressful.
The Room of Requirement obviously didn't think the situation called for much in the way of furniture. There were the two chairs - angular, thinly-padded, institutional seating in shiny, black, wash-down vinyl - separated by a low, circular coffee table, and another table on the far side of the room, specifically, so it would seem, for the clock. If Harry stared at the clock, would that be interpreted as impatience, as an indication of his anxiety for the session to end? If he ignored the clock, was that displaying an ego-centric disregard for the requirements of the system; was it temporal anarchy? If he looked straight ahead, he was still aware of the clock on his left, blurring at the edges of his peripheral vision - could he still make out the numerals...? How much longer now?
He had expected a couch. Isn't that what you did with a shrink? Lie on a couch, while the guy sat behind you, out of sight, and asked searching questions about dreams in an unconvincing Austrian accent? Harry didn't need his dreams interpreting: they were self-explanatory; they held horrors but no secrets.
The big hand tip-toed forwards towards the 5, cosh raised...
Without making eye-contact, Harry examined the Muggle psychologist. Mr. Lardon was plump - not fat, not gross or obese, not wobble-jowled with rolls of beer-belly over-spilling a straining waistband; give him another ten years... - just plump and smooth, with no discernible angles or creases. He might have been moulded out of room-temperature butter.
It was impossible to guess his age - his face was rounded, clean-shaven with no hint of definition either from cheekbones or a beard shadow. His hair was a non-descript brown, cut short and sparse, the pinkish scalp showing through. His fingers, Harry noticed, all seemed to be the same diameter; they curved around his pen like a ski-glove, giving no impression of being jointed. It's amazing he can write at all, thought Harry.
What was he writing? Harry was immediately self-conscious again. What had he done or not done that was noteworthy?
The Muggle was systematically sampling his way through a large packet of Every Flavour Beans. Every so often a chubby hand would slide down to the packet, concealed discreetly in his jacket pocket, select a bean and glide up again to pop it into his cherubic, wet-lipped mouth, in one fluid, continuous, circular, oily motion.
Seeing Harry's eyes upon him, Mr Lardon gave him an encouraging smile...
By this time Harry was speechless, but for a different reason - frustration! Wasn't this bloated baby-face going to ask him any questions? What sort of therapy was this anyway? If all the guy was going to do was sit and eat sweets, they might as well do it outside in the Stands watching the Quidditch! Harry could feel himself getting irritated and angry... The door was only feet away; he could walk out at any time. Walk out? Slam the door? Wasn't that exactly what they were all waiting for him to do? He was falling into their trap! Heads you win, tails I lose...
The big hand felled the half hour with a hammer blow to the 6. Harry looked up hopefully.
"I'm afraid we have to stop there, Mr. Potter," slurped Mr. Lardon, salivating profusely on a Spicy Chilli Bean which had sent his unsuspecting taste-buds into overdrive. He extended a warm, podgy paw.
"I think we have made a promising start. I'll see you tomorrow."
Well, I think it was a complete and utter, bloody waste of time, fumed Harry to himself.
X X X
Quidditch practice was over; Harry had missed it. Most of the team and their supporters had disappeared, but Luna Lovegood was one of the stragglers. She was waiting for Ginny who had accidentally put a Knotting jinx on her laces and was still in the girls' changing room, struggling to get her boots off.
Harry marched straight up to Luna. Her face looked pinched and cold despite the fact that she appeared to be wearing a rag-rug jumper under her cloak. Her long, blond hair was not visible, stuffed up into a brown, crocheted tam-o-shanter. Her day-glo green ear-rings might have been made out of pasta fusilli.
"What did you mean the other day?" he demanded, coming straight to the point.
"Hello, Harry. My hands are freezing. Feel!"
She put her icy palms up to Harry's cheeks, a gesture completely devoid of any flirtatious overtones.
"How was the therapy?" she asked, substituting her own query for Harry's. "Ginny's taking forever. She could have used 'Diffindo' to untie her laces, but she's left her wand in the dormitory with the rest of her clothes. Said it was too cold to get changed down here, except for the boots, you see."
Harry wondered why Luna hadn't used her own wand, which was it its habitual place, stuck behind her left ear, but he didn't bother to ask - he'd only get a daft reply.
"How do you know about the therapy?"
"Is it a secret?" She was less good at replies, better at questions.
"Great! Everybody'll think I'm nuts!"
"My Dad says it's all a Ministry white-wash anyway, all this 'WHIIMP' project. You just happen to be the patsy this time. Don't worry about it. I know about therapy. Been there, seen it, done it, read the book, got the Diazepam... After my mother died, you know... What sort are you having - Analytical, Behavioural, Cognitive or just basic counselling?"
Harry was not used to being asked such direct questions, at least not by fifth year girls he hardly knew. But she seemed genuinely interested, not dredging his psyche for scandal or gossip. The names she had mentioned were mere words to Harry.
"Dunno," he replied. "I just sat there. I think I was supposed to choose my own subject, or set the agenda, or 'free associate', or whatever they call it. We got absolutely nowhere."
"That 'listening' approach is very slow... It can take forever to make any progress."
"Listening? He didn't have to do any listening. I didn't say anything."
"Exactly. You could go on for months like that. It takes time to change your self-image, to make yourself feel more positive and realise that you've got some sort of potential for self-fulfilment. Did you get the feeling that the therapist was treating you with, - now, how do they phrase it ? - 'total, non-judgemental acceptance'? That's always a laugh! He's supposed to be building up 'an atmosphere of spontaneity and trust' - well, that's what my guy always said. What was yours like?"
"Fat," said Harry.
"Give it a chance, Harry. There are some good things about this sort of therapy - it can open the way to exploring deeper levels of consciousness, which is never a bad thing. You must learn to ask the right questions - that's the only way to find the answers you are seeking... Once you know what you really want, then you can search for a way to get it."
All of a sudden she sounded alarmingly profound.
"I don't think it will address all your problems though, Harry - it's not going to explain why you can be such a pain in the arse, or why you try to kill people. That's something a lot more primal. Perhaps you should go for 'regression' and relive your original trauma."
"No way. I can do that quite nicely on my own, thanks," said Harry, thinking of his nightmares.
"No, you need something that will get quicker results, otherwise you may never see another Quidditch practice... get Professor Snape to tell your analyst that he has to focus on your specific issues."
"Why should I be getting Snape to do it?" Harry was suddenly wary of Luna. She wasn't as feather-brained as she would have you believe: she was weird but not stupid. She gave him that odd look again.
"OK, get Dumbledore then..."
"Luna, how do you know all this?"
It was becoming more and more apparent to Harry that he rated people on a very superficial scale. With Luna he had never bothered to see beyond the ethnic, thrift-shop clothes and freaky ear-rings. She had surprised him once before, on the Thestral flight to the Ministry, on that ill-fated rescue mission, but since then he had let her lapse back into kookiness without a second thought.
"I'm interested in things and people," she said vaguely.
X X X
Session 2
Snape must have put the fear of Merlin into the psychologist. Harry felt sorry for the man - you would have to be pretty bombproof around wizards not to be scared of Snape, and Mr. Lardon was a novice in the magical world. He was so willing to be proactive that his questionnaire almost leaped out at Harry as he came through the door. Today the air was sparkling with psychological potential... Harry thought he might even enjoy himself. He could either wallow or be utterly brazen...
"...if we explore a little into your background, your memories, your motivations, Harry - you don't mind if I call you Harry?"
Harry didn't mind.
"Perhaps we can start with your earliest recollections - of your parents perhaps?"
Harry hesitated. Then he went for it. Big Time.
"My earliest memory is of my mother's dying screams as she was murdered by an evil wizard who wished to achieve world domination," he stated baldly. "My father was also killed. I was just a baby."
Mr Lardon's eyes had widened and his fat hand was busily taking notes: primal pain, early exposure to violence, abandonment issues, loss, separation anxiety...
"Then," continued Harry, getting into his stride, "for ten years I lived with my Aunt and Uncle who kept me locked up in a cupboard..."
'physical and mental neglect; loss of self-esteem, absence of positive reinforcement, lack of role models, 'closet' concerns over sexuality, emotional repression...'
"...and then I found out that I was a wizard with special powers. I came to Hogwarts and fought the Dark Lord Voldemort who was living inside Professor Quirrel's turban, and killed the Basilisk..."
Harry dwelled vividly on some of the more exotic characters and events of the past five years: the Dementors, Buckbeak, the Flying Ford Anglia, the Tri-Wizard tournament, Aragog, Fluffy, Grawp...
The psychologist paused to waggle his fingers, warding off writer's cramp: 'mythological obsessions, underlying aggression, violent tendencies, heroic egotism, self-aggrandisement, self-destructive patterns...'
Harry moved on to the Marauders:
"Of course, my Dad - I thought he was my Dad, but actually he was an embittered fraud who was dallying with the Dark side and who wanted to force me into a life of crime... - well, he was a Stag. And my Godfather - he's dead, by the way - was a large black dog. They had a friend who was a rat, but I only met him a couple of times and I didn't like him much; and their best friend was a werewolf... Still is, actually; nice man."
'anthropomorphic delusions, escapist fantasies; bereavement issues..
"It sounds as though the last few years have been a difficult place for you to be in, Harry."
Oh no, thought Harry. I'm not going to be drawn in to some vapid soul-searching. I want real questions. He waited. Mr Lardon turned onto a new page in his notebook.
"Ah yes, now we'll move on a little to your present circumstances. I understand, Harry, that you are no longer in the care of your Aunt and her family?"
"In term time I live here, at Hogwarts. In the holidays I suppose I will live with my real father - I think you have met him - Professor Snape?"
It felt bold and pleasantly liberating to be able to refer to Snape in that way, without having to concern himself about the onion layers of shock, negative association, tarnished reputation and disapproval that a wizard would unpeel in the revelation. Mr Lardon, even so, paled a little at the memory of meeting Snape. He hurriedly referred to his list.
"How would you characterise your relationship with your father?"
Harry had by now warmed to his theme; truth was relative:
"Well, it was difficult at first because he is an assassin and spy who raped my mother, which is why - naturally - I wanted to kill him. And he's not the easiest person to talk to... My Godfather was much more easy going, but I only met him recently after he escaped from Azkaban - he was in prison for twelve years on a charge of mass murder..."
'Oedipal inclinations, psychopathic behaviour, antisocial values, criminal associates...
As the end of the fifty minutes approached, the floundering therapist tried to sum up:
"...so, Harry, apart from these feelings of betrayal, disillusionment, inability to communicate, depression, fear of intimacy and dependency, resentment of authority, lack of self-esteem, and what you describe as your 'hero complex', is there anything else that you want to tell me about?"
"Well, there is the... Anger!"said Harry, pausing for effect.
"Of course!" Mr Lardon gave a strained, high-pitched giggle. "And how do your feelings of anger manifest themselves?"
"Er..." Harry considered how to answer the question most effectively. "I do lose my temper quite easily; I find myself shouting and I have to get away and be on my own..."
"Quite understandable, nothing unusual there; nothing we can't work through together..." The therapist sighed to be back on safe territory.
"And sometimes," Harry continued in a fey voice, "I lose my rag altogether, like with Aunt Marge - I inflated her until she swelled up like a barrage balloon. And when I'm very angry I do try to kill people, like Voldemort and my father... Now, when my father gets angry, he explodes things, or poisons them..."
Mr Lardon looked as though he could well believe it. He was beginning to feel rather queasy; he dabbed at his upper lip with a square of folded handkerchief.
"And then there are the dreams!" declared Harry ghoulishly.
"Dreams! Of course, why not?" muttered the shrink weakly, once more picking up his pen.
"The bloodcurdling flashbacks to my mothers assassination aren't so bad now that I've had the Occlumency training - that's a kind of mind control technique that my father uses in his work."
"It would be." Mr Lardon nodded vigorously in agreement, trying to quell the stirrings of hysteria that were scrabbling at his insides. A slight tic began to twitch the corner of his left eye.
"And the dream about Mr Weasley being attacked by a giant serpent was more of a telepathically induced illusion..."
'dreams about big snakes...'
"More recently I've had this one about being waylaid by a short, bald penguin who beats me with an enormous purple mushroom..."
'substance abuse, psychotropic hallucinations...
Mr Lardon who, for the last few minutes, had been watching the clock almost as avidly as Harry, clicked the top onto his pen and closed his folder. He face was flushed pink, with a ready-basted, oily sheen.
"I'm afraid we have to stop there, Mr Potter. A most productive session, don't you think? There's a lot of material here."
"You could always discuss it with my father," offered Harry, keen to make his parting shot a telling one. "I'm sure he'd be only too happy..."
"Oh no! Thank you." The psychologist held out a limp, clammy hand, "Goodbye, Mr Potter."
It was only after he had left that Harry realised he had forgotten to mention his most recent recurring dream: the one where he was flying, weightless through an archway and down a tunnel with his hand outstretched to catch a shadowy, stolen Snitch that spoke to him and fluttered ahead of him, elusively out of reach.
He also realised that Luna had not answered his question. What had she meant that day in the common room?
END OF CHAPTER. Next chapter: LUNA'S PROPOSAL. What happens in Harry's next therapy session? Ron feels slighted. Does Luna mean what Harry thinks she means?
P.S. The upload programme has done something weird to my punctuation... Tried to edit the bloopers out; sorry if I've missed any.
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