I return to Dr. Platt on Thursday feeling unprepared, having made an abominable mess of my attempts at devising a strategy against her.

Why didn't I try again last night, you ask? Well, succumbed as I had to utter misery, I instead let Dudley or whatever that wretched creature is called pamper my nails. However, I had to physically stop him from painting them magenta, and then of course kick him around a bit for his insubordination. This exertion left me quite exhausted, and by the time I went to bed I'd quite forgotten about Platt.

By the entry doors stands a massive brute. His shoulders must be at least four feet across. He's wearing pitch black spectacles I'm told muggles use to protect their weak, fragile eyes from the sun, so I can't see his eyes, but his head turns towards me as I let myself in.

Instinctively my hand tightens around the head of my cane.

Oh yes, I've got a wand there again, after Potter so generously snapped mine like a twig last year, having already sent me to jail once, and destroyed my one chance of regaining the Dark Lord's good opinion, and cost me both my servant and my post as governor of Hogwarts before that.

Damn that meddlesome brat! Damn him to hell!

True, it was his testimony that kept me out of Azkaban this time. And he did save Draco's life, I'm told. But nevertheless!

I've half a mind to follow Narcissa's suggestion and apologize to Platt. She's right, apologies are only words. I'll go in and "confess my sins", and then beg for forgiveness. If my plight moves her, I'll go home early. If not, I'll go home early anyway, just to spite her. Ha! What can she do, in any event? She's only a worthless Muggle.

I still refuse to approach the chairs in the waiting area, though I have to wait longer this time.

It's almost empty now. Only a small, terribly old woman occupies one of the aforementioned chairs, knitting. I can't remember ever seeing people knit non-magically before, so I find myself watching her, transfixed.

She works with surprising vigour and concentration for someone so old and frail. Her nose is barely an inch away from her fingers, which tremble slightly. Her wrinkly mouth moves in an even rhythm while she works, as if counting.

I suppress the urge to huff. There sits a feeble, ancient woman, put to work, knitting, without even a simple spell to do it for her. And there are some who would call me cruel...

Wait, what am I thinking? It should be nothing to me what this animal is put through in the name of knitting. She is scum, remember? Scum!

Speaking of scum, here comes the clipboard boy. At last.

"Morning, Mr. Malfoy," he says jovially.

I sneer down at him, icily. I think I see his mouth twitching, his eyes flickering, just for a moment. It's a small victory, at least, but he doesn't wipe off that insufferable grin as he leads me to dr. Platt's office. I don't expect she'll be as quick to smile today.

But as the door clicks shut behind me, she proves me wrong. Quite wrong.

"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," she smiles serenely. Has she forgotten what transpired when we last met? I admit, I wouldn't expect this level of naïveté even from a Muggle.

"Good morning, Dr. Platt." I greet her in a sneering drawl, watching her carefully for any signs of... I don't know what. I was hoping for suppressed terror, or at least revulsion.

Again she gestures to the divan. "Please."

I confess myself... intrigued. I cannot observe any sign that her composure, her insufferable affability, is forced. And I've been in the Dark Lord's service long enough to know a charade of sang-froid when I see one.

I sit. So does she, notebook and pen at the ready.

"Sadly I have to tell you there won't be an early exit for you today."

I smile with complete resentment. Damn her. "I take it you hired the gorilla?" I inquire, remembering the vastness of the man outside.

It's heinously unfair. I could skin that man alive, but using magic in broad daylight in a crowded street won't help me avoid Azkaban at all. And I will not fight him without magic. I have no death wish.

"I did. How are you feeling?"

I sigh impatiently. Her smile grows wider. Her expression is kin to that of a conceited child having been rewarded house points for answering the simplest of questions in class.

Much like Lily Evans, in fact. Insufferable, self-important, foolish, filthy, forbidden, terribly attractive Lily Evans. But I digress...

"I know you're not eager to do so, but sooner or later you need to open up to me about your feelings."

That's such a Lily Evans thing to say. I get the most peculiar urge to pull her hair.

"I need to do no such thing. Emotions are the perquisite of women."

"You seem a little on edge."

"And you seem meddlesome and uppity."

"Are you feeling guilty about your demeanour last time?"

This is it. Yes, I'll say. Yes, I apologize for my lack of decorum. Please forgive my incivility, Dr. Platt, no, Carolyn, is what I'll say. I'll use first names like a commoner. She'll like that.

"Of course not!"

Merlin. Did I say that? Why did I say that?

"I expected as much," she says, her expression impassive. Do I detect a hint of hubris? "Why were you so hostile?"

Still she appears serene in her attitude.

"I was provoked," I say simply.

"By what?"

"By you."

She leans back in her seat, eyeing me carefully.

"By me," she says quietly.

"You're remarkably quick on the uptake," I remark coldly.

"Does this have anything at all to do with my ancestry?"

"As I say," I sigh impatiently, "remarkably quick."

"What exactly is the reason for your animosity against Jewish people?"

I blink. I have to say, I did not expect that one.

"Platt is no Hebrew name."

"No, it's not. My father isn't Jewish," she clarifies.

"That is a highly problematic way of regulating the bloodlines," I say fleetingly, briefly imagining a world where I would have to father daughters for the Malfoy heritage of blood purity to live on in future generations. Daughters, in addition to Draco? Heaven have mercy.

She scribbles for a while. We're quiet. Then:

"How are things at home, Lucius?"

I shrug, quite content with the change of subject. "They're pleasant enough. And," I add in a much angrier tone, realizing the error that just passed, "it's Mr. Malfoy to you!"

She ignores this. "Does your son still live at home?"

"Regrettably," I mutter before I can stop myself.

This, of course, intrigues her greatly.

"How so?"

Oh, bugger off.

How does she even know about Draco? We haven't discussed him before, have we?

"Who told you I have a son?" I ask calmly, but with a definite edge to my voice.

"When I took your case I was sent quite a lot of information you were expected to... er, object to giving voluntarily."

"So am I to understand that the facts you require to do your job have already been given to you?"

"Some of the facts, yes, but -"

"Then why," I begin in a low voice, but it rises in decibel with each word, "am I expected to sit here and put up with your tedious antics to get me to talk nonsense with you, for two whole hours each week!"

"Mind the gorilla," she says warningly.

I might have laughed at this, once... but damn her! Damn her to hell!

"I don't require you to talk nonsense, Mr. Malfoy. In order to do my job, in order for me to help you -"

I huff indignantly.

"... in order for me to help you," she insists, "I need to know you. What your experience of the world is, both intellectual and emotional."

There's a pause while I consider this. And yes, I do consider it. I am nothing if not diplomatic, wouldn't you agree?

"And given our last two appointments I can only assume you don't care much for the intellectual aspect."

"No," she says immediately, looking offended. "No, if you prefer, we can start with the intellectual aspect. It's only customary to wait due to the nature of emotions weighing more heavily on our subconscious development than facts -"

"Lamentably, Dr. Platt, I am no customary man."

She nods slowly in agreement, clicking her pen a couple of times.

"So," she says aptly, turning to a new page in her notebook and training her pen on the paper, "the facts."

I nod. "The facts."

"Tell me about yourself."

It's the oddest thing, but once I've started volunteering facts, the adjectives and superlatives and such are never far behind. I try to stick to the purely objective side when she asks about my son.

Tall, brooding, spoiled rotten. Those are the facts about Draco. Those are all I need to volunteer to Platt. But before I know it I've said he "clings to his mother like syrup, of course she spoils and pampers him endlessly, foolish woman, foolish, shallow woman, I should have married her sister, like my father always said, at least she had some ambition, some power... where she is? Oh, she's dead, murdered by a housewife, having murdered her niece first, no, not my wife, oh and not her niece as in my daughter, no, I've never had a daughter, but poor woman, having spent half her life in jail and lost her mind... what for? For torturing two Aur- I mean, two, er, police...-ers into insanity... you'd have liked her, she was a truly fascinating mental case."

"If we could go back to your son for a moment..."

"Who, Draco? Yes, he's a complete nuisance. I could tolerate him when he worshipped the ground wherever I trod and at worst tried not to humiliate himself in public. Whereas now... What do you mean, strange names? I wouldn't trust the naming opinions of a Platt, thank you..."

I stop myself from saying anything about servants. Apparently in Muggle society, slavery is considered an abomination. I will never guess how these people live through anything.

However, much to my irritation and embarrassment, I find myself enjoying this.

And then the hour's up. I leave untroubled by the gorilla.

By next time, I'll have that strategy ready. By next time, or I don't know what might happen.

A/N: Thanks to all my sweet shiny reviewers!

This was the part of the story where writing it felt a bit like dragging a carriage full of bricks up a hill. Hopefully it's not as bad to read, hehe. Anyway, we got over the edge there, I think. Phew!