DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Good-bye.

Summary: Hermione goes to see a psychologist and reveals her inner most secrets.

Warning: rated for a reason.

A/N: This story was made late at night. Sudden inspiration.

A lot of it may just be dialog, not too many adjective paragraphs. I'm not quite sure yet, just going to work it out as I go along.

Hermione is very OOC but that'll be explained through out.

Enjoy.

Chapter 1

NAME: (noun) A language unit by which a person or thing is known.

A 23-year-old girl climbed the stairs to a city block office. Once at the door, she rapped twice, sharply.

'Come in.' a slick, office trained voice called from the chamber within.

She pushed at the door, only to realise that the sign read 'pull'.

Once inside, she commented on this fact. 'You know, studies show, 78 of people prefer to push to open doors, and 93 of them get frustrated when they have to pull. Take that into account, and I'd say you have a crappy door.' She stated.

The receptionist stared at her for a while before responding with 'And your name is..?'

'Hermione Granger.'

'Please, take a seat. Dr Smyth will be with you in a moment.'

'How long?'

'A moment.'

'How long a moment?'

'I don't know.'

'You should.'

'Well, I don't'

'Why?'

'Because I don't know where the doctor is in his appointment.'

'You should.'

'Well, I don't. Please sit down.'

'Where?'

'On a chair.'

'Which one?'

'Any.'

Hermione sat down in a blue chair next to a pot plant. After a few minutes, she said 'I've always thought these looked tacky.'

'What looks tacky?' the receptionist was getting tired.

'Plastic plants.'

'Oh.'

'Why do you keep them?'

'They are easier to maintain.'

'Surely you could squeeze a watering once a day into your hectic schedule.'

'Apparently not, as we have a plastic plant.'

'Oh.'

The conversation stopped.

A few minutes later, what turned out to be Doctor Smyth entered the room, through a grey door with a small window located at about head height.

'I hope that helped clear a few things up, Chelsea.' He smiled.

'Oh, yes, thank you for your help, Doctor.' Simpered a girl about 18. Pathetic.

He showed her to the door, and then turned back to the receptionist.

'Hermione Granger to see you, doctor.' She said, handing him a beige folder.

'Hermione, care to follow me?' he asked, indicating the door.

Hermione removed herself from her chair, away from the plastic pot plant.

At closer inspection, the door had a small plaque read 'Doctor Charles Smyth, social psychologist' below the window.

She entered his office, standing by his desk.

'Please, sit.' He said, as he heaved himself into his leather chair.

She perched herself on the edge of another leather chair, simular to the one Smyth sat on.

She inspected the file and said 'Patient #3165.'

He looked down at the file.

'I prefer to call me patients by their given name.'

'If it makes you feel better, call me patient #3165.'

'No, I'll call you Hermione.'

'No.'

'No?'

'No.'

'You want me to call you patient #3165?'

'Yes.'

'Yes?'

'Yes.'

'Why.'

'I don't know.'

'I think you do.'

'I don't.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'I don't believe you.'

'I don't blame you.'

'Why?'

'Why?'

'Why.'

'Because I'm in a psychologists office.'

'Why would that make a difference?'

'Do you need a dictionary?'

'Okay. You think I shouldn't believe you because you're seeing a psychologist. But what if I want to believe you?'

'And why, pray tell, would you want to do that? To let you sleep easy at night, having made a crazy girl feel believed by all your diploma deserving dialog?'

'No.'

'Then why?'

'Because I want to. If it causes problems, just answer one question.'

'What?'

'Why do you want to be called patient #3165?'

'LOOK, IT MAKES NO DIFFERENCE! CALL ME BOB, OR SUE, OR FUCKED UP PSYCHO GIRL FOR ALL I CARE!'

She jumped out of her chair and leant over his desk menacingly.

'Please calm down, patient #3165.'

She sat again.

'Why is your last name Smyth?'

'Why is yours Granger?'

'I thought we cleared that up. I am patient #3165.'

'Okay, patient #3165. My name is Smyth because my father was called Smyth.'

'You misunderstood me. I meant, why is your name spelt with a 'y', rather than an 'i'?'

'Because it is a different name to Smith with an 'i'.'

'But, then, if it's different, then why do you pronounce it the same? Or have you fooled the world, and it should really be pronounced 'Smyth', saying y as in 'why' sort of 'y', rather that 'i' being an 'it' sort of sound?'

'No, I assure, it's pronounced the same way as Smith is. Just a different spelling.'

'But why?'

'Why are pear and pair pronounced the same, when they are spelt differently?'

'You have a point.'

'Thank you.'

There was silence before,

'Patient #3165, why are you here?'

'You tell me.'

'I'd prefer it if you told me.'

'Okay.'

'In your own time.'

Silence...

'Go right ahead.'

'You said in your own time.'

'I meant it, but I did prefer it to be before our meeting ends.'

'You should have elaborated then.'

'I should have. I'm sorry.'

'Apology accepted.'

'Thank you.'

'Because everyone thinks I'm crazy.'

'Are you?'

'You decide. It's your job, after all.'

'Fair enough. Tell me your version of events that led people to believe you're crazy, and I shall form a professional opinion on the situation. Okay?'

'Okay.'

'Great.'

'Okay. I guess what started it was the accident.'

'The accident?'

'I ran into a friend with my car.'

'How?'

'It was late. He was opening the garage, the car was running. I was about to put the car away. He fiddled with the lock on the garage door, and my foot slipped, off the brake. I was tired.'

'So you ran into him.'

'Yes.'

'Did he try to stop you?'

'I heard him yell. Too late.'

'Too late?'

'Too late.'

The buzzer on his desk went off, and he gathered together his file and glasses, which he had removed at some point during the conversation on his last name.

'Same time next week?' he asked, opening the door for her.

'Okay.' She said, walking out into the waiting room.

'See you then. Buh-bye.'

'Good-bye.'

Do I write more? Tell me.

Review, my pretties!